the identification of the writer of the anonymous letter to lord monteagle in "a strange letter, from a strange hand, by a strange messenger; without date to it, name at it, and (i had almost said) sense in it. a letter which, even when it was opened, was still sealed, such the affected obscurity therein." fuller's _church history_, x. . london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., ltd. [transcriber's note: [***] denotes an asterism, that is, a triangle comprising three asterices. a carat symbol ^ indicates that the ensuing letters of the word are superscript letters.] preface one of the great mysteries of english history is the anonymous letter to lord monteagle, warning him not to attend the opening of parliament, appointed for the fifth of november, , which is popularly supposed to have led to the discovery of the gunpowder plot. the writer's identity was carefully concealed by the government at the time; the intention being, as explained by lord salisbury, "to leave the further judgment indefinite" regarding it. the official statements are, therefore, as unsatisfactory as might be expected in a matter that, for state reasons, has not been straightforwardly related. the letter, however, remaining and in fair preservation, there was always the possibility of the handwriting being identified; and this, after the lapse of over three hundred years, is now accomplished. contents page preface v section i. historical analysis ii. the official story of the letter iii. identification of the handwriting iv. the attorney-general's opinion of vavasour's guilt v. francis tresham's confidence when in the tower vi. the vavasours as dependants of the tresham family list of facsimiles . the anonymous letter as delivered to lord monteagle, october , , warning him not to attend the opening of parliament appointed for the fifth of november (from the original letter in the museum of the public record office) _frontispiece_ . a page of the ms. entitled "a treatise against lying," etc., formerly belonging to francis tresham, of which the handwriting was attributed by his brother, william tresham, to william vavasour. now in the bodleian library. (laud mss. , folio ) [ ] . william vavasour's handwriting in the letter to the earl of salisbury, dictated and signed by francis tresham when dying in the tower, december , ("state papers, domestic," james i., ccxvi. ) [ ] stated by vavasour to have been written by mrs. tresham. on march , - , he confessed that he wrote it and signed a note to it to that effect. . william vavasour's handwriting in his _untrue_ statement, written in the presence of the lieutenant of the tower, that no. was written by mrs. tresham. dated march , - ("state papers, domestic," james i., ccxvi. ) [ ] [***]to avoid detection of his falsehood, he writes a hand quite different from his ordinary writing in nos. and , thus producing a hand which is in itself identical with his former disguised writing as seen in the anonymous letter (no. ). . george vavasour's handwriting on the last leaf, which he renewed for francis tresham, of the ms. entitled "a treatise against lying," etc. (laud mss. , folio ) _to face page _ the identification of the writer of the anonymous letter to lord monteagle i historical analysis francis tresham, of rushton, in northamptonshire, has recently (september , ) succeeded his father, sir thomas tresham (a great sufferer for the roman catholic religion), in an inheritance of at least five thousand a year, in present money; after having, as he says, spent most of his time overburdened with debts and wants, and resolves within himself to spend his days quietly. his first cousin, robert catesby, being hard-up with funds exhausted in financing the scheme known as the gunpowder plot, seeing in tresham the chance of obtaining a further supply (though previously distrusting him), induces him, in the interests of their religion, to join the conspiracy, of which he thus becomes the thirteenth, and last, sworn conspirator (october , ). catesby is careful to impose the oath of secrecy before fully disclosing the plot; of which tresham, on hearing, entirely disapproves, and endeavours to dissuade his cousin from, or even to defer it; meanwhile offering him the use of his own purse if he will do so. finding he cannot prevail with him, he is very urgent that the lords monteagle and stourton, particularly the former, may be warned, each having married tresham's sisters; but catesby can give no definite assurance. tresham then intends, as he says, to get the conspirators shipped away, and to inform the government by some unknown, or anonymous, means. tresham has a serving-man named william vavasour, who attended sir thomas tresham, and who, with his elder brother, george vavasour (whose education tresham has particularly encouraged), and their sister muriel (gentlewoman to lady monteagle who is the daughter of "muriel" lady tresham) are favoured dependants of the tresham family, being the children of an old and much valued catholic servant. both george and william are confidentially employed by tresham as amanuenses, in transcribing religious, or treasonable, treatises of the time. lord monteagle unexpectedly orders a supper to be prepared (october , ) at his house at hoxton (belonging to his brother-in-law tresham), and where he has not been for some months. as he is about to go to supper, a letter is handed to him by his footman, to whom it has been given in the street by "an unknown man of a reasonable tall personage," who knows that he will find him at so unfrequented a residence. monteagle opens the letter, which is anonymous, pretends he cannot understand it, and shows it to his secretary, thomas ward, who, he is aware, is familiar with some of the conspirators; whom ward, the next evening, tells of the receipt of the letter, which monteagle at once takes to whitehall, about three miles away, where he finds the earl of salisbury (principal secretary of state) with other lords of the council together assembled, "ready for supper." the government censor, or suppress, the name of the place where the letter was delivered. the conspirators and the jesuit priests, who are involved in the plot through the confessional, at once suspect tresham; and catesby and winter directly charge him with having betrayed them, which he denies, while urging them to escape to france, and giving them money for the purpose. although tresham is a sworn conspirator, he alone remains behind and at large, after fawkes's arrest (november - , ), and flight of the others into the country, and offers his services to the government. a week later he is taken to the tower, where being ill, his wife and serving-man, william vavasour, and a maid servant constantly attend him; an indulgence _never under any circumstances_ permitted to anyone who was really a prisoner and upon a capital charge there. becoming worse, he dictates a letter for vavasour to write to lord salisbury, retracting a statement that he has been induced to make respecting father garnet, and dies (december , ). this letter, or dying statement, being misunderstood, is considered to be so incredible that the writing is particularly inquired into. vavasour thereupon, in the presence of the lieutenant of the tower, writes an _untrue_ statement (consequently using a hand quite different from his ordinary writing and, _in itself, identical with the writing of the anonymous letter_), asserting that his master's dying statement was written by mrs. tresham (though in every way proper for vavasour to have written), which she at once repudiates and says that vavasour wrote it. he is then examined in the tower by chief justice popham and attorney-general coke, when he confesses that he wrote the dying statement at his master's dictation; and had denied it "for fear." fear of what? in case the writing should bring into question some other and less innocent letter written by him for his master. upon tresham's death in the tower, the lieutenant writes to salisbury (december , ) of the "marvellous" confidence shown by tresham and his friends that had he survived, they feared not the course of justice. later, having left no male issue, his inheritance passes to his brother, who is described as of rushton, when created a baronet on the institution of that order by james the first, the very king whom the plotters intended to destroy; and although a baronetcy at that time was merely a monetary distinction or transaction, _some_ discrimination was no doubt made in the bestowal or disposal of that dignity, which probably would not have been conferred upon catesby's son, who was then living, even if he had been able to afford it after the forfeiture of his family inheritance. the attorney-general, at father garnet's trial (march , ), pronounces vavasour as being, in his opinion, "deeply guilty" in the treason; yet he is not even brought to trial, while other serving-men are tried and executed; although lord salisbury expressly declares that he will esteem his life unworthily given him, when he shall be found slack in bringing to prosecution and execution all who are in any way concerned in the treason; and his exertions in the matter are accounted to be so successful, that he is rewarded with the order of the garter. francis tresham's inheritance remains in the family; and his serving-man, the "deeply guilty" william vavasour, goes free. footnotes: [footnote : _these facsimiles are issued separately in order to facilitate comparison._] ii the official story of the letter the authentic, or rather the official, story of the delivery of the letter, as published by the government at the time, states that on saturday, october , , lord monteagle "being in his own lodging, ready to go to supper, at seven o'clock[ ] at night, one of his footmen (whom he had sent on an errand over the street) was met by an unknown man, of a reasonable tall personage, who delivered him a letter, charging him to put it in my lord his master's hands; which my lord no sooner received, but that having broken it open, and perceiving the same to be of an unknown and somewhat unlegible hand, and without either date or subscription, called one of his men[ ] to help him to read it. but no sooner did he conceive the strange contents thereof, although he was somewhat perplexed what construction to make of it (as whether of a matter of consequence, as indeed it was, or whether some foolish devised pasquil, by some of his enemies to scare him from his attendance at the parliament), yet did he, as a most dutiful and loyal subject, conclude not to conceal it, whatever might come of it, whereupon notwithstanding the lateness and darkness of the night in that season of the year, he presently repaired to his majesty's palace at whitehall, and there delivered the same to the earl of salisbury, his majesty's principal secretary." neither the official version nor any state paper mentions the place where the letter was delivered, which in such a mysterious matter would be the first inquiry. "own lodging" at that time signified a person's house. hoxton is generally stated to have been the place of delivery,[ ] which was then a single street in the outlying suburb on the great north road; at a house which monteagle is known[ ] to have occupied, belonging to his brother-in-law, francis tresham; and this ownership may have been salisbury's reason for not naming it, which so curious an omission seems to imply. the letter is as follows: "my lord out of the loue i beare[ ]; to some of youere frends i haue a caer of youer preseruacion therfor i would aduyse yowe as yowe tender youer lyf to deuyse some excuse to shift of youer attendance at this parleament for god and man hathe concurred to punishe the wickednes of this tyme and thinke not slightlye of this aduertisement but retyre youre self into youre contri wheare yowe maye expect the euent in safti for thowghe theare be no apparance of anni stir yet i saye they shall receyue a terrible blowe this parleament and yet they shall not sei who hurts them this cowncel is not to be contemned because it maye do yowe good and can do yowe no harme for the dangere[ ] is passed as soon as yowe have burnt the letter and i hope god will give yowe the grace to make good use of it to whose holy proteccion i commend yowe." (addressed) "to the ryght honorable the lord monteagle." it was the opinion of the other conspirators, as well as of the jesuit priests who became involved in the plot through the confessional, that the warning letter originated with francis tresham, whose sister was lady monteagle, and another sister had married lord stourton; and tresham had been most earnest with catesby that those two lords, particularly monteagle, should be warned. in each instance, catesby was careful to impose the oath and engage the faith of the conspirator, before disclosing the plot; and tresham, the thirteenth and last, sworn conspirator, on hearing the particulars, entirely disapproved of the conspiracy, from which he tried to dissuade catesby, offering him the use of his own purse if he would even defer it.[ ] tresham could indeed have desired nothing less than to become involved in such a matter. his father had recently died, and he had succeeded to a considerable property,[ ] which alone induced his first cousin catesby to bring him into the plot. as tresham wrote when in the tower:[ ] "i thank god i am owner of such a fortune as is able to afford me what i desire, the comfort whereof is so much the sweeter unto me, as i have spent most of my time overburthened with debts and wants, and had resolved within myself to spend my days quietly."[ ] he acknowledged that his intentions with regard to the other conspirators were "to ship them away that they might have no means left them to contrive any more ... then to have taken a course to have given the state advertisement by some unknown means."[ ] he was consequently the only conspirator who remained behind and at large after fawkes was taken and the others had fled. there can be no reasonable doubt that tresham, though not the writer, was the sender of the letter; and upon this hypothesis all investigators must go, as there is none other at all likely. footnotes: [footnote : salisbury, in his letter to sir charles cornwallis, ambassador at madrid (november ), gives the hour as six o'clock.] [footnote : this was his secretary, thomas ward, who was known to monteagle as a friend of some of the conspirators (as monteagle himself was), and one of whom, ward, the next morning told of the receipt of the letter. "as a plan concocted by monteagle and tresham to stop the plot, and at the same time to secure the escape of their guilty friends, the little comedy at hoxton was admirably concocted" ("what gunpowder plot was," by s.r. gardiner, d.c.l., , p. ).] [footnote : father john gerard ( - ) gives particulars of the delivery of the letter at hoxton in his contemporary "narrative of the gunpowder plot," published in .] [footnote : "calendar of tresham papers," p. .] [footnote : the word "yowe" (you), here cancelled in the original, indicates the writer's first thoughts, and, no doubt, his real meaning.] [footnote : various attempts have been made to explain the nature of the danger alluded to, which the king and salisbury at the time, and others since, have understood as in allusion to the danger of the plot. jardine describes it as "mere nonsense" ("gunpowder plot," , p. ). but the meaning clearly is the danger of the letter being discovered. the counsel may do him good, and can do him no harm, except through the danger of keeping the letter, which being burnt, the danger is past. there is no allusion intended to the danger of the plot, as that, unlike the danger of the discovery of the letter, could not be affected by burning the letter.] [footnote : tresham's statement made when in the tower ("state papers, domestic," james i., xvi. ).] [footnote : the rental of the rushton hall estate alone, as given in the "return of owners of lands" in , is £ , yearly. the tresham family also owned property at hoxton and elsewhere.] [footnote : he died in the tower six weeks after writing that letter, aged thirty-seven.] [footnote : "state papers, domestic," james i., xvi., .] iii identification of the handwriting the style of handwriting of the letter, as seen in the facsimile, is not in this writer's opinion, from a familiarity of thirty years with old scripts, apart from the disguise, the hand that an educated person would write at the time, but is essentially a commonplace and, no doubt intentionally, rather slovenly style of handwriting. the use of small "i's" for the first person seems, in view of modern usage, to suggest an illiterate writer; but educated writers, even the king,[ ] then occasionally lapsed into using them. in the letter, however, they are consistently and may have been purposely used, to avert suspicion from being the work of an educated person; though an illiterate appearance would rather cause such a letter (if genuine) to be disregarded, than to deter a nobleman from attending the opening of parliament, for which leave or licence was required. the handwriting has been variously ascribed, but the direction of this inquiry is indicated by the incautious admission made by sir edward coke, the attorney-general at the trial, respecting the real manner in which the plot was discovered. salisbury's careful instructions to the attorney-general for the trial are with the state papers, in which he says: "next, you must in any case, when you speak of the letter which was the first ground of discovery, absolutely disclaim that any of these" (the conspirators) "wrote it, though you leave the further judgment indefinite who else it should be."[ ] salisbury thus, in effect, requires coke by absolutely disclaiming that any of the conspirators wrote (he does not say "sent") the letter to monteagle, and by which alone the treason was discovered, to declare in court, as upon the authority of the government, that therefore none of the conspirators divulged the plot; which, in any case, could be true only so far as the disclosure to the government was concerned. coke, however, for some reason--perhaps because he was not fully in salisbury's confidence respecting the letter--describes the real manner of the discovery, according to his own knowledge. towards the close of his speech for the prosecution, he said: "the last consideration is concerning the admirable discovery of this treason, which was by one of themselves who had taken the oath and sacrament, as hath been said against his own will;[ ] the means by a dark and doubtful letter to my lord monteagle." this, together with salisbury's statement that none of the conspirators wrote the letter, shows that the divulging of the plot preceded the sending of the letter,[ ] which was not, therefore, as is popularly supposed, the means by which the plot was discovered, except to the general public. hitherto those who have attempted this identification have invariably sought amongst such as are likely to have written the letter for a handwriting _resembling the disguised writing_, which seems a strange method of investigation, as surely the object of a disguised hand[ ] would be to make the general appearance as unlike the writer's ordinary hand as possible? the writing being in a set and rather large character, such is the style they have sought for and found, but in a much more refined hand and without arriving at any satisfactory result. it seems, however, reasonable to suspect that this set and rather large character may be what principally constitutes the disguise, and that the writer's ordinary hand would be different. the manner in which the lines are forced upwards at the right side, shows that the writer has had difficulty in maintaining the large, set, regular character which would push an unpractised hand in that direction. among the more prominent peculiarities, as seen in the facsimile (no. ), the writer invariably uses the long "s" as an initial letter in the ten examples that occur, even when the letter is not a capital. such consistent use was usual in legal but not in private hands, though within a word the long "s" was very common. the "t's" are peculiar; being made with a twist or short line at foot, crossed midway projecting from each side, while a stroke is put on the top as a disguised, or elaborated touch. the "w's" finish with a side loop. some of the "g's" show flat tops; the cypher portion being commenced from the left side with a stroke along the top. the tails of the "y's" are brought forward. the "hanger" portion of the "h's" invariably drags below the line which, though not unusual, again indicates in the numerous examples that occur the writer's habit; while an unusually broad quill has been used to further the disguise.[ ] after the plot was discovered, fawkes arrested, and the other conspirators had escaped into the country, tresham remained in london and even offered his services to the government. a week later he was taken to the tower where, being ill, his wife also came, and he was attended by his serving-man, william vavasour, and his maid, joan syer. he was induced "to avoid ill-usage," to say that he thought father garnet, against whom the government desired to obtain evidence, had written a letter in furtherance of what was known as the spanish treason, in . six weeks later, his illness becoming dangerous, he dictated to his man vavasour a letter to lord salisbury, retracting his statement respecting garnet, as being more than he really knew; declaring upon his salvation that he had not seen him "in sixteen years before," clearly meaning before the spanish treason in , which is the entire subject of his letter and the fact; and not, as the government misunderstood him to mean, before the then time of writing in . this statement, written by vavasour (fascimile no. ), was signed by tresham, who asked his wife to deliver it personally to lord salisbury, and within three hours died:[ ] "i being sent for before yo^r lordships in the tow^r, you told me y^t (that) it was confessed by mr winter, y^t he went upon some imploym^{ts} in ye queens time into spayne & y^t yo^r l. did nominate to me out of his confession all the partyes names y^t were acquainted therew^{th} _namely besides himselfe_[ ] & yet sayd y^t ther were some left for me to name. i desired yo^r l. y^t i might not answere therunto bycause it was a matter y^t was done in the queens time and since i had my pardon. "yo^r lordships wold not accept of y^t answere, _but sayd y^t i should be made to speake therunto. and i might thanke my self if i had beene worse used than i had beene since my coming to the howse_[ ] i told yo^r lords^p (_to avoyde ill usage_)[ ] y^t i thought mr. walley[ ] was p'cured to write his letter for the furthering of this jeorney. now my ll. having bethoughte myselfe of this businesse (being to weake to use my owne hand in writing this) w^{ch} i do deliver here upon my salvacon to be trew as near as i can call to mynde, desiring y^t my form'r confession may be called in & y^t this may stand for truthe. it was more than i knew y^t mr. walley[ ] was used herein, & to give your lords'p p'ofe besids my oathe, i had not seene him in sixteene yere before, nor never had messuadge[ ] nor letter from him & to this purpose i desired mr. leiftenant to lett me see my confession who told me i should not unlesse i wold inlarge it w^{ch} he did p'ceive i had no meaning to doe. (signed) francis tresame. " m'ch [- ]. this noate was of my owne hand writing by me willia' vavasore." tresham's statement being misunderstood to mean that he had not seen garnet for sixteen years,[ ] while the government knew from tresham himself[ ] that he had recently been in garnet's company, was considered such awful perjury to commit when dying as to be incredible. coke wrote to salisbury: "it is true that no man may judge in this case, for _inter pontem et fontem_ he might find grace; but it is the most fearful example that i ever knew of to be made so evident as now this is." salisbury at the trial said: "mr. tresham in his lifetime accused you, garnet, before the lords, yet now upon his salvation, he under his hand did excuse you, being at the very point of death, saying he had not seen you _in sixteen years_, which matter, i assure you, before you were taken shook me very much. but, thanks be to god, since the coming of the king, i have known so much of your doctrine and practices, that hereafter they shall not much trouble me." the writing of tresham's dying statement was, therefore, particularly, inquired into, and vavasour had to make a written statement respecting his knowledge of it; evidently for comparison of the handwriting. this appears to have so alarmed him that in his statement (fascimile no. ), written in the presence of sir william waad, lieutenant of the tower, he asserted that the dying statement was written by mrs. tresham, at her husband's dictation: "i do rememb' y^t my m^r did cause my m^{res} to write a note wherto he did did (_sic_) bid the mayd and me beare witnes y^t he did set his hand unto it, but it was not reade at y^t time but since m^{res} tressa' did reede it to me and sayd it was y^t noate y^t my m^r did bid us beare witnesse and she comaunded me to carye a letter to s^r waulter cope and to desire him to deliver the noate inclosed to my lorde of salsburye and further my m^r did say y^t he cold not write him selfe bycause he was not able but he did sett his hande unto it as before i have sayd and this was done some day before his death. "(signed) by me william vavasor. " . march [- ]. taken before us: (signed) w. waad. willus lane." if for any reason vavasour did not desire his writing to be brought into question, there could be no harm, beyond his falsehood, in naming mrs. tresham as the writer of that letter, as neither could possibly be blamed for writing such a statement for his master. the question arises, whether vavasour would have ventured upon an untrue statement, except through panic, unless feeling sure of mrs. tresham's support? as mrs. tresham throughout made no attempt to conceal the truth for vavasour, she may have been unaware of any reason for diverting inquiry from himself respecting letters written for his master. even if mrs. tresham had been willing to connive at his falsehood, she could not have done so; as salisbury, being convinced that she not only wrote but composed her husband's dying statement and induced him to sign to shield father garnet, was so incensed against her that he declined to see her,[ ] or even to receive her husband's statement, when she tried to deliver it. she was therefore obliged, in view of possible consequences to herself, to own[ ] that vavasour wrote the statement at her husband's dictation. vavasour was then examined in the tower by chief justice popham and by coke, when he confessed[ ] that he wrote the dying statement at his master's dictation, and had denied it through fear, which could only arise from having written some other and less innocent letter for him. vavasour, when writing his untrue statement, would avoid using his ordinary handwriting, as already appearing in the letter in question (no. ), which he had ascribed to mrs. tresham. he, therefore, disguises his writing, so far as having to write off-hand and under the observation of the lieutenant of the tower and an attendant justice, with the consciousness that he is writing what is false, and while having to be careful not to reproduce his former disguised hand, as seen in the anonymous letter, permits him; and the hand thus produced betrays him as the writer of that letter, with which the writing is, in itself, identical. the long "s" is invariably used for a word commencing with that letter, even when not a capital; there are the same peculiar "t's," though in a less disguised or elaborated form than those of the anonymous letter, but there they clearly are; the "w's" have no side loops, but in vavasour's note at foot of no. a conspicuous example is seen; there are no "g's";[ ] the "y's" are particularly noticeable, being in two varieties: vavasour's ordinary "y," of which the tail is tucked back; in the other, the tail is brought forward; and no one can fail to see that the latter are by the same hand as those in the letter; the "hangers" of the "h's" invariably drag below the line; and generally, the writing may throughout be detected as by the same hand that wrote the anonymous letter. the best specimen of vavasour's handwriting, although not so useful as no. for identification purposes, is in the ms. entitled "a treatise against lying," etc., identified by william tresham as having been transcribed by vavasour for francis tresham, which is now in the bodleian library (facsimile no. ). to anyone familiar with the handwriting of the period, vavasour's writing is the usual law-writer's or copyist's hand, such as appears in conveyances and deeds of the time,[ ] and is not the style of hand that an educated person would then write. each initial "s" is of the long form; each "w" has a side loop; the "g's" are flat-topped; and the "h's" come below the line, etc. tresham's dying statement (no. ) appears to be in a similar but smaller[ ] and less carefully written hand. vavasour wrote a neat, small hand, which, when disguising, the probability is that he would attempt an opposite style. if it were not for the testimony of the lieutenant of the tower, that the untrue statement (no. ) was actually written in his presence by vavasour, the writing would not, from the general appearance, readily be recognized as by the same hand that wrote tresham's dying statement (no. ), and so acknowledged by vavasour. this shows that he was naturally clever in disguising his hand, hence his employment by tresham in writing the anonymous letter to lord monteagle. * * * * * upon the evidence of the handwriting alone, william vavasour was the writer of that letter.[ ] footnotes: [footnote : in the "correspondence of james i. with sir robert cecil" (published by the camden society in ), both the king and the earl of northumberland occasionally use them (pp. , , etc.). the latter also uses them in his general correspondence.] [footnote : "state papers, domestic," james i., xix. .] [footnote : tresham was throughout the only unwilling conspirator, but he did not take the oath sacramentally, only seven or eight of the thirteen conspirators did so.] [footnote : "no wise man could think my lord (monteagle) to be so weak as to take any alarm to absent himself from parliament upon such a loose advertisement" (letter from salisbury to cornwallis, november ).] [footnote : salisbury, in his letter to cornwallis, particularly describes the writing as being "in a hand disguised," and he, like monteagle, would know not only the writer, but how the letter came to be written.] [footnote : in an expert examination of handwriting, the angle at which the pen is held, as indicated by the long strokes, and the spacing between the lines which a writer naturally uses, have also to be considered--being the basis of handwriting, the first movements that are made in learning to write, and become each writer's characteristics in those respects. in each specimen of william vavasour's handwriting, including the anonymous letter, the long strokes are generally at the same angle, and the spacing between the lines (except in no. ) is throughout generally similar, while his brother george's hand is in each respect quite different.] [footnote : "he died this night, about two of the clock after midnight, with very great pain; for though his spirits were much spent and his body dead, a-lay above two hours in departing" (lieutenant of the tower to salisbury, december , , "state papers, domestic," james i., xvii. ). tresham's death, being so opportune for monteagle, if not for salisbury, has been attributed to poisoning; but stowe's "annals" ( , p. ) states it to have been occasioned by strangury, though giving the date of his death incorrectly as november . ten years later a subsequent lieutenant of the tower was executed for poisoning a state prisoner.] [footnote : the portion printed in italics was underlined by coke for _omission_ when the statement was read at the trial. the " besides himself," having reference to monteagle, was therefore suppressed; the other suppressions in the statement were made for obvious and unfair reasons.] [footnote : "walley" was one of father garnet's aliases.] [footnote : this is very suggestive of a law-writer's spelling of "message" (messuage and tenement).] [footnote : when garnet returned from rome in , as superior of the jesuits in england, he made the treshams' acquaintance, being a prominent roman catholic family, when francis was eighteen. garnet was not their confessor, and the acquaintance had dropped for at least sixteen years before the spanish treason in . garnet's statement, made (march , - ) after tresham's death, is: "i knew him about years ago, but since discontinued my acquaintance until the time between his trouble in my lord of essex's tumult and the queen's death" ( - ). garnet would have neither motive nor inclination to shield tresham, whose betrayal of the plot had brought garnet to the tower. he might otherwise have discerned tresham's real meaning in his statement of "sixteen years before," which the contemporary jesuit father gerard correctly interprets as before in his narrative of the plot. it was not garnet's complicity in the spanish treason in the previous reign (for which he had his pardon) that the government cared about, and that so shook salisbury, but simply tresham's dying statement being misunderstood to mean that he had not seen garnet for the past sixteen years, which is all that the present writer is concerned with.] [footnote : "state papers, domestic," james i., xvi. .] [footnote : so he said at the trial: "she came to see me, but i spared either to speak with her or hear her." but mrs. tresham in her examination said that, "in respect of her sorrow and heaviness," she "was enforced to send it"; and in her note enclosing the dying statement to sir walter cope for delivery, she wrote: "my sorrows are such that i am altogether unfit to come abroad; wherefore i would entreat you to deliver it yourself unto my lord, that i may have my husband's desire fulfilled therein" ("state papers, domestic," james i., ccxvi. ).] [footnote : examination of mrs. tresham (_ibid._, ccxvi. ).] [footnote : examination of william vavasour (_ibid._, ccxvi. ).] [footnote : vavasour, in his authentic and ordinary writing, used flat-topped "g's," as seen in the anonymous letter, as well as in no. , ascribed to him.] [footnote : the deed of robert catesby's marriage settlement with katherine, eldest daughter of sir thomas leigh, of stoneleigh ( ), in the possession of t.w. whitmore-jones; esq., of chastleton house, oxon, is in a similar legal hand, with precisely the same peculiarities of "s," "g," "w," "h," etc. a law-writer's hand to-day is in a "copper-plate" style, which, although most suitable for the purpose, is not the kind of hand that an educated person would write whose business was not copying, and there was then a similar distinction between them.] [footnote : apparently owing to restrictions of space and paper.] [footnote : the original letter is framed and exhibited upon a pedestal in the museum of the public record office. the facsimile has, therefore, had to be made from a negative taken of the letter as seen through glass, while the other facsimiles have the advantage of being made from negatives taken of documents unglazed.] iv the attorney-general's opinion of vavasour's guilt the attorney-general in his speech for the prosecution at father garnet's trial (march , ), as given in the official report, alluding to tresham's dying statement, said: "upon his death-bed he commanded vavasour his man, _whom i think deeply guilty in this treason_, to write a letter to the earl of salisbury." henry garnet's trial was purposely held at the city guildhall, instead of westminster hall, the usual trial place where the conspirators had been tried, in order to make the occasion as imposing, and his case as exemplary, as possible, on account of his position as superior of the jesuits in england.[ ] the king was privately present, and there was a most distinguished assembly of ambassadors, nobility, and others. before this audience, the attorney-general, whose opinion determines or considerably influences a prosecution for high treason, states in court that a person who is not even present nor arraigned is in his opinion "deeply guilty" in the most infamous treason ever attempted, and for which the conspirators had already been executed: so "heinous, horrible and damnable"[ ] was it considered, that the authorities had even proposed to devise some specially severe form of torture for the perpetrators to undergo, in addition to the usual terrible penalty for high treason.[ ] coke, who it will be remembered was the most eminent counsel and the greatest jurist of the time, however desirous he would be of bringing to light everything connected with such a treason upon the occasion, would scarcely, as legally representing the crown in his capacity of the king's attorney-general, express so extremely damaging an opinion without sufficient reason. there is something in his mind concerning vavasour,[ ] respecting whom he is not satisfied; and it can only be vavasour's having written, not the letter to salisbury--as that could not possibly implicate him, nor render him "deeply guilty" in a treason _which had been discovered and ended six weeks before the letter to salisbury was written_--but that other and most treasonable letter to monteagle, for there was nothing else against him in the matter.[ ] coke evidently knows, or suspects, that vavasour wrote the warning letter; and he cannot understand why he is not brought to trial.[ ] he therefore expresses his opinion of vavasour's guilt as strongly as possible, and even describes him with what for an attorney-general in ordinary circumstances would be a singular redundancy of legal expression, as being "deeply guilty" in the treason.[ ] no one would know better than the attorney-general that in high treason itself the law makes no distinction whatever of degrees of guilt, nor can there even be an accessory: once participant, whatever the part played may be, all alike are principals. coke's statement in court has been officially in print for over three hundred years, yet no investigator seems to have noticed it and so have been led to inquire what was done to vavasour?--by which alone a clue might have been obtained to the writer of the letter.[ ] although vavasour was publicly stated by the attorney-general to be "deeply guilty" in a treason of which salisbury wrote: "i shall esteem my life unworthily given me when i shall be found slack in searching to the bottom of the dregs of this foul poison, or lack resolution to further to my small power the prosecution and execution of all those whose hearts and hands can appear foul in this savage practise"[ ]--yet he was not even brought to trial, while other serving-men were tried and executed.[ ] it is questionable whether salisbury, unless agreeing with coke's opinion of vavasour's guilt, would have allowed the allusion to appear in the official report of the trial, prepared by himself and sanctioned by the king;[ ] as, if innocent of the treason, an intolerable injustice would have been done to vavasour by the publication, which probably neither the king nor salisbury would have permitted, in making a senseless attack upon the reputation of an innocent man, who would certainly have protested. without, however, assuming too advanced ideas of justice for the time, it is unlikely that so capable a person as salisbury appears to have been,[ ] could fail to perceive that the publication of the attorney-general's opinion of vavasour's guilt must, in the absence of any prosecution, call attention to vavasour, and thus furnish a clue to the writer of the letter. salisbury, though generally fair-minded, might not trouble himself about vavasour's reputation, but he would about his own, which would be affected by his failure, after his strongly expressed determination, in bringing to justice all who were concerned in such a treason; and this would still apply, even if coke's published allusion to vavasour's guilt was merely counsel's rhetoric. coke, however, at the moment when making that allusion, was not declaiming upon the treason, but simply stating a fact about tresham, with the king listening; and in alluding to vavasour, he expresses what is in his mind--"_whom i think deeply guilty in this treason_": evidently his deliberate opinion, which he would have every opportunity of forming, as, with the exception of salisbury and the conspirators, he would know more of the workings of the plot than anyone. salisbury's chief concern, apparently, was at all costs to keep vavasour silent, which he did; while his anxiety "to leave the further judgment indefinite" respecting the writer of the letter, plainly shows that the matter would not bear inquiry. * * * * * the only possible conclusion, therefore, is that vavasour wrote the anonymous letter to lord monteagle, which the identity of the handwriting absolutely confirms. footnotes: [footnote : "my sovereign determined that your trial should be in this honourable assembly. for who is garnet that he should be called hither, or we should trouble ourselves in this court with him? which i protest were sufficient for the greatest cardinal in rome, if in this case he should be tried. no, mr. garnet, it is not for your cause that you are called hither, but to testify to the world the foulness of your fact, the errors of your religion," etc. lord salisbury's speech at the trial. (gerard). when at the trial, rebuking garnet for untruthfulness in his previous examination before the council, salisbury said: "you stiffly denied it upon your soul, reiterating it with so many detestable execrations, _as our hair stood upright_" (jardine).] [footnote : the act for the attainder of the conspirators ("statutes of the realm," james i., c. ). coke himself characterized the treason at the trial as "beyond all examples, whether in fact or fiction, even of the tragic poets who did beat their wits to represent the most fearful and horrible murders." and in the prayer to be used in the anniversary service for the fifth of november it is described as having been attempted "in a most barbarous and savage manner, beyond the examples of former ages. from this unnatural conspiracy, not our merit, but thy mercy; not our foresight, but thy providence, delivered us," etc.] [footnote : in the previous century, in a case where a more severe penalty was desired to be inflicted, the offender was, by act of parliament, publicly _boiled alive_ ("statutes of the realm," henry viii., c. ).] [footnote : coke worked hard for some months in thoroughly preparing the evidence for the trial, so that little would escape him. as he wrote to salisbury: "if your lordship knew what pains have been taken herein, your lordship would pity the old attorney" (hatfield mss.).] [footnote : vavasour's falsehood respecting mrs. tresham had nothing to do with the treason. coke seems to mention vavasour's guilt as if antecedent to the writing of the letter to salisbury.] [footnote : this work is merely the identification of the writer of the anonymous letter only, and makes no attempt to answer the much more difficult question of what the arrangement was between salisbury and monteagle, or between monteagle and tresham, respecting the sending of the letter; but with regard to coke, it is unlikely, from what is known of their intercourse and their frequent differences in court, that he would be admitted to any particular confidence with salisbury in the matter.] [footnote : vavasour's concealment of guilty knowledge as the writer of the warning letter would probably be only misprision of treason, unless coke knew or suspected that he was directly concerned in the treason.] [footnote : the present writer does not owe the identification to that clue, which was not met with until after vavasour had been identified as the writer of the letter.] [footnote : letter to the earl of dunfermline, lord chancellor of scotland. december , ("state papers, domestic," james i., xvii. ). salisbury was created k.g. with almost regal pomp for his services in the matter. "tuesday the th of may ( ), at windsor, were installed knights of the garter, robert, earl of salisbury, who set forward from his house in the strand, being almost as honourably accompanied and with as great train of lords, knights, gentlemen, and officers of the court, with others besides his peculiar servants very richly attired, and bravely mounted, as was the king when he rid in state through london" (stowe's "annals," , p. ).] [footnote : bates, catesby's serving-man, at london; others in the country.] [footnote : although known as the "king's book," the report of the trial was evidently compiled by salisbury and corrected by the king.] [footnote : salisbury's statesmanship is evinced by the advice he wrote to james (i.) when king of scotland, and impatiently awaiting queen elizabeth's demise: "your best approach towards your greatest end, is by your majesty's clear and temperate courses, to secure the heart of the highest, to whose sex and quality nothing is so improper as either needless expostulations, or over much curiosity in her own actions. the first showing unquietness in yourself; the second challenging some untimely interest in hers; both which, as they are best forborne when there is no cause, so be it far from me (if there shall be cause), to persuade you to receive wrongs and be silent" ("secret correspondence," camden society, , p. ).] v francis tresham's confidence when in the tower upon tresham's death in the tower (december , ), the lieutenant wrote to salisbury: "i find his friends were marvellous confident if he had escaped this sickness, and have given out in this place that they feared not the course of justice."[ ] as the late dr. gardiner observed: "this confidence they could only have derived from himself, and it could only have been founded on one ground." had tresham's committal to the tower been otherwise than a mere formality, or "a farce," neither his wife nor his servants would under any circumstances have been permitted to attend or even see him whatever the state of his health might have been; and had he survived, nothing serious would have been done to him,[ ] any more than was done to his "deeply guilty" servant vavasour. tresham, though dreading, as he said, "the infamous brand of an accuser,"[ ] was as evidently the informer to the government, either directly or indirectly through monteagle, as his servant vavasour was the writer of the letter. footnotes: [footnote : "state papers, domestic," james i., xvii. .] [footnote : he left no male issue, and was succeeded in the family property by his next brother lewis, who was created a baronet june , , one of the second batch of baronets made on the institution of that order the previous may by james i.] [footnote : "state papers, domestic," james i., xvi. .] vi the vavasours as dependants of the tresham family the tresham papers[ ] contain much information respecting the vavasours as dependants of that family. sir thomas tresham had a bailiff or collector, named thomas vavasour, an old and much valued catholic servant,[ ] who had, with perhaps other children, two sons, george and william, and a daughter, muriel. george, who had been educated, was in june, , sent up by his father with a letter to sir thomas, then in town, in order that he might be entered at one of the inns of court, as sir thomas might advise: "mr. francis tresham has encouraged him in this kind of study and the cost already bestowed must not be lost. he knows he has nothing else to trust to but his learning, nor does he seem so fit for anything else."[ ] he was accordingly admitted to the inner temple in november of that year,[ ] where lewis tresham (sir thomas's second son) had been admitted the previous november, and to whom there is an allusion of george vavasour acting as tutor.[ ] william vavasour, the other son, was servant to sir thomas, and though not so educated as his brother george, was not a livery-servant or footman,[ ] but appears to have held a similar or superior position with sir thomas, to that which bates, who kept his own man,[ ] held with catesby, a kind of secretary-valet of the time.[ ] after sir thomas's death he served his eldest son francis tresham in the same capacity; while the sister muriel vavasour, who bore the same (then uncommon) christian name as lady tresham, and may have been her god-daughter, became "gentlewoman without livery" at £ yearly[ ] to lady monteagle, who was lady tresham's daughter. both george vavasour and his brother william were confidentially employed by francis tresham as amanuenses, where secrecy was necessary in transcribing religious or political treatises, such as were then circulated amongst roman catholics, and, being treasonable, dared not be printed. on december , , the attorney-general, while investigating the conspiracy, obtained two ms. volumes which had been found in george vavasour's chambers in the inner temple. one, officially described as a "quarto" volume, though an octavo ( - / x - / ), entitled "a treatise against lying,"[ ] was stated by george vavasour, on examination[ ] to have been lent him by francis tresham to copy,[ ] and the copy he had made was contained in the folio, the other ms. found. he denied any knowledge of the handwriting in the "quarto" volume, except that he had recopied the last page ( ), in order to replace a torn leaf, bearing in latin the imprimatur of george blackwell, archpriest of the english jesuits. william tresham (francis tresham's youngest brother), on being examined by coke, said that he thought the "quarto" ms. was in william vavasour's handwriting, who was formerly his father's servant, and since serving his eldest brother in the tower.[ ] william tresham may have seen vavasour so employed at home and would know his writing; while george vavasour might not wish to bring his brother into question. the folio ms. has disappeared, but the "quarto" copy, as ascribed to william vavasour, is now with archbishop laud's mss. (no. ) in the bodleian library, and was published in . [illustration: facsimile no. . the anonymous letter as delivered to lord monteagle, october , , warning him not to attend the opening of parliament appointed for the fifth of november. (from the original letter in the museum of the public record office.)] [illustration: facsimile no. . a page of the ms. intitled "a treatise against lying, &c.", formerly belonging to francis tresham, of which the handwriting was attributed by his brother, william tresham, to william vavasour. now in the bodleian library. (laud mss. , folio .)] [illustration: facsimile no. . william vavasour's handwriting in the letter to the earl of salisbury, dictated and signed by francis tresham, when dying in the tower. december , . (state papers, domestic. james i. ccxvi. .) stated by vavasour to have been written by mrs. tresham. on march , - , he confessed that he wrote it, and signed a note to it to that effect.] [illustration: facsimile no. . william vavasour's handwriting in his _untrue_ statement written in the presence of the lieutenant of the tower, that no. was written by mrs. tresham. dated march , - . (state papers, domestic. james i. ccxvi. .) [***]to avoid detection of his falsehood, he writes a hand quite different from his ordinary writing in nos. and , thus producing a hand which is in itself identical with his former disguised writing as seen in the anonymous letter (no. ).] [illustration: facsimile no. . george vavasour's handwriting on the last leaf, which he renewed for francis tresham, of the ms. intitled "a treatise against lying, &c." (laud mss. , folio .)] george vavasour's handwriting upon the last leaf of the ms. (facsimile no. ) shows a much more refined and educated hand than his brother's, from which the writing is in every respect different. a small "s" is invariably used in commencing a word with that letter; the "t's " are quite different; the "w" finishes with an inner, not an outer loop; the "g's" have no flat tops; and the "hangers" of the "h's" do not descend below the line. the writing is evidently an educated hand for the time, and cannot readily be imagined as using small "i's" for the first person, such as are used in, and seem to accord so well with, the much less educated handwriting of the warning letter. * * * * * william vavasour, the tresham family serving-man, is thus not only conclusively proved to have written the anonymous letter to lord monteagle, but most probably was also the "unknown man of a reasonable tall personage" who is so quaintly described in the government story as having delivered the letter. footnotes: [footnote : calendared by the historical mss. commission. "report on mss. in various collections, vol. iii., . the mss. of t.b. clarke-thornhill, esq., of rushton hall, by mrs. r.c. lomas." these important family papers were preserved and discovered in a curious manner. in , when making alterations at rushton hall, on removing a partition wall, they were found with some theological books in a large bundle wrapped in a sheet, which had been built into a recess in the wall. as the papers, commencing in , with a few of earlier date, end in november, , they were probably thus hidden away on tresham's arrest.] [footnote : "calendar," p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, p. .] [footnote : "students admitted to the inner temple, - " ( ).] [footnote : "calendar of tresham papers," p. .] [footnote : his name does not appear in the list of sir thomas's ten livery servants as retained while the establishment was at hoxton before monteagle's tenancy, of which the accounts are with the tresham papers. under the stable charges is the keep of a horse for thomas vavasour, the father (_ibid._, pp. , ).] [footnote : "examination of christopher story, thomas bates's man" ("state papers, domestic," james i., xvi. , ).] [footnote : it will be remembered that salisbury in the official story describes ward, who was monteagle's secretary, as "one of his men."] [footnote : each of the other female attendants and servants, even "mawdlyn the frenchwoman" at £ yearly, have a livery ("calendar of tresham papers," p. ).] [footnote : the manuscript was originally entitled "a treatise upon equivocation," which was altered by father garnet into "a treatise against lying & fraudule't dissimulatio'. newly overseen by ye authour & published for the defence of innocency, & for the instructio' of ignora'ts." it purports to show when equivocation may "lawfully" be used, and may have been compiled by garnet, as the title-page and the annotations throughout are in his handwriting. the folio manuscript by george vavasour was evidently a fair copy of the revised "quarto," and tresham's reason for having it made.] [footnote : "examination of george vavasour, of the inner temple, gent., december , " ("state papers, domestic," james i., ccxvi. ).] [footnote : he also confessed having transcribed the treatise "de officio principis christiani" (further examination, december , , _ibid._, ccxvi. ). coke alluded to these manuscripts at the trial as "certain heretical, damnable and treasonable books discovered." he said: "there is in tresham's book, 'de officio principis,' an easier and more expedite way than all these to fetch the crown off the head of any king christened whatsoever, which is this that: '_princeps indulgendo hæreticis, amittit regnum._'--if any prince shall but tolerate or favour heretics, he loseth his kingdom." this shows the confidential nature of the vavasours' employment as amanuenses by tresham in such matters.] [footnote : examination of william tresham, december , ("state papers, domestic," james i., xvii. ).] the end printed by billing and sons, limited, guildford, england the fifth of november charles s bentley and f kimball scribner the fifth of november _a romance of the stuarts_ by charles s. bentley and f. kimball scribner "no, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, but as truly loves on to the close as the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, the same look which she turn'd when he rose" --thomas moore. chicago and new york: rand, mcnally & company, publishers. copyright, , by rand, mcnally & co. contents. chapter. page. i. what befell at the sign of the leopard. ii. in the shadow of st. paul. iii. the home-coming of guido fawkes. iv. the superior of the jesuits. v. why master fawkes was summoned to england. vi. "the wisest fool in christendom." vii. the viscount effingston. viii. in the garden of the gentleman-pensioner. ix. garnet and the king. x. the forging of the thunderbolt. xi. the way of the world. xii. what the moon saw. xiii. at the sign of the leopard. xiv. in the shadow of the cross. xv. "thou shalt not kill." xvi. monteagle and salisbury. xvii. sowing the wind. xviii. the cellar. xix. the note of warning. xx. on the stroke of eleven. xxi. the fifth of november. xxii. fawkes before the king. xxiii. the banquet. xxiv. "in the king's name." xxv. reaping the whirlwind. author's note. it has not been the intention of the authors of "the fifth of november" to write an historical novel, though, throughout the story, they have endeavored to follow as closely as was consistent with the plot in hand, the historical facts collected by the various writers who have made the nature and workings of the "gunpowder plot" a special study. with one or two exceptions, the characters in the present romance have been borrowed from history, and, save in chapters xxi and xxii, the lines of the story have followed those traced by the hand of the historian. in presenting to the public this "romance of the stuarts," indebtedness is acknowledged by the writers to professor s. r. gardiner's "what the gunpowder plot was," and also to the history of england as set forth by knight, hume, froude and ridpath. the authors. new york, february, . the fifth of november. chapter i. what befell at "the sign of the leopard." snow had fallen through the day, and as night approached all objects were covered with a mantle of white. the noises incident to the life of a great city had long since become muffled and indistinct. the footfalls of those who traversed the streets could no longer be heard; and the only sounds which now and again broke the silence, were the voices of my lord's link-men, who, in goodly number, fully armed, carrying flaming torches whose lurid dancing light shone through the blinding snow, appeared at a distance to be a party of ancient saints come forth from their tombs to indulge in a ghostly frolic under cover of the night. the voices of the men, falling upon the snow-laden air, sounded dull and echo-less as they heralded the approach of a chair to some sharp turn or gateway. an armed escort in those days was no mark of royalty or distinction, for it was not well or safe for men to travel the streets alone after nightfall, as many a sinister face and cloaked form lurked hid in the shadow of secluded corners and dark by-ways, awaiting opportunity to cut the purse, or the throat, as need be, of the solitary wayfarer. numbers were no guarantee of escaping unmolested; for of late the rogues had become so bold that it was a common thing for a party of gentlemen to be attacked successfully, as the ruffians mustered in their ranks many soldiers of fortune who had served in flanders, france and spain, and were well versed in the play of both sword and dagger. these acts of robbery and murder were confined to no one locality, but the vagabonds who perpetrated the deeds had haunts and places of common rendezvous, and as night fell, these dens poured forth upon the town their murder-bent crews. in one of the most narrow and crooked of streets, often lost amid the winding of greater thoroughfares, and safely hidden from the watchful eyes of the king's soldiers, was situated a tavern, patronized for the most part by those who replenished their purses when low, by running some belated traveler through the back, and taking what money he had. this tavern was famous among its patrons for its mulled ale, the like of which, they swore could not be found in all london. to those who had not partaken of this famous beverage, and knew not the inn by reputation, its business was made known by a swinging sign, upon which, very indifferently executed, was the figure of a leopard, and, further, as if the artist had not sufficient confidence in his powers of portrayal, he had printed in large and uncertain letters, "at the sign of the leopard may be found all manner of goodly cheer and comfort." below this evidence of what might be found within, a small and narrow doorway gave entrance to the hostelry. inside, a larger room than the outer aspect of the place indicated, awaited the guest. a low ceiling, blackened by age, and hung with numberless spider webs, whose weavers had long since fled--driven thence by the clouds of tobacco smoke puffed from the lips of many a sturdy knave who nightly helped to fill the place. the walls of the room being paneled in some dark wood to an unusual height, the three windows, which furnished more air than light, were well up toward the ceiling. the sides of this chamber were decorated with rows of pewter pots and flagons of various shapes and sizes. the furniture consisted of half a dozen rough tables and high-backed benches ranged about the sides. the floor was freshly sanded, but rough in many places from the prominence of knots, the softer wood being worn from around them by the shuffling of numberless pairs of boots. an uncertain light proceeded from several large candles standing in brass candlesticks, but most of the illumination was due to a fire which burned briskly in a large stone fireplace at the extreme end of the room, and gave to all an aspect of warmth and good cheer. standing in front of the blaze was the host of the establishment, attired in the costume of his time,--a loose jacket, linen breeches and green apron. he was eyeing with a look of no small displeasure three men seated at one of the tables, two of whom, by their actions, seemed to have partaken a little too freely of the leopard's special beverage. they wore the dress of a class, which, by their manner, was one of no great elevation. long, soft, wide-brimmed hats adorned their heads, while tight-fitting jerkins of very much soiled leather covered their bodies. trunks and tights of some faded material, and boots with deep falling tops, completed their costume, unless there should be added the two long bellguard rapiers lying upon the table, and to which, from appearances, the gentlemen in question owed their livelihood. the man seated opposite was thick-set and slightly under medium height; instead of the leather jerkin worn by them, his body was incased in a steel cuirass or breastplate, which, judging from the numerous dents thereon, had turned the force of many a savage thrust and blow. the face of the man was one which had long been exposed to both sun and storm, and even pestilence had not spared it, for in many places the disfiguring finger of smallpox had left its mark. his beard was worn in the style favored by the soldiers of the spanish, rather than the english army, for it was pointed and surmounted by a long, black and up-curling moustache, which added fierceness to an already not too kindly countenance. his sword, a long point and blade rapier of italian pattern, still hung by his side, as if even when surrounded by this good cheer, he, from habit born of many a hard campaign, still clung to it. "what, ho, john tapster;" exclaimed he of the steel cuirass, banging lustily on the table with the pummel of his sword, "another six-hooped pot of thy best mulled ale, for the sour and remorseful wine of spain which i have drunk, ill befits my stomach." the landlord advanced reluctantly to comply, with an air which plainly showed he was divided in his mind between the doubt of a settlement to an already long unpaid score, and the fear of personal violence did he refuse the man his request. the love of a whole skin, however, triumphed, for after filling the pot with ale and plunging the mulling iron into it, which he had drawn from the fire, he set the desired drink before his guest. "by sir bacchus!" said the stranger, after taking a deep draught, "'tis the only fitting liquid to put into one's body, if he wishes to strike a stout blow for the king." then, as he finished the pot, "it seemeth well to drown the clinging dust of spain within one's throat, in merry english ale." the landlord did not venture to reply to these offers of conversation; he seemed loath to enter into friendly talk, when in all probability he soon would be embroiled with the man in a dispute, if not in an issue of more serious nature. however, the other, nothing daunted, and gazing on his two companions, whom he discovered wrapped in drunken slumber, snoring roundly, prodded them both with the scabbard of his sword, which action eliciting from them nothing but a grunt, and being desirous of further conversation, he again turned to him of the green apron who had resumed his watchful scrutiny from before the fire, and continued: "thou seemest but sparing of thy speech, sir host. judge a man not always by the company he keeps; these drunken knaves whose silly pates would have been turned with milk of the morning's drawing, are no comrades of mine; 'tis only a mere chance friendship. i was not over particular in my pick of friends, being lately landed, and but too glad to take up with the first varlets speaking my own sweet english; after many months of naught but jabbering spanish sounding in my ears 'twas well and pleasing to hear once more the brave tongue in which my first aves were taught unto me." "aves have not, i trow, over-troubled thee," answered the landlord in not too jovial a tone. "nay, nay, friend; be not quick to judge by weight of purse or hilt of sword, for a man with not over much money in his gipsire may still have that about him which would recommend him more." "and what, pray, might that be?" inquired the other;--"a handsome face and ready tongue? they are goodly coin to win the heart of some fair maid, but naught of cakes and ale they'll buy thee when thy belly's empty." "nay, i will offer neither, for i have none of them. the first was but rudely handled some thirty years ago by plague, at havre; the second's had but small practice, and its tone was spoiled by breathing the damp winds of the flemish marshes. i leave such graces to the stay-at-homes who twist a tap--but, a truce to this witty talk, for it makes but ill friends, and i would ask of thee a favor, which will cost naught but civility, that is cheap and in the end may gain thee much." so saying, he put his hand into a small bag which hung at his side, drawing therefrom a very much soiled and crumpled paper, and advancing with it toward the host, continued: "i am but illy versed in such priestly craft; the meaning i can understand, but its full intent may have missed my stupid eyes. canst thou decipher it for me, sir host?" this direct appeal to his learning softened to some extent him of the spigot, whose curiosity as well as pride was aroused, for the man addressing him, judging from his speech, was a little above the usual class who frequented the tavern. reaching for a candle which stood upon the mantel, that he might better see, and taking the letter with grudging fingers, said in a slightly more gracious tone after a moment's scrutiny, "it ill pleases me, that monkish writing, but print such as honest john caxton did manufacture, i can decipher right readily." then with knitted brow, during which the other man remained standing, looking over his shoulder in an expectant attitude, he continued: "for truth, i could at first but illy make it out; i have it now." then read from the paper: "'to guido fawkes: in the army of his majesty, philip of spain: i doubt not that thou rememberest my promise, made some time since, which i have now the pleasurable opportunity to fulfill. much it pleaseth me to offer thee a place, the duties of which will keep thee near thy daughter, and, moreover, the reward of such being not below the merit of him who, by my knowledge, most honestly gained it, and is well worthy. if it suit thee to accept the charge i have to offer, the naming of which i shall defer until we meet, detach thyself from thy present occupation, repair to london with all likely haste, and seek me at my house when soon arrived. "'(signed) sir thomas winter.'" "beshrew my heart, but thou art a ripe scholar, landlord, and much i marvel to see one with such goodly learning wasting time on knaves like these," cried the man, pointing to his companions at the table; "and pray," he continued, "since myself hath been introduced in name, i would know thine also, so i might thank thee the heartier." "giles martin, for want of better," replied the host, "and dost thou know this sir thomas winter?" he inquired after a moment, still looking at the note in his hand. "aye, and for a right brave gentleman, who hath done me noble service." "for one done unto himself, i take it, from the purport of the letter?" "a small service, not worth the mentioning," replied fawkes. "once in spain, a gentleman--the self-same sir thomas, was sorely set upon by a surly ruffian, who, in exchange for his purse, would have given him paradise." then with a deprecating wave of the hand, which he dropped on the hilt of his rapier, "'twas but a weakly blow i turned, and spitted the varlet with my good sword here. zounds," he continued with a voice full of enthusiasm, "for this petty act he did conduct my poor motherless lass out of a country where, to the men, a pretty face is as flint to powder, and brought her safe to london and her grandam." "you saved his life; 'twas a worthy object and a worthy deed," exclaimed martin heartily, who had been watching the speaker narrowly during his narration. "tut, tut; 'twas nothing; but i take it thou hast acquaintance with him," said fawkes, turning toward the other, with a manner which denoted surprise at the landlord's outburst of appreciation, "and may direct me unto his residence, for after many years' absence i am lately come, and illy versed in london's streets which are as crooked as a blade that hath lain long in the fire." "in truth, i do know where he lives," said martin (then continued in a lower tone as if speaking to himself) "and further, that he's in none too good favor with the king. but as to his address: if thou wilt take the dome on st. paul's as thy guide, which thou canst most readily see, proceed thither, and when reached, continue down the street running toward the left, a few more steps will bring thee to a house surrounded by an iron railing; it is the one thou seekest." he hesitated a moment, then continued as if good judgment had been overcome by enthusiasm--"and when thou dost behold sir thomas, make mention that giles martin (say naught of my present calling, for he knows me not by that) sends his duty, and would again at his elbow cry in the self-same voice, 'an essex, an essex!' perchance," martin added, suddenly breaking off, fearing he had been incautious before a stranger in connecting his name with an incident which had brought but little honor with it, "that is why i am now doing this," taking a soiled tankard from the table and wiping it on his apron. "gladly will i be the bearer of thy message, but as thou hast said, why does sir winter stand in ill repute?" "it may be," answered martin, turning his gaze upon the two men at the table, then setting down the tankard, "that he hath a quick temper and a ready tongue, swift steeds in our time to pull a man's head upon the block," and advancing toward the other concluded in a low voice full of emotion, "mayhap memory doth hold up a mirror to his eye, in which is reflected mary's dripping head, chopped for her faith." "verily," cried fawkes, in a loud tone characteristic of one not afraid of voicing opinions that lay near his heart, "would that good king james might look into the glass thou dost mention and see the promises of his youth, for naught of promise or his mother's head methinks----" "hist," whispered martin, breaking in and laying his hand upon the speaker, "a truce to such treason talk; naught has it done but brought me to an ill-famed pot-house," he concluded in a thoughtful voice. "well, well, none of thy story will i ask; but in spain they do illy treat a heretic," fawkes continued, looking significantly at the fire, and pointing toward it with his outstretched arm; "a truce, as thou sayest, for i must no longer tarry. saint paul's bell is on the stroke of ten, and i would see sir winter, and (in a softer voice) my lass, to-night; for honestly, i am more than anxious to see her pretty face; first i must bid yon knaves good-bye." so saying he endeavored to rouse the companions of his cups. not being able however to bring them to any degree of consciousness, he discontinued his exertions, and turning toward the landlord, who had been watching his efforts, said, laughingly: "'tis but little harm they'll do in sleep, and i trow they are none too good when in their seven senses, so i will leave them thus; but take thou from this the reckoning of us all, for naught of gold they have, i swear"--handing the other a purse, which, after extracting a sovereign, martin returned to its owner. "'tis but a sorry night in which to travel," remarked the host, pocketing the money and proceeding to rake the fire, while his guest wrapped about himself a long, thick cloak which had hung over the back of a bench. "aye, 'tis cold, and steel draws unto itself the frost," responded fawkes, as he finished his preparations for departure. "and now, sir host," he continued, extending his hand, "farewell, but soon, when i am once more to rights, it will do me pleasure to quaff a flagon in thy honest company, for such is a man who knoweth sir thomas winter, and," he continued, drawing closer to the other, "is no prating protestant in these times when he who would seek a favor or gain a title must blow out the candles on his altar, and break its images. start not at my words, for by thy very speech thou art no heretic, and i do love thee the better for it. but see," he continued as he opened the door, "the night is already mended, the snow hath ceased, the moon shows bright, and by my troth, there is my guide," and he pointed to the distant dome of st. paul, on which a huge cross glistened in the moonlight. chapter ii. in the shadow of st. paul. in the heart of london, a musket shot distance from the great dome of st. paul, stood a dwelling of no mean pretension occupied by one thomas percy, gentleman-pensioner, a man of goodly parts, blood relative of the earl of northumberland and well known as a catholic, though, by reason of his office, there attached to him scant suspicion in the minds of the king's ministers that his faith overlapped his loyalty. on the same night which witnessed the appearance of guido fawkes and his drunken companions at the "sign of the leopard," there were gathered together, in an upper chamber of percy's dwelling, four gentlemen. the house was an official structure given over as a meeting place for certain of the king's commissioners, the room wherein they sat being well adapted for the discussion of such matters as it seemed inexpedient to let reach the ears of those whose business called them not within the council chamber. a snow storm made the night exceeding chilly, so three of those who came to partake of the hospitality of the pensioner had provided themselves with ample cloaks, which, closely wrapped about their persons, and covering the lower portions of their faces, precluded recognition, were any, by chance, to accost the wearer on the king's highway. although few were abroad on account of the extreme cold, and those few would not have marveled that a gentleman should be closely muffled even as a secret assassin, or highwayman, or noticed that the three went not together to the outer door of the house, still each came separately, knocking thrice upon the panel, whereupon sir percy himself opened to him, that he might enter quickly. being safe within, and the room warmed by great logs which sputtered in the open fireplace, the three laid aside their cloaks, and sat uncovered in the presence of their host, who, the better to discourse with each, occupied a place at the head of the long table about which were wont to sit the commissioners of the king. that the little gathering was not composed of churchmen, or learned doctors of the day, might have been easily guessed by their youthfulness and dress. scarce past five and thirty, with clear cut features, well knit frames, dignity of carriage, apparel of the higher class, and the court rapier then in vogue, hanging at the side of each, designated them as gentlemen. having drained with nervous haste a goblet of wine which stood before him, he who was the pensioner turned with a frowning brow to his companions: "gentlemen!" said he, half rising from his seat, "shall we always talk and never do anything?" this appeal uttered in an impatient voice moved each of his guests in a manner strikingly dissimilar. one on the right sitting with back to the door, turned uneasily as though fearing that the portal stood open, and that, on the threshold, might appear a stranger, or perchance the king's officer. another, clad in a suit of gray velvet, drummed nervously upon the table, while the third, who seemed to be the eldest of the four, frowned darkly. to him the host turned impatiently. "ah!" cried he, "my words have struck you illy, my lord catesby, that you frown so ominously!" "nay, percy!" replied the other, the shadow of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "thy words but recalled me to my duty. as thou sayest, we have spoken much, and i did but consider that talking would scarce pull from the throne----" he who was attired in the gray velvet started. "not so plainly; not so openly, my good catesby!" he interrupted, "or as my name be jack wright, i----" the language of his companion aroused the dormant energies and spirit of catesby. "faith!" cried he, bringing his clenched hand down upon the table, "methinks the adventure with my lord of essex hath left thy stomach but poorly fitted for so tough a morsel as the undoing of the 'wisest fool in christendom.' even sir digsby, who but now turned trembling toward the doorway, hath more spirit for the undertaking. hath not percy touched the keynote of our ill condition? what matters it that we writhe under the despotism of james stuart? wherefore are the penal laws renewed? why hath england driven from her shores those who would serve us in our churches? where is our mass, our altars and the images of holy mother church? would we call on france, spain and the holy father to sweep from the land this band of heretics who fear not god, nor respect the faith of five centuries of english kings? i tell thee, sir john wright, friend and fellow churchman though thou art, that 'tis to us--to all the catholics in england--that the world looks for action. will france act while we are idle? thinkest thou spain hath so soon forgotten the armada, that she will consent to aid while we remain under cover? 'tis for us to open a way whereby may enter those who stand without, seeking our deliverance. words beyond count, like the drops of the ocean, have been uttered since james came to the throne, yet are we free? 'tis not words, i tell thee, but action, swift, sharp and merciless, that will put down our enemies. fearest thou the block? did essex, did moore, a hundred others whose faith was their life, fear the headsman? good percy hath brought us to our senses and surely thou must see the truth of it." having thus delivered himself catesby sank into his seat, his face white from the intensity of the fire which burned within him. his companions remained silent, so great was their astonishment at the openly expressed earnestness of catesby. percy was the first to regain speech. "it ill becomes us," said he, "that a quarrel should arise in a company gathered for the discussion of so weighty a matter. yet the words of sir robert catesby are well balanced, and the time draws nigh when this same james stuart shall know that there yet remain good catholics in england. sir thomas winter----" "ah! sir thomas winter!" broke in digsby, "the hour is long past and he is yet absent." "there be some good reason," said wright quickly. "sir thomas is too good a catholic, too earnest in the undertaking which will yet free us from the heretic, to absent himself willingly. and," turning to catesby with hand extended, "i thank thee that thou hast thus spoken so boldly; would there were more like thee to arouse the catholics of our country." the frown passed as a cloud from the brow of the elder conspirator. "forgive me!" cried he, "if my words bore too much of the flame of impatience and too little of that unity which should ever be between us. as to sir winter, fear nothing; even now, i warrant he is on his way hither, having perhaps been delayed by some slight adventure, for the times are troublous and after nightfall a gentleman may not walk with perfect safety through the streets of london." as though in answer to this confidence, the speaker had scarcely finished, when there sounded through the house three muffled raps, and percy, uttering an exclamation, hastily left the room. "it may, indeed, be winter," said digsby, "or, perchance, rookwood, although he made known to me but yesterday, that certain business demanded his presence in the country." the sound of the opening and closing of the street door precluded a reply. there was a clatter of feet upon the stairs, and into the room came percy, followed by two men whose forms and features were concealed by their huge cloaks. the three at the table arose hurriedly, each with hand upon the hilt of his sword, but the words of one of the new comers changed their look of alarm into one of welcome. "faith!" cried he who pressed close behind percy, "wherefore would you be so ready to draw blades at the coming of a comrade? come! sir robert catesby, and thou wright, and digsby, seest not that the cold hath well nigh overcome me? wine, therefore, wine, that we may pledge each other in our venture." so saying, sir thomas winter cast aside his cloak, revealing a figure clad in doublet and hosen of somber brown, offset by slashes of cardinal, and the gilt of the sword belt which girded his hips. "welcome!" cried the others, crowding about him, "thou art, in truth, doubly welcome, as thy coming is so long after the appointed hour." endeavoring to get a better view of him who closely followed winter, catesby made a gesture of interrogation. sir thomas laughed softly. "ah! good catesby!" said he, "thou wert ever of a most careful nature. know, then, that yonder cavalier is, in truth, one of whom i have so often spoken, guido fawkes; an old comrade of the wars, and whom i have brought hither that i might introduce him to so good a company, a cheerful fire and a goblet of sir percy's stoutest wine." at the name of fawkes, pronounced by winter with an intonation which would have puzzled any one not familiar with certain matters known only to a few in england, catesby, wright and digsby cast searching glances at the new comer, as though seeking to read in the impassive features of the soldier of fortune some riddle which heretofore had puzzled them. as to fawkes, not deigning to notice the evident curiosity with which the three gentlemen greeted him, he allowed his cloak to fall upon the floor, walked to the fireplace, and stood with back to the blaze, his eyes fixed upon the face of winter. "come!" said that personage, accepting the goblet which percy tendered and passing it to fawkes, "you are surprised that i appear among you with master guy at my heels. it was, indeed, a happy venture that threw us together." "happy, forsooth," replied wright, "but yesterday thou didst tell us that this same bold captain was even now in spain, though thou hadst summoned him hither." "and so i thought him," said winter, "fighting among the dons that the gold pieces might jingle more merrily in his wallet. yet he is here, and to-morrow at my own house we will confer together. what sayest thou, friend guido?" "faith!" replied fawkes, setting down the goblet which he had drained to the bottom, "'twas for that same purpose i came to london, also to see once more my daughter." "that thou shalt," broke in winter heartily, "and a better favored wench can scarce be found in all the kingdom." percy and catesby exchanged glances. winter continued: "but first, perchance, 'twould be to the liking of the company that i make known the manner of so unexpected a meeting, when, thinking friend guido basked beneath the skies of spain, i fell across him 'mid the snows of london." "'twas of little import," spake fawkes gruffly; "a cast of fortune, the simple drawing of a blade, such as once befell when thou didst serve in spain." "as to that," replied sir winter, "these gentlemen can judge when they hear concerning it. 'tis true, that had this same bold cavalier remained in castile, thomas winter were now ready for burial." "then," cried percy, "thou art doubly welcome, master fawkes, as perchance thou shalt learn presently." having refilled the goblets winter seated himself before the fire. "i was delayed some two hours by certain matters within my own dwelling," began he, "and it was with exceeding impatience that i hastened hither, not following the most public highways, but seeking a shorter passage through unfrequented alleys, in order to join you the sooner. "methinks i had gone some two thousand paces, my face muffled and sword ready to hand, when suddenly there sprang upon me from the shadow of a doorway, two ruffians, who, making short shift of courtesy, demanded my purse and such valuables as were upon my person. having slight desire for so rude a giving, i did straightway put my back against a wall, and with drawn blade contended against the two. they, being persons of fixed purpose, and withal, excellent swordsmen, had near ended the matter by thrusting me through, when most opportunely came a third man who, perceiving two against one, thrust the larger of the ruffians through the back, and would have done likewise with the other, but the fellow took to his heels and ran as though the devil pursued him. "the adventure was quickly over, and my rescuer coolly wiping his blade upon the cloak of the dead robber did swear roundly in spanish, for that his amusement had been of so short duration. "'faith!' growled he looking up at me, ''tis not thus they fight in spain; yet, having perchance rendered thee some slight service, canst thou, good sir, direct me to a certain dwelling, hard by st. paul's, wherein may be found one sir thomas winter, to seek whom i have come to london?' "much amazed at his words i scanned him closely, for his voice had a familiar ring in my memory. "'zounds!' cried he, noting that i sought to read his features, 'wherefore dost thou look so hard upon me? hath the air of spain----' "'fawkes!' cried i, seizing him by the shoulders, ''tis truly my friend guido!' "'ah!' said he gruffly, 'then thou knowest me?' "'and why not?' i replied, 'having sent for thee.' "at this his astonishment was great, yet was he pleased that he had come upon me so handily. he had, he told me, but just arrived in london, having come hither to obtain service under me, and to see once more his daughter." "and," said fawkes, winter having finished, "having so quickly found one, i would seek the other. blood is thicker than water, and i warrant me the lass is much improved both in stature and knowledge. 'tis now close upon the morning, good gentlemen, therefore i pray thee, sir winter, direct me whither i shall go, being in sore haste to find her." winter drew catesby aside, whereupon a whispered consultation followed, the drift of which was evidently known to percy, wright and digsby, though fawkes wondered somewhat at it. his impatience soon showed itself. "zounds!" cried he, striking with his clenched hand the hilt of his rapier, "i am much beholden to thee, sir winter, and later--but now, i pray thee, make haste, that i find my daughter." catesby flushed angrily, for the words of the soldier of fortune struck illy upon his haughty temper, and he would have replied, but winter pressed his arm. "good guido," said he, soothingly, "thy haste is most commendable. go then to thy daughter, and that thou mayest not miss the way, follow closely the directions i shall give thee. upon leaving sir percy's door, turn thou to the left, going down the street which leads past the gate of st. paul's. proceed five hundred paces, then turn about to thy left, when thou wilt see before thee a narrow street, upon the corner of which is situate a gabled dwelling, bearing upon its peak a golden arrow. count then two score doors from the corner, and upon the three and fortieth, knock loudly; 'tis there thy daughter dwelleth." at winter's words all signs of impatience vanished from the soldier's manner. "by the keys of peter!" cried he, "i am much beholden to thy lordship. having spoken with the lass, where may i find thee?" "fear not," replied winter, "for in the evening, about the hour of nine, i will come for thee. go thou, then, speedily." fawkes made haste to snatch his cloak, and having wrapped it about him, bowed to the company and, preceded by percy, clattered down the stairs. "methinks he will serve us," muttered winter; "yet, good catesby, must we deal gently with him, for, being of an exceeding rough nature, 'twill need but an ill-timed word to turn him into gunpowder." chapter iii. the home-coming of guido fawkes. "by my hilt!" exclaimed fawkes, as he closed the door of the council chamber and wrapped his long cloak well about him, "'tis a merry night i've had; first, in none too clean a pot-house; then a stout thrust for good sir thomas,--'twas passing strange that i did once more stand twixt him and glory; and, last of all, a stoup of good old wine in the company of a most noble throng. indeed, good guido," he continued, as musing to himself he walked along, "thou wert made, i marry, for better things than cracking the knavish pates of yellow dons; but guard thy touchy temper well, for even to-night thou couldst but sadly brook a small delay, and wouldst have answered my lord catesby's haughty look with scant courtesy. i fear thy warlike nature would poorly thrive upon a diet of quiet living. but these be times when the dogs of war are ill leashed, and need small urging to slip their fetters and bark and bite anew. i question much what the morrow holds, and would that sir thomas had made some mention of my employ. "by st. george," he added after a moment, slackening his pace as if a sudden thought occurred to him, "they did seem but poorly pleased to see a strange face standing in their door, until sir walter stood sponsor for the same. aye, and what names had these noble gentlemen--catesby, wright, digsby, percy! all good catholics," he continued, a cunning smile twitching the corners of his mouth. "and, who is king? why, james stuart, to be sure, a most bigoted protestant! what was it that master martin said about mary's dripping head? well, well, friend guido, thy good sword may not be red with rust alone; wait but a little while, and thy employment may be most pleasing to thy taste, and thy conscience, also." then he drew his cloak more closely about him and quickly proceeded on his way. at last, following the direction given him by winter, fawkes arrived before a small, neat house, situated in the outskirts of the city; stopping in front to make sure it was the one for which he was in quest, he proceeded up the steps and knocked thrice. no answer followed his summons, and after several moments of waiting, which were consumed in the stamping of feet and walking up and down, for it was bitterly cold in the frosty air, he again repeated the announcement of his presence to those within, this time with better result. the sound of a casement opening, caused him to look up, and he beheld the wrinkled visage of an old woman, who, with blinking red-rimmed eyes, and night-cap on her head, stood regarding him with an air of evident disfavor, for presently she cried in a shrill, toothless voice, "get thee gone, thou beggar, i have naught for thee." "by my soul, good mother," answered the man, laughing heartily, "thy welcome doth match the morning air in warmth. dost not know thy son guy?" "by the blessed virgin!" exclaimed she, in half-frightened tones, evidently engendered by a most wholesome respect for her son, "wait but a trice until the door be unbarred." saying which, she hastily withdrew her head and closed the window. immediately after, the shrill tones of her voice were heard within the house, crying: "mistress elinor! mistress elinor! hurry down and let thy sire in, for he stands without!" a moment of silence, followed by the drawing of bolts, and suddenly the door was thrown open, disclosing the figure of a girl, who, with outstretched arms, exclaimed: "my father!" standing bathed in the rosy light of coming day, she was in high contrast to the rough, weather-beaten man, who quickly clasped her to his breast. the pale and lightly tinted olive complexion, which showed descent from some far-off castilian ancestor, harmonized well with the dainty but clear cut features. a shapely head, surrounded by a wealth of dark and glossy hair, carried downward from the temples and gathered into a knot behind, so as to completely cover the fragile ears, formed a fitting frame for eyes of the darkest violet, which, as they gazed up into his, showed the fondest love. a soft gray gown, half closed at the throat and fastened about the waist by a silver girdle, completed the attire of a slender but perfect figure, thrown into bold outline by her attitude. "forsooth," exclaimed fawkes, as soon as he could speak for her caresses, "methinks thou at least art glad to see thy old father once again." then, as he held her at arm's length, that he might better gaze upon the face, "indeed, thou art changed; 'tis the promise of the bud fulfilled in the blossoming flower. but let us in, for the cold air ill becomes me after the warming sun of spain, and frost but roughly handles such tender plants as thou art." "nay, nay!" exclaimed she, closing the door and throwing her arms about him, "thy tender plant is naught but a sprig of hardy ivy, which hath needed these many months the sturdy oak on which to cling." then, with a little shiver, and a laugh, as her warm body rested against the cold steel of his breastplate, "thou dost give thy ivy but a chilly hold, sir oak." "ah," said fawkes, looking at her; "thou wert always the same dainty puss, but i trow this cold cuirass hath been warm enough even for thy nestling, as down it hath gushed the warm blood of many a valiant foe killed in close conflict. but enough of battles now, my pretty, for home once more am i, and not sorry to let such bloody deeds rest." unfastening his cloak, sword and breastplate, he threw himself into a chair before the fire which burned brightly on the hearth. "but where's thy good grandam?" queried he, "must she tarry to put on silks and satins in which to bid her son a welcome?" "nay," replied the girl with a laugh, kneeling at his side; "she, poor soul, was but half awake; for these cold days illy suit her bones, and she doth lie long in bed." "and thou," said the man, taking her head between his hands, "art up like a lark, to bid thy father welcome. didst expect my return?" "sir winter made mention of thy coming, but set no special day for thy arrival," answered the girl, a shadow passing over her face as she looked into the blaze. "and did he say for what i was to come?" inquired fawkes, evidently anxious to set his mind at rest upon that subject. "that he did not," she replied, still gazing abstractedly at the fire, "but simply said that if thou camest to england he would give thee service which would keep thee and me near to each other. and," continued she, suddenly turning toward him and taking both his hands in hers, "thou wilt not leave me again for so long a time; i have been sore lonely and oft have felt the need of thy sturdy arm on which to lean." "that i will not, my pretty dear," said fawkes, drawing her closely to him; "and thou didst really miss me, whom some do illy term a pock-marked ruffian?" "indeed, thou art no ruffian!" elinor cried, her eyes ablaze in a moment; "and if any one so dared to call thee, i'd----" "well, well!" the father exclaimed, evidently surprised and looking into the flushed face, "my sweet rose hath thorns as well as blushing leaves, and would, i dare swear, strike a good blow for her sire's name. by good sir cupid, but i do pity the one who doth try to balk thy temper, little woman." "and soon will come a time when thou wilt have a brave gentleman to pity," broke in a mumbling voice which made the two start and turn. the figure of an old woman, bent by age, with face resembling an ill-fitting parchment mask placed upon a skull, advanced toward them. "by the blessed dead, mother!" said fawkes, arising, "thou didst turn my blood with thy prophetic voice; but hast thou not a blessing for thy son?" "that i have, good guido, and most glad am i to see thee back! i gave thee a rude greeting from the window, for my eyes and ears have failed of late, but i am not so blind that i cannot see two brave gentlemen tied to my lady's girdle there," she cried, with a wheezy laugh, pointing her trembling hand at the girl who stood with an arm drawn through her father's. "what is this tale?" said fawkes, with feigned sternness, turning toward his daughter; "hath thy pretty ways been breaking hearts already?" then, as he observed the blushing face and downcast eyes:--"there, there, my darling; all in good time. when thy heart doth open of its own accord, thy father's ear will ever be a willing listener. by venus," he continued in a voice full of admiration, as he gazed upon her fair figure, "i could not marvel or condemn if thou hadst fifty gallants at thy little heels, and would but admire the rogues the more for their excellent taste in beauty. but," he added, evidently wishing to turn the conversation on noting her embarrassment, "i have not broken bread for nigh onto fifteen hours; after i have taken food i will listen to thy pretty tale, and tell thee many a one such as thou once wert fond of. dost remember how thou didst, long ago, climb upon my knee, and tugging with thy baby hands at my shaggy beard, beg for a story ere thy bedtime came?" "that i do," exclaimed the girl, all her embarrassment gone; "but first i will set before thee what our larder affords." so saying, and aided by the old woman, she began preparations for the morning meal. having done ample justice to the repast quickly set before him, and having lighted a long pipe from a coal without the blaze, fawkes again settled himself before the fire, and, after two or three long puffs, turned toward elinor, who was employed about the room, and said: "now, my pretty little housekeeper, thou hast done enough; sit thee beside thy father. it is long since he hath known the pleasure of thy sweet face and a blazing hearth, and the good grandam seems ill company, for there she nods but a drowsy greeting," added he, pointing with his pipe to the old woman, who had fallen asleep in a remote corner of the chamber. "dost thou remember the last time we sat so?" asked the girl, as she came and knelt beside him, placing an arm upon his shoulder; "'twas the night before i left for england; and, oh! it was a most sorry time." then fingering the ends of her silver girdle and glancing at the old woman, who was still asleep, she began in a hesitating voice: "mayhap the speech of my good grandam might mislead thee into thinking me but a sorry flirt. therefore, i would make explanation, which is most easy, and set thee right." "i thought naught of it, daughter, for i am much too well acquainted with her mischief-working words, that are ever ready to brew a trouble. if thou hast aught to say, however, and would feel better for the telling, pray go on, and know an ever-loving heart awaits thy speech," replied fawkes, stroking her hair. "then thou must know," she began abruptly, "that sir thomas winter is a frequent caller at this house, and, my father, how can i tell thee for the very shame of it? he hath never spoken to that effect, but there are many thoughts ne'er proclaimed by tongue which are most loudly uttered by eye and hand, often, too, more truly eloquent are they than those framed in simple words; and by this very language yet outspoken, i know soon will come the day when there will be asked a heart----" she broke off suddenly and buried her face in her hands--"that is not now mine to give." "there, there, my pretty one, stop thy crying, for thine eyes were made for smiles and not for grief. it is naught so bad; sir winter is a fine gentleman and much we owe him. but thou art my daughter, and i, a poor, rough soldier; it would be an ill-assorted match; in truth, i believe that the lark should not pair with the golden finch, who would soon tire of her sweet song, because she lacked the yellow feathers of her mate. what, dost thou but cry the harder for my words? i have not, i know, the tender touch of a mother to dry thy tears, but a more willing hand to comfort cannot be found." then he added tenderly: "if thou hast aught more to tell, open thy heart to me and i will play the woman for a while." "think not, then, from my tears," she suddenly exclaimed, lifting her head and confronting her father with that spirit which is often hid in a seemingly gentle nature, "that i am ashamed of him on whom my love doth fall; or, rather, of him to whom my love doth mount, for he is as far above me in worth, as i beneath him in station. but what hath equality to do with it? is it so--that love is only right between those whose purses tip the scale alike? nay, that would be a sacrilege, for this mortal love of ours is the one thing which lifts us from the earth. doth god not love the most unworthy of his creatures? would it be just to say that salvation should be meted only to those who are the creator's equal? who of us, then, would escape the flame? not so," she continued, her eyes ablaze with the intensity of her emotion. "it is that very affection bestowed upon us by our god that lifts us poor mortals into fellowship with him. love knows no laws of title, tithes or wealth, and by the very act of loving, the peasant rightly seats himself beside the king. ah, think not, dear father," she cried, falling on her knees, "that i would lightly cast aside a wish of thine. dwell but upon the love that thou once felt, and remember it is she, the reflection of that self-same love, who seeks thy aid." there was silence, broken only by the sobs of the kneeling girl. fawkes regarded his daughter with an air of evident surprise, not unmixed with anxiety in anticipation of what might follow; for every action showed she was wrought up to the highest state of excitement and earnestness. after a moment he said in a quiet voice: "i trust these hot words of thine are but the outcome of some foolish fancy, which, like the silly scorpion, will kill itself with its own violence. but thou hast not told me all; until i am fully advised, my counsel can be but scant. what name hath he? what title doth he hold? for by thy speech he must be noble?" "herbert effingston," replied the girl. "i know not that name," answered the other, after a moment's musing. "and his title?" "viscount herbert effingston, son of lord monteagle." "thou hast indeed flown high," fawkes cried, with a sudden outburst of passion. "because i love thee i would wish thee dead, aye, dead," he continued, fiercely, raising himself from the chair, "rather than have thee bear the hated name of monteagle." "but thou knowest no evil of him," cried the girl, springing to her feet. "he is good; he is true and noble; aye, and hear me, it was he who saved my life--a life thou lovest. i know what thou wouldst say, but the son is not holden for his father's sins; he is not----" "but he is of the brood," thundered fawkes, now thoroughly aroused; "the litter of the jackal will eat the holy dead left by its sire--'tis in their nature. monteagle!" he repeated with fine scorn. "and marry, that would be a pretty name for thee to choose--a name that hath done more to set aside our holy catholic church than all the fiends in hell. what i know is true," he exclaimed, seizing her by the arm. "hark to what i say to thee; even i have heard, for ill fame flies with swallow's wings swiftly across the sea, and when i am done, if thou still dost love, pray to the madonna to stop the beating of a heart that holds so unworthy a regard. thou sayest the son saved thy life--by what means i know not. think you that doth make amends for all the evil done by him and his? enough of this, and listen," he continued, mastering his anger and pacing up and down the room. "monteagle and his son, both catholics, and until james stuart reached the throne, most valiant champions of their faith, have, since the scepter reached the hands of that wise fool, endeavored by all the foul means within their power, to defeat the efforts of their fellow churchmen, which, as thou knowest--and all england as well--were directed against those laws which meant the downfall of our church. did these hell hounds come boldly out and show a lusty fight--which would, in a small degree, have recommended them? nay, that is not the nature of the serpent. they falsely affirm themselves most strong adherents to the pope, receive the confidences of the papal delegates, and by treasonable use of this knowledge of their secret mission, defeat them ere they strike a blow. is it for truth that they are against the faith? not so; for the hypocrites do cross themselves and bow before the host. is it for a principle that they act thus? nay, for they have none. what, then, is their object? it is to gain favor with the king, and place themselves by underhanded, sneaking ways where true merit ne'er could raise them. ah, my daughter," he cried, with a voice full of supplication, "i love thee much too well to cause thy heart a single pang. canst thou not see it all aright? and even if for love of me thou wilt not pluck this passion from thy heart, then do it for the love thou owest god." while her father had been speaking, the girl stood motionless, every line on her face showing plainly the conflict raging within her breast. her eyes were dry, for there are griefs so deep and searing that they, with their fiery tongues, do lick up the springing tears before they can fall. it was not in her nature to love lightly; to her passion meant more than a mere auxiliary to her existence; simply making life brighter and happier; every action, deed or thought, however trivial and far removed from him, by some subtle influence like that which turns the magnetic needle toward the north, had been turned to bear upon this love of hers. the accusations just uttered concerning his traitorous actions with regard to her faith, influenced her but little; for her attitude toward religion resembled that of most of her kind; the pure feminine mind turns instinctively toward that which they deem great and good, believing, as a rule,--shall we say ignorantly?--in all which is said to issue from a source they cannot comprehend, and which they fear for the mystery attached to it. man, by instinct, loves power and dominion over others. woman substitutes for that characteristic the longing to be ruled, and in that subordination of herself seeks protection. in this girl's breast, the desire for a mystical and intangible power which promised to protect, had been, to a degree, supplanted by the knowledge that there awaited one who would clasp her in strong arms, and guard her against all the world. therefore the words spoken a moment ago had but little weight, and played a small part in forming the resolution to which she soon gave voice. duty was clear. this poor, lonely man, her father, who had known but little happiness, whose whole existence was summed up in two great all-absorbing passions--a fearful, passionate belief in god, and after that, his love for her,--for his sake she must make the sacrifice. "ah!" thought she, "sacrifice means death, and my love can never die, but i shall hide it, bury it deep within my bosom, until in time its strength shall tear my heart asunder; then i, in place of love, will be the sacrifice." this, and more, quickly passed through her mind, but now she turned toward the man with that wonderful self-control which only can be found in woman, and said, in a quiet voice, devoid of passion and malice, for she felt none: "if it be thy wish, i will do it for love of thee." "my daughter!" cried he, taking the motionless figure in his arms, "thou hast saved me from a living hell. thou wilt soon find i have brought but good counsel. pluck this poisoned shaft from out thy heart, and if the wound hurt, soothe the smart with sweet knowledge of my love, and above all, with a sense of justice done to god. forget, my pretty one, thy father's hasty temper; or, if remembered, let it be only as called forth by love of thee. but we shall talk no more of passions; let them go. come now beside me, while i rest, for i am sore weary after my long journey. sit so," he continued, reclining on a bench before the blaze, taking the white hand she offered and drawing her down to him, "that i may not lose thee again, even in my dreams." she silently complied with his request. it would have been impossible to express what was in her mind, so paralyzed and benumbed was it by the heavy blow which had suddenly fallen. as the fingers which held hers gradually relaxed in slumber, she slowly sank upon her knees, and with outstretched arms, in a tearless voice, exclaimed: "oh, my love, thou who art my life; since on earth i must forever be without thee, let some kindly hand give me unto death!" chapter iv. the superior of the jesuits. while guy fawkes held converse with his daughter, the five gentlemen he had left at percy's house were soberly discussing the weighty matters which had drawn them together. the sun had already gilded the dome of st. paul, when winter, catesby, wright and digsby made ready to take their departure. on the threshold of the chamber catesby paused, and turning to percy, said: "'twill mayhap be two days ere i again come to thee, for it is my purpose to make a journey into the country, that i may gain better understanding concerning certain matters which rest heavily on my mind; therefore marvel not if for one night i be absent." "thou goest then to worcester?" asked winter. "aye, to hendlip that, in its wisdom, the counsel of the church may direct me. having gone so far 'twere ill to draw back, yet methinks there is another whose words we must not treat lightly." "garnet!" burst forth digsby. winter started. "not here," he whispered quickly, "name not one whose zeal hath banished him from england. let james once know that he is yet among us, and not a hiding place in britain could shelter him." and a wise precaution it was that the name of henry garnet should not be brought to the king's notice. balancing the advantage of being neither catholic nor protestant, the accusation that he was about to favor the papists, had so angered james, that he cast aside all pretentions of toleration to the adherents of rome. coming to the throne with promises of favor to the catholic nobility, he had renewed with great severity the laws of repression, and the banishment of the jesuits. many of the latter had sought refuge in the houses of the more zealous papists, and among them henry garnet, superior of the order of jesus in england, an accomplished scholar, and a man of mild demeanor, though an uncompromising adherent to his faith. 'twas to garnet, that catesby, troubled in spirit and, perhaps, uncertain of the undertaking which lay before him, had resolved to turn, that the advice of the wily jesuit might strengthen his purpose, or check for a time, his zeal in the desperate venture which at present filled his mind. some two hours after leaving his companions, catesby, mounted upon a powerful chestnut mare and wrapped closely about with a fur lined cloak, cantered slowly through the streets of london which led to the outskirts of the city facing the northwest. the storm of the previous night had ceased, and the country side lay wrapped in a mantle of white, broken here and there by the gray wall of some silent habitation from whose chimneys the first blue smoke was rising in circling clouds through the crisp morning air. having reached the open country, the rider set his horse into a gallop, for his destination lay many leagues away, and it was his purpose to reach it ere nightfall. hendlip house stood near the middle of a spacious park thickly studded with trees; the structure itself was surrounded by shrubbery, and contained within its walls many secret hiding places, trap doors and double wainscotings. it had been constructed by one thomas abington, a devoted recusant of the reign of queen elizabeth, and the dwelling was a famous resort for those whose desire it was to conceal themselves from the authorities. 'twas there, the superior of the jesuits, together with a clerk of that order, oldcorne by name, and owen, a servant, had been taken by certain of the catholic gentry, among whom were lord rookwood and sir everard digsby. that precaution had been observed to guard against surprise was shown by the presence of a watchman, who, on the arrival of catesby outside the manor grounds, stepped from his lodge that he might hold converse with the new comer, and if an officer, or one attached to the parliament, might give warning to those within the house. upon perceiving, however, that it was sir robert catesby who came thus unexpectedly to hendlip, the man doffed his cap, returning a civil greeting to the rider's remark upon the coldness of the weather. "has my lord rookwood passed this way?" inquired he, reining in his horse. "he has, in truth," replied the servant, catching dexterously the silver piece tossed him. "even now, together with mistress vaux, he is within the house." "vaux! anne vaux!" muttered catesby, "there must be then some weighty matter afoot that she comes to hendlip." and touching his horse with the spur, he galloped up the avenue which led to the main entrance of the mansion. being well known by its inmates he was at once conducted to an upper chamber, the door of which was unbarred by owen, who motioned him to enter. there were three occupants of the room. before the great fireplace, ablaze with logs, sat henry garnet. scarce past middle age, the learned prelate was a striking figure, clad though he was in the simple, dark-hued garb of his order. beneath a brow white and smooth as a child's, shone a noble countenance, gentle almost to effeminacy, but redeemed by firm lines about the mouth, and the intensity of the steel-gray eyes. as catesby entered, these eyes, which had been gazing abstractedly into the fire, lighted with a smile of welcome. one of the jesuit's companions was a personage whose dress and manner proclaimed him a noble of the period. he leaned indolently against the frame of the wide window facing the avenue, through which the horseman had come, and he it was, lord rookwood, who first announced to the prelate that a visitor approached. the third occupant of the apartment was a woman. born and bred in luxury, the daughter of a peer of england, anne vaux was numbered among the most devoted followers of the superior. scarce six and twenty, she had passed her minority at the court of elizabeth, and the accession of james the first had marked no change in the life of the lady-in-waiting. anne of denmark, pleased with the loveliness of the daughter of lord vaux, had retained her near her person. pausing on the threshold, catesby took in the three personages at a glance, but it was to the jesuit that he offered his first salutation, dropping on one knee as garnet extended his hand, upon a finger of which glistened the signet ring denoting his holy office. "welcome, sir robert catesby!" murmured the prelate, motioning the cavalier to draw near the fire. "'tis, indeed, a most happy circumstance which brings to hendlip so devoted a servant to the cause of god." "the more happy," replied catesby, "that i find your reverence of good cheer, and in converse with my lord of rookwood and mistress vaux." "they are truly of much comfort to me in my solitude," said the superior, "and with the help of god i have patience to remain in idleness, that at the time of harvest i may be ready." catesby cast a quick glance at rookwood, but the imperturbable face of the latter told him nothing. it was anne vaux who spoke. "'tis but little, indeed, the followers of this most holy man can do to comfort him," she said softly, "yet it seemeth fit that such of us as may, shall make known to him that even the court of james----" garnet smiled. "anne!" said he, turning his gray eyes affectionately upon her, "'tis a comfort beyond human utterance." then to catesby: "but thou hast ridden hard, good son?" "that i may benefit by thy wisdom," replied sir robert, "for my soul is troubled." "a confession!" cried anne, rising quickly. "therefore i will retire with my lord of rookwood." the latter shrugged his shoulders; evidently it but poorly fitted his desire that the conversation with the superior should be unheard by him. catesby noted his displeasure, and signaled him to remain. garnet comprehended the matter. "not so!" said he, "i warrant me, good catesby seeketh not the confessional, but to render certain reports concerning that which hath transpired in london, and of which lord rookwood hath some understanding. yet, lest our discourse weary thee, good anne, thou mayst retire, and if it please thee, return when our conference is ended." so saying, he arose and conducted her to the door. when alone with the two gentlemen, the prelate looked fixedly at catesby. "it were fitting," said he "that mistress vaux, zealous though she be, know not too much concerning the temper of our following. now tell me quickly what hath arisen to disturb thee." catesby walked thrice about the room, then stopped before the jesuit and said soberly: "that which agitates my mind is, perforce, the same matter which troubles thee--a holy father of the church, my lord of rookwood, and some tens of thousands of loyal catholics in england. 'tis the broken promises of james--the overthrow of our religion, the----" garnet checked him. "thou speakest as a true catholic," said he, "yet has thy grievance been long endured. there are many men whose childhood witnessed these selfsame wrongs." "aye!" cried catesby, seizing the hand of the superior, "our sufferings have, indeed, been of long duration, but we looked to the ascension of the new king to lessen evils which have pressed so hard upon us. 'twas to james of scotland----" the eyes of the jesuit blazed fiercely. "wretched country!" cried he, stretching out his arms, "thou hast in truth suffered long, and the blessing of most holy god hath gone from thee. thy soul is troubled, sir robert catesby, thou, who art free to live as suiteth thee! thinkest thou then that i, whom the holy church hath appointed to teach her children, suffer nothing being thus a prisoner behind the walls of hendlip house? if thou art vexed at thought of penalties, and cruel enactments against thy brethren, what thinkest thou of the happiness of one to whom banishment without voice or trial, such as are granted to the lowest criminal, follows from so unjust a law? what have i done, wherein lieth the crime of all the priests in england, that the hand of james is turned against us? if thou seek out the king, or question the parliament, and ask wherefore we are driven from our churches--they will answer thee, 'ye are catholics.'" during his words, spoken with the fire of an ardent spirit, the slender form of the jesuit seemed to tower, as an enraged deity, above the persons of his two companions. but having poured out the bitterness of his soul, the meekness of the man asserted itself, and sinking into a chair he buried his face in his hands. the sight aroused catesby to madness. "aye!" cried he, advancing to the prelate's side, "i will go to james, but 'twill not be to test his arguments. one thrust and thou, with all catholics, will be free." drawing out his sword he threw it at the feet of the silent jesuit. "bless thou therefore this trusty blade, good father, that it may do its work quickly. bless it, and me, for ere night comes again 'twill have drunk the blood of the heretic!" the recklessness of the other's purpose roused garnet from his lethargy. "thou art mad, good catesby," said he sadly; "that thou thinkest to kill the king of england. put up thy sword! 'tis not through the violence of one man that england will be freed. we have waited long already; pray for patience that thou mayst bear with meekness the burden which rests heavily upon thee. thinkest thou i groan not under it?" catesby might have replied in anger, but the voice of rookwood forestalled him. "there are many gentlemen in england this day who from waiting have grown weary, and who hope no more for indulgence from the king and his parliament. some there may be, who, even as good catesby, have in their minds resolved upon most desperate measures. if it be then a sin to----" garnet turned upon him saying: "a sin! a sin to slay the king of england?" "yet one who hath broken his promises, forsaken the religion of his mother, and who, blind to the mercy of god, doth seek to uproot this holy cause!" cried catesby. whatever might have been the ultimate purpose of the jesuit, whether as an englishman he recoiled at the thought of the assassination of his king, or, as a catholic, his zeal overbalanced his loyalty, he saw that it was quite time to curb the fanatical tendencies of his companions. the very life of the catholic religion in england, his own safety, and that of his fellow priests, might be sacrificed by a premature attempt on the part of catesby, or some of his followers, to end their wrongs by the murder of the king. with the keen perception which garnet eminently possessed, he saw that the desired change in the religious policy of the government could only be brought about by a farther reaching blow than the removal of the person of james. nor would a decided objection on his part to their purpose serve his ends, for it was his policy to draw about him the leading catholic gentry of the kingdom. he therefore cast about for a middle course whereby those whose zeal had overcome their discretion might be pacified. the remembrance of anne vaux suggested an expedient. "good catesby, and thou, lord rookwood," said he blandly, "your zeal in the cause hath much endeared you to me, yet, it were well to proceed with due caution in so grave a matter. perchance king james hath it in his mind to extend to us that kind indulgence which we crave for. ye know that the parliament of england is composed of many who prate much about their liberties, and if james seek to aid us by dissimulation, 'twere an ill thing to cut the unripe corn." "what then, good father?" asked catesby. "thou knowest," replied the jesuit, "that mistress vaux is closely united to the court. maybe thou knowest, also, that there is a certain gentleman, close to the king, who would make anne his mistress. 'tis a truth that the wit of woman worketh much, and it comes to me that this courtier, to please anne vaux, might seek to discover what is in the mind of his master regarding the catholics of england." "'tis a happy thought," said rookwood, "if we be benefited." "all is in the hands of god," replied garnet solemnly, and rising he touched a bell which summoned owen from the ante-chamber. "good owen," said he, "bear to lady vaux my desire for her presence; our conference is ended." chapter v. why master fawkes was summoned to england. elinor sat by the fire with a piece of embroidery in her hand. her thoughts were evidently not upon it, for ever and anon she would lay down the work and sink into deep meditation, which ended in sighs; then, recollecting herself, the busy fingers would once more resume their task. the sound of footsteps echoing in the corridor without, caused her to turn toward the door, through which a man presently entered, who exclaimed in a petulant voice, as he ineffectually endeavored to fasten a sword belt: "come, my daughter, lay down thy pretty work for a moment, and aid thy father to gird this cursed baldric about him, for the ends be as coy as an old maid and her lover." she arose to comply with his request, and quickly fastened the desired buckle, then inquired, on noting his attire: "dost thou go abroad to-night?" "verily, i do, if sir thomas doth keep his appointment. 'tis past the hour of nine, and much i marvel that he hath not yet arrived." "then i will now bid thee good night," she answered, approaching and about to kiss him, when hearing one coming up the steps caused her to delay. "there, by st. paul, he is at last," as a knock sounded on the door. "run, my daughter, and open to sir thomas." the girl hesitated a moment as if loth to comply, then stepped into the hall and withdrew the bolt. soon the tones of a man's voice could be heard exclaiming: "a good evening to thee, mistress elinor. it is but fitting that an angel should unbar the door of paradise, for i deem the house naught else wherein thou dwellest." kissing the reluctant hand which he held, then observing fawkes, who had advanced to greet him, "well, well, friend guido; thou lookest fit for a battle royal, with thy long war rapier girded by thy side. but," he continued with a laugh, "it would ill become thee to go abroad poorly armed in my company, for we do in truth seem to invite attack when together. did thy father tell thee, mistress elinor, of his adventure yester-night, which had for its intent the rescuing me again from dire straits?" "nay, he did not; for my father's brave deeds need not his tongue to set them forth, and he is much too modest to narrate his exploits, even though they had so worthy an object as the saving of thy life," she replied with a little courtesy. "marry," broke in fawkes, "i was marveling why thou didst not come, and was thinking perchance 'twould be better to go outside and listen for the sound of a distant brawl." then observing the small court sword which hung by the other's side, he continued, pointing toward it: "thou art but lightly equipped. i wonder much that thou dost go so poorly prepared; but," he added, loosening his long rapier from its scabbard, "thy purse is safe to-night at least. wilt come for a moment to the fire, and warm thyself?" "i cannot, though much i regret that precious time forbids; if thou art ready, methinks we had best depart." "i am ever at thy service," cried fawkes, and turning towards his daughter, who had thrown a long cloak over his shoulders, "i'll wish thee a good repose, sweet one, for 'twill be late ere i return." embracing her, then going toward winter, he continued: "'tis most pleasing to have a pretty face on which to kiss a sad good-bye, and know that loving arms await to greet a happy return." "aye, that it is," he responded, biting his lip and watching the two; "but we poor single men have no such bliss, and must be content to watch the happiness of others. still, there is left me the sweet sorrow of saying good night." he extended his hand to the girl, who let hers rest for an instant within his. "now, if thou art ready, master fawkes, i will follow." the two passed out into the night, both turning, however, when half way down the path to wave a parting adieu to the fair figure standing within the door. for some little distance the men continued on in silence, each engrossed in thought. at length, winter observing that fawkes seemed well aware as to the direction they were taking, exclaimed with some little surprise: "master guido, one would think the way to my residence an old traveled road to thee, but if i recollect aright, this to my knowledge is the first time thou hast gone over it." "marry, but i have a guide, sir thomas," pointing to the dome of st. paul's church, which reared itself dark against the star-studded sky. "beshrew my heart, doth some angel of heaven fly before thee?" as just at the moment fawkes turned sharply down another street leading to their destination. "nay, i have not that to point the way, but a friend of thine gave me the direction. i did not think to tell thee the first night of our meeting, for we had other matters of more pointed nature to engross our thoughts," he added with a laugh, striking his sword; "and it did slip my tardy mind that i was the bearer of a message from him to thee." "i can but illy guess who he may be; but, pray, say on, by what name went he?" "giles martin; and he did wish i would convey his best respects and wishes for thy good welfare." "by st. peter! where didst thou run across the man? i had deemed him long dead, for naught have i seen of him these many years." "the truth is, sir winter, he wished no mention made of his present whereabouts; but i deemed thou hadst a sturdy friend in him, and," continued fawkes, looking at the other significantly, "he did seem well informed on divers topics concerning these troubled times." "what dost thou mean, friend guido?" asked winter, turning a quick glance toward fawkes. "i am but a plain man, and thy outspoken question invites little but a plain reply. therefore, i'll repeat his words, which were that thou didst stand poorly with those in high places, and, further, the times were such that hot outspoken opinions on certain subjects were apt to be quickly followed by the whistle of an axe flying through the air, and that the king----" "a truce," winter broke in, laying his hand upon the other's arm and looking behind with some alarm as the two entered a thoroughfare, which, by the number of people passing up and down, indicated their approach to a central portion of the city; "by holy st. dunstan, frame not thy speech in such loud words, for it might be illy construed. but here we are at our destination, and when within, thou mayst recite all that master martin told." the two paused in front of an iron railing surrounding a court-yard, on which fronted a residence of no mean pretensions. after unlocking the wicket, winter, followed by his companion, proceeded up the walk, and passing through the main doorway, entered the house. "this is the first time, fawkes, that i've had the honored pleasure of thy company at mine own fireside," exclaimed winter, when inside, throwing his fur-lined coat upon a chair. then observing that his companion was already busily engaged in examining a trophy of swords which decorated the wall, he continued: "what, do thy warlike eyes ever seek the implements of thy trade? see, guido, there is a suit of mail that a valiant ancestor of mine did wear at crecy," pointing toward a stand of armor. "indeed," answered the other, examining it, "he must of necessity have been brave, for, i can but illy see how running could be done, even if the spirit prompted the legs, attired in this heavy harness." "and now, if thou be ready," exclaimed winter, evidently anxious to arrive quickly at the task of the evening, "i will conduct thee to a chamber wherein we may hold converse without fear of interruption." the two proceeded, winter leading the way to the end of the hall, and passing through a heavy open door, which closed behind them, entered a room well adapted to the discussion of such things as must not fall on untrusted ears. the chamber was one of spacious proportion, but on account of its massive black furniture, seemed to be of medium size. the walls were hung in some dark, unfigured tapestry, which added to the somberness of the apartment, and tended to spread over all an air of gloom. the dimness of the place was in some degree relieved by a crackling fire burning upon the hearth, and two silver candelabrums holding lighted tapers, stood upon an oaken table occupying the middle of the room. the only window in the place opened down to the floor, leading out upon a balcony overlooking the court-yard, and the interior of the chamber was hidden from those passing by heavy curtains, which now were closely drawn. a divan, several massive black oak cabinets, and three or four high-back chairs completed the furniture of the room, with the exception of a small table, on which stood a large and curiously wrought silver flagon and several tankards. "come master guy," cried winter, filling two of the cups, "let us preface dry work with a drink of honest vintage, and then we will to our task." "with all my heart," replied fawkes, taking the cup and draining it at a draught. "and now to business," exclaimed the other, seating himself by the table and motioning his companion to a place opposite. having settled himself easily in the chair, shading his face from the light of the tapers that he might better watch the countenance of the other, he began in a quiet voice: "i doubt not but thou didst deem it passing strange i made no reference to the nature of the employment i had to offer thee, and, mayhap," he continued, holding up his hand to silence an interruption from his listener, "there hath arisen in thy mind suspicious thoughts caused by a combination of incidents since thy arrival, which would place me as one with whom to be identified were not as safe as serving in the king's guard. in point of fact, i refer particularly to the outspoken words of our friend giles martin." "in truth," responded the other, in that quick, brusque manner belonging to his nature, "master martin did lay naught at thy door, but what i, or any other righteous man, might deem an honor to a house. nay," he continued, with some vehemence, "if what he said be true, then i am overjoyed to find employment with one whose faith is his greatest crime." "what may be the purport of thy words?" inquired winter, slowly turning a keen glance upon the speaker. "i mean," exclaimed fawkes, leaning over the table toward his questioner, "that i would think it no disgrace to serve, or, if need be, fall by the side of one who had the courage to openly or secretly espouse the catholic cause in these cross-breaking days. aye, sir thomas, i will speak without concealment, for i have guessed at many things, and know full well that the time must soon be ripe when all who have not craven hearts will arise in wrath, and by word of mouth, of mayhap, if need be, by a more violent measure put down those who advise the enactment of laws which have for their intent the uprooting of the church in this our kingdom." "by st. michael!" exclaimed winter, surprised that the other should bring to the front so clearly his opinion on a subject upon which, he had feared, it would require no small amount of questioning to elicit anything, "thou dost astonish me with thine ardor; i always knew thee as a brave churchman, but never----" "time hath altered my views on many subjects," interrupted fawkes. "the manners of the spaniard are not always good, and their breath is oft odorous of garlic; but by my troth, they know full well how to treat a heretic," he added with a decisive nod of his head. "say on, for by thy manner i judge it is thine object to sound my depth in certain matters. i know not what's afoot; but by st. peter," continued he, striking the table a blow which made the tapers dance, "if it hath aught to do with those--even though they be kings--whose unholy hands would snuff our altar lights, thou canst count on master guy to twist the rack or carry faggots." during this recital winter watched the other with keen attention. knowing fawkes to be a man of indomitable will, combined with undaunted courage, and one to stop at nothing in gaining ends justified by his conscience, he had not hesitated to recommend him as a valuable adjunct to the cause dear to himself and his companions. heavily the weight of responsibility rested upon him; it had fallen to his lot that he should be the one to sound this man, and decide as to how great or small a degree of their confidence might be given to him. one error in judgment now might be followed by the death of all their hopes, and by the thud of heads dropping into the axman's basket. therefore he weighed the matter well before saying: "i did not over-estimate thy zeal. there are many things i would fain tell thee, the purport of which methinks thou hast already guessed, but which at present must not, for reasons, be spoken of. if thou art willing for a time to remain in darkness, and take service as a gentleman about my household, i can almost promise that the gloom of thy ignorance on many matters may soon be dispelled by a lurid glare which shall be red enough, even to thy liking. i have told thee naught, but the very concealment of some things, to the observing, doth show plainly what is hid. ask no more, and, for the present, content thyself with suppositions. if the conditions which i have named suit thee, then thou wilt have access to these premises at all times. further, be my companion when i go abroad; for what is more natural in these purse-cutting days than that a gentleman should desire a lusty swordsman with him? dost accept, and agree to all?" the last word he pronounced with great emphasis. "aye, to all," responded the other grimly, arising and extending his gauntlet. "and i would further recommend," continued winter, drumming on the table with his fingers, "that thou say but little about this meeting, even," looking narrowly at fawkes, "to thy pretty daughter; for i have remarked there is sometimes a certain visitor at thy house who, if the report did reach his ears that two or three gentlemen of the catholic persuasion were closeted together, might denounce the assembling as a conspiracy,--which would be most unjust--and bring the king's guard with small courtesy. dost follow me, friend guido?" "that i do; but there's naught to fear; i know your meaning. heretics will no more darken my door." "that is well, and i hope, truly spoken," replied winter, nodding his head in approval, and rising from his chair with an air of relief that the business of the evening was settled. "let us," he continued, filling up the cups, "drink success to our compact." "ah!" cried fawkes, pointing to the wine as it flowed from the flagon's mouth, "a most fitting color be the draught;" then, as he raised the tankard to his lips, "a toast, sir thomas, i will offer thee. may we be as willing to give our blood when asked, as this good flagon to yield its red cheer to us! and now i must set out for home, and 'tis with a lighter heart than when i came. dost thou wish my presence here to-morrow?" he inquired as they reached the door. "thou mayst call on the stroke of ten, or thereabouts. until then, farewell." the host watched the form of his guest disappear in the darkness, and shutting the door, returned with a thoughtful step to the chamber wherein they had been sitting. filling a cup with wine and raising it on high, he exclaimed with a laugh: "troth, master fawkes, i did drink to thy health awhile ago; now i will quaff a flagon to thy daughter. here is to one, mistress elinor, the fairest, the sweetest wench in all england, and for one warm kiss from whose lips sir thomas winter would right gladly face grim death. marry," he mused, setting down the cup, "thou hast done, mayhap, a good stroke for the cause, in bringing this bloodhound fawkes from out of spain, but young monteagle, beware; for if i be judge, the spanish treatment of a heretic leaves but little for the burial." chapter vi. the wisest fool in christendom. the royal court of king james, at whitehall, was furnished and embellished with all the luxury which love of show and the power of the owner could command. choicest tapestries draped the walls, carpets of marvelous softness covered the floors. in the king's bedchamber stood an elaborately carved bedstead canopied with perfumed velvet cunningly wrought in silk and gold. upon its front glittered the royal arms of england. reared as he had been in the plainness of scottish simplicity, the wealth and lavish display in the english manor houses where he had rested during his journey from edinburgh delighted and enchanted him in the highest degree. vain, fond of indolent diversions, and prodigal in expenditures, he at once surrounded himself with the choicest products of the weavers, decorators and artisans of the continent. in a chamber of this palace, on the second afternoon following the meeting of catesby with rookwood and anne vaux at the hiding place of the jesuit superior, an interesting conversation took place between the queen's lady-in-waiting, and one robert carr, a scotchman, and favorite of the king. after james ascended the throne of england he meted out ample measure to his countrymen, likening himself to joseph, who, being raised to power, forgot not his brethren. that this robert was of goodly parts, being fair of feature and elegant of limb, rendered him the more acceptable to his royal master; forsooth, there were few of the nobles in the two kingdoms but knew certain tales concerning the favorites of the king, young gallants of the period whose presence at court added nothing to the honor of their sovereign. robert carr, a person of deep perception and gifted with certain scottish wit, pandered much to the follies and pride of his benefactor. he was also a man easily excited by beauty of face and grace of manner, and had fallen desperately in love with mistress vaux, to his own undoing and the jealousy of the queen's women. it was this state of affairs which the jesuit had reckoned upon, when, in casting about for an expedient to check the fiery zeal of sir robert catesby, he had suggested that one dwelt at court who might learn what was in the mind of the king concerning certain policies. being instructed by garnet what course to pursue, anne vaux, on her return to whitehall, made haste to summon into her presence the king's favorite. nor did carr need a second bidding to betake himself to the lady's chamber. "sweet anne!" cried he, dropping upon his knee before the maid-in-waiting, "thou hast saved me from despair. knowest thou 'tis eight and forty hours since thy gentle presence hath made earth to me a paradise?" "nay, good robert!" replied she, demurely casting down her eyes, yet permitting the gallant to retain her hand, "speak not of despair; thou who hast so high a place with our royal master. amid thy pleasures the absence of anne vaux can be but of small moment unto thee." carr covered her hand with kisses. "whitehall without thee is a barren wilderness," cried he, "for thee would i barter faith, honor----" anne raised her head until her eyes met his. "nay, sweet gentleman!" said she, softly, "'tis not faith, nor honor i would ask of thee; 'tis----" "speak!" murmured carr, overcome by his emotions. "speak, that i may serve thee." "'tis but little," replied the lady, "yet would it please me much, and thou art able to converse freely with his majesty." "the king!" cried carr, alarmed that the name of james should enter into his love making. "what wouldst thou with the king?" anne withdrew her hand. "ah!" cried she, pushing him gently from her, "'tis so little, yet thou wouldst withhold thy courtesy. there be certain other gentlemen, my lord of----" "say not so," stammered the courtier, "be it the crown itself." his companion laughed merrily. "the crown!" cried she, "what would anne vaux with the crown of england? 'tis but a simple question, a word with his majesty, that i may gain a wager." "speak then," said carr, "that i may hasten to obey thee." "thou knowest," replied anne, "there be much serious speculation, many theories formed throughout the kingdom concerning the mind of the king regarding the penalties against the catholics. some there be who hold 'tis the king's wish that the ordinances, or edicts of elizabeth, be removed utterly, while others affirm that james doth join with parliament for their maintenance. having been drawn into an argument with certain of my mistress' ladies, a wager was made, that ere the morrow the truth of the matter should to me be disclosed." the look on her companion's face changed to consternation. "ask the king concerning so grave a matter?" cried he. "a truce, master carr!" replied anne, sharply, "it needeth small perception to discern thy temper. thou dost ask much, yet givest little." the king's favorite was nonplussed. to question james concerning affairs of state was no light matter, yet, in opposition to so doing stood the anger and the loss of mistress vaux. this thought, which he could not endure, caused him to hesitate. "be it so!" said the lady, coldly, "thou hast refused so small a favor, therefore will i summon one who, methinks, hath more consideration." and she moved as though to touch the bell upon the table. the action, indicating his dismissal, removed all scruples which had arisen in the mind of the courtier, and kneeling before her he pledged himself to at once seek an audience with the king, who, having passed the afternoon in hunting, was resting in his own apartments. pleased that her object had been so easily gained, anne permitted the enraptured scotchman to clasp her in his arms, then he rushed from the chamber hoping after a short interview with the king to return to her. as carr had intimated, james, wearied by several hours in the saddle, for it was his pleasure to hunt or horseback in waltham forest and in other royal chases, had retired early to his bed chamber. he had eaten heartily, for despite his ungainly person the first of the stuarts was a famous trenchman. freed from his quilted clothes and mellow with strong wine, he admitted to his presence two gentlemen who sought an audience. the noblemen who were thus occupants of the royal chamber stood in strong contrast to the sovereign of england. their large and gracefully proportioned figures were made most conspicuous by the big head, rickety legs and dwarfed body of their royal master, while the calm dignity which enveloped them set forth vividly the driveling speech, and coarseness of him whom the death of the last of the tudors had placed upon the throne. "ah!" cried james, perceiving the gentlemen upon the threshold, "welcome most worthy monteagle and viscount effingston! hast thou then an answer to my argument?" the lips of the younger nobleman trembled nervously as he sought to repress a smile, but his companion advanced quickly to the royal couch upon which the king had stretched himself. "the wisdom of your majesty is indeed unanswerable," said he bending to kiss the hand held out to him. james chuckled loudly. "'tis my pleasure to discourse on certain matters," replied he, "and my good lord of monteagle, being well versed in the learning of the period, doth turn with relish to a well written document. it was, methinks, concerning the 'true law of free monarchy.'" "nay, your majesty," replied monteagle, drawing a paper from his doublet, "'twas thy most learned discourse on tobacco." the viscount effingston, who stood well behind his father, turned aside his face, that the king might not note the smile upon it. james, however, having plunged into one of his pedantic hobbies, had small perception of aught aside from the discourse in hand. "'twas, in truth!" cried he, "a most learned writing, bearing upon the use of an ill-savored weed. what thinkest thou, my lord?" "'tis indeed most ably written," replied monteagle, "and being much impressed with the wisdom so plainly set forth, i did read it aloud to several of my gentlemen." "and what said they, good monteagle?" "that your majesty had, in truth, touched the heart of the matter," replied the peer. "even sir raleigh, upon the reading of it, would, methinks, turn from the habit." "that would he," said the king, gruffly, for the name of raleigh was in no wise pleasing to him. "a most excellent document!" broke in the viscount, "my worthy father was about to beg your majesty for further discourse on so grave a matter." monteagle cast a look of keen reproach at his son; 'twas not for the pleasure of discussing the "counterblast to tobacco," the famous literary production of the king, that he had sought this audience. james, however, was highly pleased at the young man's words. "good monteagle!" cried he, "thy son is a worthy gentleman, and methinks our reign will see him a most favored peer. instruct him, that he fall not into certain habits as to bells and candlesticks, nor give ear too seriously to the teachings of them who would embroil our kingdom." at this moment robert carr, hastening to the royal bed chamber, in order to obey the wishes of mistress vaux, entered the ante-room and hearing his master in converse with others, paused noiselessly behind the curtains. "faith!" continued james, receiving no reply from monteagle or his son, "it is rumored that thou also hath dealt somewhat closely with these disturbers of the kingdom." alarmed at the character of the conversation assumed by the king, the nobleman would have checked it by well timed flattery, but james was not to be turned from his purpose. "it doth much annoy me," prated he, "that certain reports are spread abroad making it seem my desire, against the wishes of our good parliament, to remit certain fines----" carr, whose ear was pressed close against the curtain, rubbed his hands together in exultation that there was like to be, without discomfort to himself, something ready for the ear of the queen's waiting woman. "and divers statutes against those who would bring back the jesuits," continued james, plucking impatiently the fringe of his couch cover. "your majesty is, in truth, the spring of justice," said monteagle, soberly, "and it ill befits thy subjects, be they puritans or catholics, to----" a wave of passion swept across the royal face. "puritans and catholics!" cried he, sitting upright. "zounds! what then? am i not king? wherefore should i tolerate in this good kingdom those who teach treason in their churches?" monteagle's position was truly equivocal. the son of a protestant peer, through his marriage, early in life, with the daughter of a catholic, he became involved in certain papistic plots, and listened to the teachings of the missionary priests. james had made him the recipient of many court favors, for the maintenance of which, monteagle, balancing the advantages of his position against the loss which might accrue to him were he to boldly adhere to his religion, had become lukewarm in the faith of the catholics, and this had brought him into disrepute with his old associates. "'tis a grave matter that there be any in england whose faith takes precedence of their loyalty," said he, the king ceasing his harangue through lack of breath. "thou sayest rightly!" cried he, "nor will i abate one jot or tittle from that i have set before me. as it is atheism and blasphemy to dispute what is in god's power, so it is presumption and high contempt for a subject to question a king's will; nor should a king abate even the breadth of a hair from that right which his prerogative gives unto him." the viscount effingston pulled his father's sleeve. "we had best retire," he whispered, "the wine hath mounted to the head of yonder fool, and, perchance, he may see in thee a raleigh or a cobham." the king was, indeed, weary of the interview. the exertion of the afternoon, the heated room, the wine and the ill temper into which he had fallen, deprived him of his usual wit, leaving him only boorish and irritable. "my lord monteagle," said he, peevishly, "it pleases me that you retire, for a certain languor of the body rendereth our discourse unprofitable." the words of his son had startled the nobleman from his usual composure, and receiving the king's permission to retire, he made haste to kiss the royal hand, well pleased that the audience was ended, although certain favors which he desired to ask of his majesty remained unspoken. "faith!" said the favorite, as the two peers passed his hiding place, "i have, indeed, had a most fortunate escape, for james is in poor condition to discuss even with robert carr, that which sent him hither." then, as the king's valets crowded into the chamber, summoned by the furious ringing of their master's bell, he looked for an instant upon the half-drunken monarch, dropped the curtain and hastened down the corridor that he might relate to mistress vaux that which he had overheard. chapter vii. the viscount effingston. rare and luxurious were the furnishings of a room in which we find lord monteagle and his son. wealth and artistic hands had combined to bring all its sumptuousness into a rich and harmonious completeness. the elder, who had just entered, walked with troubled brow toward the window. the other, tall and strong, with features of fine proportion and graceful contour, clad in a style denoting the aristocrat and man of fashion, sat at a desk engaged in writing. for a time the only sound breaking the silence was the sharp scratching of a goosequill as it traveled over the paper. at last, having finished, and observing the other for the first time, he remarked, as he folded the sheet: "my lord, hast thou so soon returned from the audience? did aught transpire to ruffle thy temper? or, mayhap," he continued with a laugh, "his majesty did read thee an essay on how to take snuff without a nose, or some other learned subject dear to his heart." "not so, my son," monteagle replied with gravity; "but i have heard again rumors which set but ill upon my mind. 'tis the talk of the ante-chamber, and the first words which did greet my ear on entering came from that silly, chattering coxcomb, robert carr, who, advancing, enquired in a low voice, but which at the same time filled the room, whether my daughter-in-law would be the new lady in waiting upon the queen. these many days the talk that hath been afoot connects thy name with one whose ancestral lineage will not bear scrutiny, and, for truth, much this gossip hath troubled me." effingston reddened, and turned in his chair toward the speaker, suppressing an angry retort which sprang to his lips: "my lord, dost thou believe all that dame rumor whispereth?" "no, verily, being too long connected with affairs of state, but, in my anxiety, i made inquiry, and much it paineth me to find these same reports seem to have foundation. i do not demand but beg an explanation from thy lips, to hear if that be true which reached my ear." "your lordship knows," returned the other with an inclination of the head, "that thy request is to me a command; therefore, i tell thee frankly that what thou heard this morning is to an extent well founded. thou canst be sparing of thy fears," he continued as the other was about to interrupt, "and ever be assured, respect for lord monteagle, my father, and pride, the inheritance of the noble born, will deter viscount effingston from actions which his conscience might perchance approve. i will not disgrace thee or thy name," he concluded, with a touch of haughtiness in his tone. "i have not yet accused thee of bringing discredit upon our house, and devoutly hope my fears are but absurd, born of that doubt which seemeth to be resident in the minds of men one for the other. by my troth, we can seldom point with certainty in these days to one of our fellow creatures, and say truly, i know him to be good and free from treason. it would, i swear," he continued, with a sigh, "little surprise me, to hear the archbishop of canterbury had been seen to hold his crosier for a pretty wench to leap across, that he might the better gaze upon her ankles. thou art a man grown; therefore, i can but counsel. but this i know: love for one below thy station, though she have all purity and moral excellence, seldom ends in marriage; if by chance it doth bring thee to the altar, repentance with its dismal train follows far too often, even ere the echo of the chimes hath died away." "thy counsel did, and ever shall stand high in my regard," replied effingston. "but thy fears are groundless. i do admit that she to whom thou dost refer is not of highest birth; still, her ancestors helped to keep the crown upon a king's head, and methinks, deserve more credit for acting thus without reward than though they bore the title of a duke or prince. as thou hast asked, and with perfect justice, i will tell the story from its beginning. thou might misjudge if thy mind held its present suspicion, and it would lead to setting aside of confidences which, it hath been my happiness to feel, did ever exist between us." "thou sayest well," replied the other, with affection. "i have always looked upon thee as my sword arm, to carry out by thy young strength the deeds which time hath left me ill conditioned to perform." "thou remembrest," began effingston, "the night three months since, i rode to chartsey manor, with intent to sound lord cecil regarding his attitude on issues then before parliament. it was midnight ere i left, and well on toward the stroke of two when i arrived in the outskirts of london. proceeding slowly on my way, drinking in deeply the beauties of the night, suddenly there sounded upon my startled ear a woman's scream, which quickly ceased, as if she who uttered it had been rudely seized about the throat. i reined up my horse and listened. distinctly could i hear, not two hundred paces from me, the sound of scuffling feet and an outburst of drunken laughter, ending in a round of fiendish cursing. 'hold,' cried i, 'wait until i can loose my sword and lend thee aid.' saying which, i hastily dismounted, throwing the bridle of my horse over a bush hard by, and hurried in the direction of the tumult. on turning a corner, there came upon my sight a scene which made my blood boil and lent new speed to my legs. two ruffians had set upon a woman, and while one held back her chin and shoulders, the other was endeavoring to imprint a kiss upon the upturned face, the rogue being hindered in his purpose by the girl, who, holding in her hand a small dagger, lunged right boldly with it. 'avaunt ye, knaves,' i cried, running, sword in hand. before, however, i could reach the struggling group she had struck the man in front of her, causing him for a moment to desist, when, with a sudden accession of strength, breaking away from the one who held her, she set her back against the wall, confronting the two assailants with the look and spirit of a tigress. the men, now for the first time perceiving me, having been too deep in liquor and their employment to hear my shout, took to their heels, but not until i had spoiled the sword arm of one and left my mark upon the other. turning toward the girl who stood by the wall, i discovered the momentary spirit had left her, for again she was the weak woman and would have fallen fainting to the ground, had i not given her support. she soon revived, and having received her thanks, prettily given, i inquired how it fell out she had been so rudely set upon; in reply to which she told me of her grandam being taken ill, and in need of a leech, and how she had gone forth to fetch him, and was attacked, when returning from her errand. on begging that she would permit me to see her safely home, my offer was accepted with thanks. when arrived at our destination she asked if i would not on the next day return, that she might more fully express her gratitude. thou knowest, my father, how love grows in the heart. at first my feeling was one of curiosity; but it soon changed to admiration for the fair girl, and, at last it ripened into love, as i learned to know the soul which rested in her beautiful form. this is my simple story, and i have naught more to tell." "my son," replied the other, who had listened with eager attention to the narrative, "there's naught, so far, that i condemn, and i applaud thee for thy chivalry, but i had higher hopes for thee than a marriage with a commoner. thou hast, however, omitted to tell me her name," he added, in a voice betokening anxiety. "her name is elinor fawkes, the daughter of an officer, english by birth, now serving in the army of spain." "elinor fawkes," repeated the father, with a start and looking toward effingston. "'tis as i feared. is this, then, the creature on whom thou wouldst bestow thy name? have thine ears been out of sorts, never to have heard the rumor which connects her in none too savory a manner with the adventurer sir thomas winter? it is common talk, for i will speak plainly to thee, that she is his mistress." "in thy throat thou liest," the other cried, leaping to his feet, white to the lips with sudden passion; "recall those words, or by st. paul, i'll strike thee to my feet, forgetting the loins which begat me! she hath fully told me of, and set aside, the lie which coupleth her with sir thomas winter." "aye, she hath explained to thee readily enough, i trow," exclaimed the other, roused to anger. "lives there the woman who could not make excuses if but a moment were granted her? i shall not chide thee for thy hasty words; time will bring them to thy memory with remorse. but listen unto reason, and----" "i'll hear no more," effingston cried, in a voice full of passion. "stop," said monteagle, in a commanding voice, holding up his hand, "thou shalt hear! doth the leech withhold the lance when a patient groans? no, my son; i'll introduce thee to plain facts, and try to cure, even though my duty be a hard one." effingston sank into his chair, his temper cooled to a degree by his father's manner, and listened with compressed lips and knitted brow to what followed. "as i have already told thee," began lord monteagle, "i suspected that it was she who had ensnared thee. i set inquiries afoot, and in justice to the girl, with a twofold object--first, to establish her innocence, if she were true; secondly, to save thy name and happiness, if she proved guilty. but," he went on, advancing toward his son and laying a hand upon his shoulder, "the second object of my quest was the one fulfilled. the proof came by the hand of god. yesternight, leaving the house of lord brighton, where i had dined, and wishing to return with all speed, i requested the bearers of my chair to take the shortest way home. gazing out of the window, i noted that we were in the locality of the house wherein she (who had for the past few days most unhappily filled my mind) was reported to reside, and desiring to look upon the spot, commanded my men to rest there. suddenly i descried a man muffled in a cloak, proceeding up the street, who, as he approached, proved to my astonishment to be none other than sir thomas winter. quickly he ascended the steps and knocked at the house opposite the place where i chanced to be. after a moment the door opened and the figure of a girl stood on the threshold. beholding her, winter exclaimed: 'a good evening to thee, mistress fawkes,' the rest of the greeting being lost to me as the door closed. i was astonished at having so quickly set before me the two whose names had been in my mind. after a few moments the door again opened suddenly, this time i think by accident, revealing the figure of him who had just entered, still clad in his cloak, clasping in his arms and kissing the woman who admitted him. i could not hear what passed, for at the time the wind blew high, drowning their voices. but i had seen enough, and cried to the bearers to take up the chair and proceed. that, my son, is what i have seen, not learned by mere hearsay. would that i could have spared thee the telling, but 'tis for thy welfare i have narrated it." effingston, during the narrative, had remained motionless, his features drawn and colorless. fully realizing that his father would not have maliciously manufactured this evidence against the girl, his mind could conceive no extenuating circumstance to clear it away. that she had deceived him was not beyond the consent of reason. he was a man of the world and of the time, well aware of possible duplicity, and further, that the age offered numerous examples of women with one hand on the cradle while the other guided an axe toward some head which for a cause must fall, or fanatically sacrificing all, even honor, to gain the coveted support of a courtier in some undertaking. the scandal which had been breathed about her, to do him justice, he did not give ear to, believing implicitly the story told by elinor, explaining her associations with winter. but was not this man a champion of the cause which he had helped to defeat? was it impossible that she had played her lover as a dupe to further a scheme? this was entirely plausible, but he could not bring his mind to believe it. and why? for the same old, old reason which has cost men their lives and honor, kings their crowns--because he loved her. when his father had finished, he said, in a quiet voice, extending his hand: "i thank thee; thy motive is of the best; and i most humbly beg thy pardon for my hasty words, prompted by anger only." "what course dost thou now intend to pursue?" inquired monteagle uneasily, for the quiet, passionless manner of his son made him apprehensive. "what thou or any other man would do--give the woman a chance to defend herself." "aye, i thought as much," the other replied with an air of angered impatience. "she will, with her arms about thy neck, explain fast enough, and to thy satisfaction." "dost thou forget," the son inquired, "that i am a monteagle, and have implanted in me that pride and temper which can illy condone, even in those they love, deceit and falsity? have no fears for me," he added, advancing with a determined step toward the door. "where art thou going, my son?" asked the other in an alarmed tone. "to face this woman with the accusations thou hast just uttered against her." "stay; go not in thine anger, for some mischief may be wrought. wait until thy temper cools; see her not again, but write." "i am not a killer of unarmed adversaries," retorted effingston; "again, i repeat, have no fear for me." "well, well; god's will be done; it may be for the best," the other said with a sigh, turning away his head. the son hesitated for a moment; then quickly kneeling before his father and taking his hand, exclaimed: "i humbly ask thee to forget my hot words, and again i crave thy pardon for the same. they were spoken in wrath, on hearing the image of my love fall crashing to the earth." then springing to his feet, before monteagle had opportunity to reply, he hurriedly left the room. once on the street, effingston strode without pause in the direction of elinor's house. what a difference in his feelings now, contrasted with what they had been when he had traversed that way before. he had outlined his course of action,--to simply tell her what his father had seen, and demand an explanation. if she were guilty, even his love and her woman's wit could not, he thought, hide the fact from his eyes; and if it all were true and he had been duped, what then? he prayed that pride would come to his aid and steel his nerves, and prompt his tongue to speak. with these thoughts in his mind, and looking neither to the right nor left, he hurried on his way to her dwelling. how changed each familiar object seemed to him. as he knocked at the door and listened, a footstep sounded in the hall. ah, how many times had his heart leaped at the same sound. the door opened, and she who was all the world to him stood on the threshold;--she whom he must soon accuse of hideous duplicity. how very beautiful she looked. on seeing effingston, elinor uttered a low, startled cry. he noted the action, for love, when coupled with suspicion (and the two can live together) is not blind, but terribly vigilant. "elinor, i must speak with thee, and alone," he exclaimed. the girl regarded him with a half frightened look. she had been all day engaged in a bitter fight with self, and knew not how to tell him they must part forever. now he stood before her. she realized to some extent what the agony of the separation which must soon come would be to her, and knowing full well the depth of his love, measured his sufferings by her own. wild thoughts had passed through her mind of doing something which would turn that love to hate, and she felt she could better bear that than know he lived and suffered. but now as she looked upon him both will and fortitude fast weakened. again she was the simple loving woman. "wilt thou enter?" she asked in a constrained voice, scarce knowing what she said. he crossed the threshold and passed into the little room which held for him the most tender recollections. "elinor, i have come----" he began; then, gazing at the beautiful face before him, he advanced toward her with outstretched arms--all resolution gone; "o my darling, i have wronged thee--thou canst tell, i know, and explain all." she shrank from his touch, fearing lest her little firmness should take flight. "why dost thou shrink from me?" cried he, swept by a sudden fear which made his lips dry and his cheeks burn. "o my god, can it then be thou dost know the purport of my question?" "i know not what thou meanest," she stammered, astonished at his words, even amidst her sufferings; "if thou hast aught to ask, pray say on." he watched the trembling figure for a moment, interpreting her emotion as detected guilt, and the demon of jealousy, which, strange to say, is often led forth by love, burst out, prompting him to speak words which after uttering, he would have given worlds to unsay. "then, know," he cried, "that i have discovered thy methods, and that i have been duped and dragged on to further some hellish scheme of thine and his. i've swallowed thy pretty words and thought them sweet. now i know all; 'twas but last night thou wert in his arms, and rightly thou belongest there; the report is true, thou art none other than the mistress of sir thomas winter. aye, tremble in thy guilt, thou magdalene; thou canst not deny it." as he uttered the accusation, she raised her arm as if to ward off some sudden blow, then let it fall at her side, standing speechless, benumbed and horrified at the terrible words he had hurled at her. the disgrace and the infamy of them she did not at once grasp, but gradually her mind began to comprehend all that he had said. the room swam about her, and she caught at a chair for support, vainly trying to make some reply. again he repeated: "thou canst not deny it; guilt is written in thine every action." as she aroused herself there flashed upon her mind the act of two short days ago, when she had fallen upon her knees and prayed god that this man before her might be spared the cruel pangs of that separation which must inevitably come. and had not that prayer been answered? had not he just uttered accusations, which, if not denied, would end his love for her--now and forever? believing her to be vile and infamous, pride and manhood would soon come to his aid. but what did the acknowledgment mean to her? his utter contempt; he would always believe that he had been her dupe--hers, who would gladly give her very life for him. but what mattered it? thinking this to be true, he will soon, manlike, dismiss her from his thoughts, and give his love to another, who, pray god, may make his life all happiness and gladness. she turned her eyes toward the wall on which hung the image of christ nailed to a cross. could she not crucify herself, for this love of hers? slowly the resolution formed. again he repeated: "canst thou deny it?" and she answered: "thou sayest it!" "it is true?" he cried. again she answered: "thou sayest it." "o great god," he exclaimed, putting his hands to his head, "can this be real? can this be the end of all our hopes? is the world so bad and woman so low?" she uttered not a word, but stood motionless. "vile deceiver!" he cried, turning to her as he staggered toward the door, "if it be happiness to know that thine infamy hath ruined my life, know it, then, and be glad." she heard the portal close. he had gone from her forever. then the full and terrible import of that which she had acknowledged herself to be overwhelmed her, and with a cry she fell unconscious to the floor. chapter viii. in the garden of the gentleman-pensioner. upon reaching the open air, effingston paused for a moment that the shock occasioned by the admission of elinor might in some degree pass from him. he had gone to her prepared for tears, protests and womanly anger, and despite the suspicion which had seized his heart, it had not been in his nature to believe the words of his father would so soon find confirmation. he felt, indeed, as one about to lay his head upon the block,--that he must cry out, yet his heart was clutched as by a giant hand, benumbing all his faculties so that pain and lethargy paralyzed his will. as he groped half blindly for the railing which flanked the narrow steps, the figure of a man confronted him, who, as he perceived the viscount effingston standing upon the threshold of mistress fawkes' dwelling, drew back quickly, his face dark with anger. 'twas sir thomas winter. in that instant all the calmness of the young nobleman returned to him. the sight of winter, in whom he saw the bitter enemy of his house, and whom he now hated for a double reason, turned his pain into contempt for her who had so illy used him. pride came to his aid, and he would have passed the other haughtily; but it was in no wise the purpose of sir thomas that the meeting should have so peaceful an ending. rumor had reached him that the viscount effingston was too frequent a visitor at the house of one for whom he fostered, if not love, at least a fierce passion, and the presence of his rival, at the very door of the humble dwelling, aroused him to fury. with an angry frown distorting his features he advanced toward the spot where stood the viscount, who, perceiving he had to deal with one in whom temper had overcome prudence, laid his hand upon the hilt of his rapier. it was not the purpose of winter, however, to come to blows thus openly with one who was known to be in favor with the king. he therefore contented himself with obstructing the way in so insolent a manner, and with such malice in his eyes, that it sent the blood to the cheeks of effingston, and he returned the gaze unflinchingly, saying quietly: "come, if sir thomas winter hath in mind aught to say to me, let it be done quickly, that i may go upon my way." at the same time he moved as though to pass. "nay! my lord of effingston!" replied winter turning his eyes upon the hand which rested on the jeweled sword hilt. "fear not that in a street of london i would draw sword against thee, traitor though thou art. thy royal master----" "traitor!" cried effingston, the red of his cheeks changing to the paleness of anger. "traitor, sayest thou, sir winter?" "aye!" replied winter. "all london knoweth." the viscount controlled himself by an effort. "thy purpose is clear to me," said he coldly, "thou wouldst force a quarrel; so be it. traitor, sayest thou? perchance, thy mirror hath shown one to thee so frequently that the word is ever on thy tongue." "as to mirrors," replied winter, "those in the king's chamber have revealed to thee their ways, then. thinkest thou nothing is known concerning the purpose of my lord monteagle in instructing thee as to puritanism." effingston bit his lip. "'tis befitting thy manhood, sir winter, having bribed a dastardly servant to give false testimony of what was listened to from behind a curtain, that thou shouldst insult one whose cloak buckle thou art unworthy to loosen. 'twas a fair representation of thy character, a good showing of thy principles. if it be in thy mind to prate further, get thee into the market place, where, mounted upon an ass, thou mayst draw around thee certain of the populace whose wont it is to gather for such discourse." this was spoken with a mock gallantry which the viscount could well assume, and deprived the other for a moment of utterance. overcome by anger, and surprised that the insults heaped upon the viscount were met with contempt, he forgot himself so far as to bring the name of mistress fawkes into the quarrel. "thou dost but jest with me," he cried, taking a step nearer his rival; "perchance, having come from the arms of thy mistress, thy wits are so dulled that----" the reply of effingston was sudden and unexpected. resolved to avoid an open quarrel with one whom he considered beneath him, he had sought to return words, only, to the other's insults, but the reference to one whom he had held most dear, fired his brain. scarce had winter uttered the base accusation when the young nobleman snatched off his heavy gauntlet and with it struck him across the face; so great was the force of the blow that the other staggered, lost his footing on the slippery street, and fell at the feet of his enemy. having thus given expression to his anger, effingston calmly replaced the glove, and with hand upon hilt, awaited the arising of his companion. stunned for the moment by so sturdy a buffet, winter remained motionless for a little space, but soon regained his feet, and, with garments soiled and earth stained, with blood upon his face, drew his sword and made as though he would thrust the viscount through. effingston drew also, and more serious results would have followed had not one in the crowd which had gathered to watch the ending of the quarrel, cried that the king's soldiers were approaching. sobered by the danger which threatened him, for the arrest of a catholic with sword in hand was like to bring evil consequence, winter made haste to sheathe his blade, which example the viscount quickly followed. however, it was a false alarm, and raised only for the pleasure of seeing two fine gentlemen thrown into confusion. the crowd, catching the spirit of the varlet, straightway raised a tumult, showering the nobles with sundry jibes and insulting remarks, considering it rare sport to have at their mercy those of high degree. the commotion turned for a moment the mind of winter from his first grievance, and he bethought himself of the sorry figure he must show with dress awry, face soiled and blood-stained, and, worse than all, insulted dignity. therefore he made haste to leave a company so unappreciative, and destitute of sympathy. to effingston, the thought that against his better judgment he had been drawn into a public brawl, caused his face to glow with passion, and his desire to leave the locality was not less than that of the other. the lookers on, finding their sport ended, did not follow, but took themselves to other ways, and the two gentlemen, who had hurried blindly, without attention or knowledge as to direction, soon found themselves in a quiet street somewhat remote from the neighborhood which had witnessed sir thomas winter's discomfiture. "my lord of effingston!" cried he, as he gathered together his disturbed senses, noting the presence of his companion. "thou hast grievously insulted me, therefore----" "when thou wilt!" the viscount interrupted. "my sword is ever at thy service." "'tis well!" said winter, drawing his cloak about him; "one hour from now in the garden of thomas percy, whom, methinks, is known to thee. yet if thou dost fear----" effingston shrugged his shoulders. "in sir percy's garden," repeated he haughtily, and turning upon his heel left sir thomas in the roadway. the garden of the official dwelling occupied by the gentleman-pensioner consisted of perhaps a quarter of an acre of sward, fringed by a sorry row of leafless trees, and surrounded by a high wall, beyond the top of which shone the metal gables of half a score of straight-backed dwellings. 'twas no uncommon thing for the parties to a dispute to settle the same by force of arms, but they carried on the affair with all secrecy, lest the report thereof reach the ears of those in authority, as it was contrary to the king's wish that a private quarrel should end in the killing of an english gentleman. such being the fact, those gardens which adjoined the houses of certain nobles, and by reason of their privacy precluded the presence of prying eyes, were oft turned into duelling grounds, and the square of sward flanking the dwelling of thomas percy was well adapted for a contest in which the evenness of the ground, as well as others matters, was of much consequence to the combatants. to this garden the viscount effingston, accompanied by sir francis tillinghurst and another, who bore beneath his cloak a case of instruments, presented himself at the hour appointed for his meeting with sir thomas winter. having gained admittance by a gate set in the wall, the three found awaiting them, sir thomas, my lord of rookwood, the gentleman-pensioner and a surgeon summoned by the latter to look to the welfare of the challenger. as the gate clicked behind the viscount and his companions, lord rookwood, who was in close converse with the others at the further side of the garden, advanced haughtily, bowing to sir francis, whom he perceived represented the interests of the young nobleman. the two, withdrawing from the others, made haste to arrange the preliminaries of the meeting. "thy promptness is most commendable," said rookwood, casting a look upward at the cold gray of the sky, "and 'twere well that our principals do quickly that which has brought them hither. methinks a storm is brewing, and a fall of snow might end the matter illy." a few white flakes upon his doublet bore witness to the correctness of his prophecy. sir francis bowed assent. "thou canst perceive," continued rookwood, pointing to the strip of sward, "that good thomas percy has had a care to have no element of fairness lacking. hast any objection to the spot chosen?" "i can see no catch or fault in it," replied tillinghurst, casting his eyes over the ground, "the light is good, and there seemeth to be no advantage in position." "'tis well!" said rookwood, "wilt measure swords that the contest be in all fairness?" tillinghurst complied, and the principals, casting aside their cloaks, stepped forward to the strip of sward prepared for them. the demeanor of the viscount was serious; he well knew that in sir thomas winter he had no unskilled swordsman, but a man of much experience, with wrist of steel, and a trick of fence acquired by long practice in foreign service. the face of winter was darkened by a frown in which was blended a shadow of anxiety. the lord of monteagle was a famous swordsman, and it might well be that the son had learned from a good master. "gentlemen, are you ready?" cried rookwood drawing his rapier, as also did sir francis, that they might interfere should need arise. the principals saluted, stood at guard, and awaited the signal; when it was given, their blades crossed with a clash which rang out sharp and clear on the cold winter air. the hate and jealousy with which winter regarded his young rival were intensified by the tingling blow dealt him an hour before, and from which he still suffered,--and as he was confident beyond doubt of his skill as a swordsman, he attacked with a fury which pressed his younger adversary back toward the wall, and those witnessing the contest thought to see effingston speedily thrust through. the viscount was, however, too adroit a fencer to yield readily to such a fate. careful, at first, only to defend himself, he met each thrust and pass with a parry which deepened the frown on winter's brow, and having retreated to the edge of the duelling ground, he there held his position despite the fierceness of the onslaught. suddenly winter's blade darted serpent-like beneath the guard of his adversary. a red stain appeared on effingston's shoulder, and the seconds interposed their swords. the viscount waved them back, as also he did the surgeon, who hastened to perform his office. "'tis a touch only," said he hoarsely, breathing heavily, "on guard, sir, that we may finish quickly." and now their positions were reversed. instead of acting on the defensive, effingston in turn became the assailant, regaining his lost ground, and forcing sir thomas back, step by step. maddened at thus losing vantage ground winter's calmness failed him; he made a sudden thrust forward, and it being parried, lost his footing, the blade of his rapier ringing against the hilt of the other ere he could regain guard. a cry arose to the lips of rookwood, for he thought the other would show no mercy; but before he could utter a sound, effingston, with a quick turn of the wrist, sent the opposing sword ringing to the ground, leaving his enemy weaponless before him. for an instant winter recoiled as if in fear of the thrust which he was now powerless to avert. a scornful smile passed over the pale features of the victor. "'tis thus i would deal with such as thou," said he haughtily, and, pushing his sword into its scabbard, he took up sir thomas' rapier, and breaking it across his knee, tossed the pieces contemptuously aside. "come!" said he as his second threw a cloak about him. "our matters are ended." then saluting with grave courtesy the four catholic gentlemen, he left the garden, followed by his companions. chapter ix. garnet and the king. toward the decline of the tenth day following the meeting of viscount effingston and sir thomas winter in the garden of the gentleman-pensioner, four men might have been seen riding through one of the stretches of woodland used by the king as a hunting ground and known as the forest of waltham. although light still lingered, a gloom was gathering over the countryside, and within the precincts of the forest the first shades of evening warned the horsemen that ere many hours the cheerless twilight which prevailed in england at that period of the year, would find them outside the gates of london. of the four, three were gentlemen; the other seemed to be more a soldier than a cavalier. the trappings of his horse were less rich than those of his companions, the texture of his cloak was of poorer quality, and he bestrode the saddle after the manner of one inured to rough riding, when business took precedence of pleasure, a custom not commonly followed among the gentry of the kingdom. his companions were so muffled in their cloaks as to hide both dress and features. each wore at his side a long rapier, and from their holsters appeared the metal-marked butts of pistols, ready to hand should sudden danger assail them. after passing through the outskirts of the forest bordering on the north, the horses were urged into a gallop, the sharp ring of their hoofs on the frost-hardened road echoing dully among the trees on either side. as they entered the thickest part of the wood, one, riding in the rear, turned to his companion. "thou seest," said he, pointing with his whip toward the forest on the left, "that our lord, the king, hath reserved for his own pleasure a goodly bit of woodland within which none may venture with hounds or hunting horns." "such a rumor hath come to me," replied the other, "also that any venturing within the royal chase will be dealt with most vigorously." his companion laughed harshly. "of that," said he, "i was myself a witness, for 'twas but ten days back when one charles burrows, a most worthy commoner, and a staunch catholic, was brought before the magistrates for having shot a hare which crossed his path." "i'faith!" muttered the other, "'tis then the purpose of the king to carry his oppression even beyond our altars. it seemeth to me a most fitting thing, sir thomas, that the kingdom be rid of such a tyrant." "bravely spoken, master fawkes," replied winter, "and thou wilt be ready should occasion arise, to protest against our wrongs! but what now is the trouble with worthy catesby, and his reverence?" the exclamation was called forth by the action of the two horsemen who were leading the little cavalcade. they had pulled up their steeds and appeared to be listening intently, though to the ears of their companions, who had dropped some ten score paces behind, no sound save the moaning of the wind could be heard. but as they also drew rein, and the click of their horses' hoofs ceased, the faint echo of a horn was borne through the wintry air. drawing together, the four strained their ears to note the direction whence it came; across the face of one rider stole a shadow of anxiety. sir thomas winter noted it. "i warrant," said he, "that none is abroad who will in any manner trouble us. 'tis some hunting party returning from the chase, and riding toward the highway. what thinkest thou, good catesby?" "thou mayst have conjectured aright," replied catesby; "yet, 'twould be a wise precaution to remain silent, if any seeking to know our business did beset us. mayhap even a purple cloak and doublet would scarce hide from them that the superior of the----" garnet, for the fourth horseman was the leader of the english jesuits, raised his head proudly. "a truce, gentlemen!" said he, "'tis not meet that, having ventured forth disguised, i play the coward at the simple sounding of a horn. let us ride forward as befitteth four peaceable english gentlemen. the king's highway is free to all who choose to pass thereon, even though the forest bordering it be reserved for those who have gained the smile of james." "and," said fawkes, "'tis not the wont of a hunting party to play highwaymen, the less so that the king, perchance, rideth with it." "the king!" cried winter and catesby, in a breath. "aye!" replied fawkes bluntly. "have ye not told me that the royal wood of waltham is reserved for the hunting of his majesty?" his companions exchanged quick glances. "then, we had best hide ourselves," cried winter, "james hath a prying disposition." "methinks," said garnet, raising his hand to enforce silence, "that but one horn sounded. if, as thou sayest, it be a hunting party, the wood would echo with a score of blasts. shall we run from one man?" fawkes loosened his sword in its scabbard. "i have this," said he, "to back our presence in the forest, and are ye weaponless?" the bluff words of the soldier of fortune put to shame the fears of the two noblemen, yet they hesitated. should they be suspected, it would not be a light matter to evade certain questions which might be asked, and if taken to london captives, the disguise of the jesuit would be penetrated. meanwhile the sound of the horn grew louder, and while wavering in their decision, a voice, faint and indistinct, was heard shouting afar off. fawkes listened attentively. "'tis a cry for succor," said he suddenly, "someone hath lost his way and seeks the highroad." "then," said garnet calmly, "we will remain, for he is approaching." perhaps five minutes had elapsed when the blast of the horn sounded as if in their very ears; and from the forest, only a dozen rods beyond them, dashed a man mounted on a bay horse. having reached the open road he pulled up his beast and looked helplessly in an opposite direction from the four riders. suddenly winter started and changed color, his face turning from red to white, and back to red again. "'tis the king!" he whispered hoarsely, clutching the arm of catesby, who sat beside him. it was, in truth, james of england, unattended, his dress awry and torn by thorns and brambles, with bloodless lips and terror-stricken countenance, who sat helplessly in the saddle in the presence of his bitterest enemies. as this realization dawned on catesby's mind, he uttered an exclamation, and reached for the pistol which protruded from his holster. "'tis the judgment of god," he muttered; "to-night england will be without a king." the firm grasp of the jesuit upon his arm checked his murderous purpose. "stop!" whispered garnet sternly, "wouldst ruin the cause which thou hast sworn to befriend? draw your cloaks about your faces and leave the king to me." ere they could recover from their astonishment he had ridden forward to the spot where james sat bewildered, noting not the presence of those behind him. at the sound of hoofs he turned quickly, laying a trembling hand upon the hilt of a hunting knife which hung at his belt. the demeanor of the approaching stranger gave him courage. garnet did not remove from his head the plumed hat, as was befitting the presence of royalty, but there was in his face a kindliness which proclaimed his errand a peaceful one. "good sir," said he, speaking in french, "thy manner shows some bewilderment, and, may be, the blasts of the horn which reached me were tokens of it." james trembled violently, for at heart he was an arrant coward, and the being met by a stranger, alone, close to nightfall and in the forest, filled him with the greatest terror. the words of the other somewhat reassured him. "brave gentleman!" cried he, still grasping the handle of the knife, "thou art a man of honor, and by thy speech a frenchman, therefore thou wilt aid me." "thou hast spoken truly," replied the jesuit. "hast lost thy way?" relieved of apprehension for his personal safety, the king gave vent to his ill temper. "that i have," cried he, striking his knee angrily, "and in the king's own forest. there are those who shall pay dearly, who shall rue this hour," he continued passionately. "'twas a plot to humiliate me." "good sir," replied garnet, noting that james proposed to conceal his identity. "of whom speakest thou?" "of the rogues who accompanied me hither," stormed the son of mary, queen of scots; "i followed a stag, and having outridden them they have thus deserted me; 'tis a thing beyond human comprehension." "and this," thought garnet, "this is the king of england, who has pulled down our altars, driven out our religion and banished us." despite all efforts his brow darkened. but the ill temper of james subsided as quickly as it had arisen, leaving him for the time only a man who sought succor, and so made known his condition. it chanced that riding in the forest, taking the lead of those who accompanied him, he followed the tracks of a stag and became separated from his companions; whereupon, being confused and terrified, he soon lost his way. garnet listened patiently, and made no sign that could lead the king to suspect that his personality was known, then pointed to his companions, who were sitting motionless upon their horses, with muffled faces, awaiting the result of the jesuit's unexpected action. "good sir," said he, "it will give me pleasure to conduct thee to the outskirts of the forest, after which, the road being plain, thou canst easily find thy way to the gates of london. yonder servants of mine will ride behind us." james gladly accepted the other's offer, nor did it please him that the supposed frenchman should learn he was assisting the sovereign of england. pride and distrust governed him. pride, lest a foreigner should bear away the tale of a king's discomfiture; distrust, lest, holding in his power so important a personage, the stranger might take advantage thereof for his own benefit. but it was not in the mind of garnet to reveal his knowledge; so, side by side they rode in silence--the jesuit and the king--for the space of an hour, until, upon reaching the vicinity of london, whose lights twinkled in the distance, they separated, james galloping madly on, his companion awaiting the approach of winter, fawkes and catesby. there was much amazement and some anger in the minds of the two noblemen, that the priest had acted in so unaccountable a manner. desirous of learning his motive for befriending one whom he professed to hate, they questioned him upon the subject. to all, garnet replied briefly, bidding them wait a more befitting time, as it was his purpose, on reaching london to attend a meeting at the house of sir thomas percy. therefore they rode on in silence, the great clock in the tower of st. paul's chiming the hour of eight as they passed into the city. at the corner of the street leading to the gentleman-pensioner's door a horseman confronted them whom they recognized as percy himself. he had been waiting for them in an angle of the wall to say that certain officials having gathered at his house for the discussion of public business it would be unsafe to proceed thither. "then is the night lost," said catesby impatiently, "for, although the holy father be provided with a hiding place within the city, and will, perchance, remain among us for the space of two days, much weighty business besides long disputations, require his attention. thou shouldst have seen to it, master percy, that thy house was free from the hirelings of the king." percy would have replied in anger, but sir thomas winter interrupted: "friend guido, thou hast a dwelling in a quiet portion of the town, where perchance we might sit together for the discussion of such things as now concern us." fawkes, who had scarcely spoken since meeting with the king in the forest, acquiesced in this proposition, although the thought of his daughter, the smallness of his house, and the nature of the conference caused some conflict in his mind. yet, having resolved to serve the cause which he held so dear, his scruples speedily vanished, the more so that 'twas sir thomas winter who requested the favor. this matter being so quickly decided, fawkes became the guide of the party, and turning into a narrow street which ended in a lane running behind his house, straightway brought his companions to their destination. chapter x. the forging of the thunderbolt. upon reaching the gate which opened from the garden of his dwelling into the lane, fawkes signaled his four companions to secure their horses and follow him. having complied, he led them through the garden, unlocked the door and bade them enter. "faith!" whispered catesby, pressing garnet's elbow, "friend guido doth seem over cautious in leading us about so secretly." "not so!" replied the jesuit, "'tis a gift born of much experience in a country where the careless rattle of a scabbard may lead to most serious results. but it is in my mind as in thine, that being peaceful gentlemen who have rendered some slight service to his majesty the king, we might act with more boldness; yet caution is a jewel which, once attained, should not be lightly cast aside, and master fawkes doth cling to it." the voice of the soldier of fortune bidding them come on precluded the reply which arose to catesby's lips, and crossing a narrow hall the horsemen entered a room whose cheerful brightness contrasted pleasantly with the darkness of the passage into which they had been ushered. after assisting his guests to remove their mantles, fawkes placed before them cups and wine, added a fresh fagot to the fire, and turned to sir thomas winter. "my lord!" said he, "i pray thee attend to the comfort of these gentlemen till i return. 'tis my custom to inspect the house before retiring, lest any be astir, and to-night i deem it doubly prudent." "and who hast thou in the house, good guido?" asked garnet blandly; "no one, i trust, who will interrupt our conversation?" fawkes laughed softly. "none are within," replied he, "except my old mother, who, were she to stand beside yon fireplace, would scarce note the meaning of our discourse; and my daughter, a loyal catholic, yet, being a maid, and gifted with a woman's curiosity, it might be her pleasure to seek the meaning of so rare a gathering beneath my roof." garnet nodded approvingly. that he had come to london in disguise had filled him with some apprehension, and the cautiousness of his host quieted his fears. "thy cavalier is indeed a man of much promise," said he to winter, after the soldier left the room, "and i warrant that none will venture to disturb us. hast sounded him thoroughly upon religious matters?" "thou shalt see," replied sir thomas. "if the zeal of each catholic in england reached but to the half of his loyalty to the holy cause, there would scarce be need that a father of the church don plumed hat and rapier." fawkes, in the meantime, had betaken himself to the upper floor of the house, where was situate his daughter's chamber. there was no fear in his mind that his aged mother would note the arrival of his guests, for 'twas her custom to retire at sundown by reason of infirmities; but about his daughter there arose some apprehension. he felt sure that no words which, by chance, might reach her ear would be carried further, yet, 'twas against his wish that anything should add to her disquietude. coming to the door of her room, which was directly above that occupied by the four friends, he listened intently, and hearing no sound within, softly turned the knob and peered into the apartment. the light of the full moon shining through the window, revealed to him the interior bathed in a mellow radiance. no sound greeted his ear save the crackling of the fagots in the huge fireplace below, and the faint murmur of the voices of his guests. he paused,--a hundred conflicting emotions filling his breast. the sight of the curtained bed standing in an angle of the wall drew his attention. he pushed the door yet further open, and holding his scabbard that its rattle might not disturb the sleeper, slipped across the threshold and approaching noiselessly, parted the hangings and looked down. the maid was lying with her face turned full upon him, her cheek resting upon one white, rounded arm. in the weird moonlight her pale beauty startled him, and almost unconsciously, he stretched forth his hand to touch her. his fingers, resting lightly upon the counterpane, came in contact with something cold; it caused a shudder to pass through him, a nameless terror, and for an instant he forgot the four men waiting in the room below. bending lower, his eyes rested upon the object which had so startled him. 'twas a silver crucifix which had fallen from the sleeper's fingers, and lay upon her breast. at the sight great emotion and agitation swept through his heart, rough soldier though he was; for the moment he was well nigh overpowered. the silence of the chamber, the white face so near his own, and the emblem of his faith placed unconsciously upon the breast of the beloved one who lay there, filled him with superstitious awe. 'twas thus the dead slept, ere they were carried to the grave. a movement of the white arm broke the influence of the spell. the girl turned uneasily, a few incoherent words escaping her lips. fawkes drew back noiselessly. "she sleeps!" he muttered, and passing from the room, closed the door softly, and descended to those who awaited him below. scarce had his footsteps ceased to echo on the stairs, when elinor awoke. though wrapped in deep slumber, that inexplicable mystery, a consciousness that she was not alone, startled her. sitting upright, her eyes fell upon an object lying at the side of the bed; a doe-skin gauntlet which she recognized as belonging to her father. surprised that he should thus have entered her chamber, a feeling of alarm possessed her. the crackling of the fire in the room below, the tell-tale glove upon the floor, and the faint murmur which she felt assured must be the voices of men engaged in earnest conversation, aroused her apprehension as well as her curiosity, and it seemed no ill thing that she should discover the meaning of so unusual an occurrence, for their dwelling was situated in a quiet part of london and 'twas not the wont of any to visit it at such an hour. then, the thought came to her that perhaps certain companions of her father, rough soldiers like himself, had come together to partake of his hospitality. calmed for the moment, she would have sought sleep again, had not a sentence, uttered with clear distinctness, reached her ear. "ah, good master fawkes! thou hast found all quiet, and thy household sleeping soundly?" the intonation of the question startled her. why should her father seek to learn whether she slept or not? surely in the meeting of a few boon companions over a flask of wine, such precaution was not necessary. not delaying for further meditation, she slipped out of bed, and crept noiselessly to that side of the room against which arose the huge brick chimney above the fireplace below. through the space between the flooring and the masonry, a glare of light came up to her as well as the voices of those beneath. crouching against the warm bricks she listened, unmindful of the cold and her equivocal position. the assurance which fawkes gave to his companions that the house was quiet, and none would interrupt them, removed the reserve which each had hitherto felt. time was indeed precious, for garnet desired to return ere daybreak to his hiding place, lest any should perceive that, lying beneath the doublet of a cavalier, was the insignia of a churchman, a discovery upon which great misfortune might follow. 'twas with scant preliminaries, therefore, that catesby, ever foremost in zeal, boldness and assurance, addressed his companions. "methinks," said he, turning to the jesuit, "that in thy wisdom thou must have perceived something to our benefit in saving james of scotland from my bullet. yet, to me it did appear that the lord gave him into our power." a shadow of impatience darkened the priest's brow, but in an instant his features resumed their accustomed mildness. "my son!" he replied, "it would have been an ill thing to slay our master after the manner of paid assassins. 'twas in thy heart to kill the king; what then?" catesby bit his lip. that there lay some weighty reason in the mind of the superior for his unexpected friendliness to james, he comprehended, but his spirit, unused to restraint, and darkened by adversity, illy brooked opposition. "what then?" replied he, in answer to garnet's question. "'twould have rid the kingdom of a tyrant, and our faith of its bitterest enemy." the jesuit smiled sadly. "as thou hast spoken," said he, "the king would be dead, and trouble us no more, but what of the parliament? is it then james alone who distresses us?" "methinks," broke in percy, "that our worthy father hath put it to us wisely. did the scot lose his life, another would arise in his place, and the suspicions of the authorities awakened, there would be no peace in england for a catholic." "'tis even so," said garnet; "the killing of one man, though he be the king, can scarce better our situation. what then, thou wouldst ask, shall be done to lighten our condition? we must lull into a feeling of security those who press hard upon us, that, when the sky seems clearest the bolt may fall and the stroke be the more scathing. brave guido here will tell thee that in that country where plots are thickest, 'tis false security which most often leads the victim to destruction. it may be, and doubtless is in the king's mind, and also in that of his parliament, that the quietness of the catholics for so long a time indicates continued subserviency, and not a gathering of forces to strike against their tyranny. in certain lands there are desert places where travelers have perished because the storm king hid his face until the hour for overwhelming destruction sounded. thinkest thou that had the murmur of his coming reached their ears they would not have taken warning and sought a place of safety? 'tis so in england. had the king been shot, the news would have stirred the kingdom from berwick unto dover. what then of our plans and secret plottings, when each man who worshiped at our altars appeared a traitor? it hath always been my firm conviction and unvarying counsel that any blow must be far reaching; not james alone, but others besides must fall, to give us any vantage ground." a moment of silence followed garnet's words. percy first replied: "'tis a storm of extreme fury and sudden change of wind which overcomes a vessel. who then will bring about the hurricane which shall wreck the ship of state?" during the jesuit's address sir thomas winter sat immovable, his eyes fixed upon the fire and his brow contracted in deep thought. as percy finished he turned suddenly to fawkes. "friend guido," said he smoothly, "thou art a man of many resources; perchance in spain thou hast learned something a suggestion of which will now aid us. thou perceiveth our condition." fawkes turned his gaze moodily upon the embers. half unconsciously his fingers had been toying with a powder flask lying on the table before him, and a small portion of its contents had fallen into his palm. he tossed the black grains into the fire, where they flashed for an instant, sending a pungent ball of white smoke into the room. 'twas as though the craftiness of satan had shown to him the embryo of the hurricane. "in spain," replied he grimly, "there are many ways to overthrow a tyrant; in england, as the holy father saith, 'twill need more caution. once upon a time the captain of a fighting vessel, fearing to fall into the hands of those who would destroy his ship and put the crew to torture, himself applied the fire to the magazine, it being filled with powder, and ten score men perished in a twinkling." his companions were startled, for the meaning of his words was clear to them. as by a flash of light a way seemed to open which, if followed, would lead to the fulfillment of their purpose. catesby leaned forward. "but if it fail, friend guido?" he whispered hoarsely. "what then?" "then!" cried fawkes, turning to the jesuit, "i will kill the king,--if need be even without help! for what then would remain to us?" garnet replied nothing. the words of the soldier of fortune startled him. instantly he saw the meaning of the plan which fawkes had formed;--a plan which, if once entered upon, would be carried out by him with all the zeal of a fanatic. the fiendishness of it, while it roused his admiration of the man's ingenuity, made him shudder; for 'twas not thus men struck in england. "come!" said he rising, "'tis close upon midnight, and the ride was wearisome. thy words have taken strong hold upon me, good guido, and i need a season of prayer and meditation to gain better understanding in this matter. my cloak, therefore, that i may leave thee." obedient to his wishes the others hastened their preparations for departure, and in silence fawkes led them through the passage to the door by which they had entered his dwelling. chapter xi. the way of the world. on hearing the sounds which indicated the departure of those in the room beneath, elinor arose from her cramped position and noiselessly crept to the window. in the moonlit garden she could distinguish the figures of four men going in the direction of the lane at the back of the house. one she recognized as sir thomas winter; the others were unknown to her. but in a moment she heard her father's voice as he uttered a warning to the horsemen: "mind the ditch, lord percy! sir catesby, keep well to the left!" then fawkes closed the door, and she could hear his movements as he went about extinguishing the lights. his footsteps sounded on the stairs. if by chance he came into the chamber and found her awake and up, what then? he would readily surmise how much it had been possible for her to hear. once in his anger, she remembered, he had valued her life but cheaply;--within two short hours elinor had learned to look upon her father with terror, almost with dread; those words of his rang in her ears: "i will kill the king if need be, even without help!" the footsteps approached her room. what was she to do? it was too late to gain the bed and feign slumber, for the creaking of a loose board would certainly attract his attention. she hoped the door was secured, but had no recollection of locking it. at last he had gained the passage; now he was before her room and placed his hand upon the latch; it was not locked, for the door opened. the man peered in through the crevice and gazed in her direction. how her heart throbbed, shaking her whole body, and sending the blood through her veins with a sound which she feared he would hear. she thanked god that the moon shone directly through the window and her position was well out of its rays. he evidently did not see the girl, for after a scrutiny of the bed, which stood well in the shadow, and a muttered, "safe, safe enough; all safe," he closed the door and passed down the corridor. elinor for a moment stood listening to the retreating footsteps; then sank into a chair, exhausted by the strain of the last few moments, and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. with woman's intuition she quickly grasped the enormity of all she had overheard, comprehending that high treason and wholesale murder had been planned; but the hardest truth for her to realize was that her father, whom she had always trusted and looked upon as the embodiment of honor and uprightness, was the foremost to suggest and even offer to carry out the fearful deed. "i will kill the king, if need be, even without help:" the awful sentence seemed to be repeated over and over again by the rustling night wind. her first impulse was to save him from the consequences of such an act. were not the names of moore and essex familiar to her? and what was their fate for even a suspected treason? her hysterical imagination placed vividly before her the head of the father she loved, lying bleeding in that patch of moonlight on the floor. but what could she do in her weakness? go to her father and beseech him that, for love of her, he would take no part in this terrible crime? that would accomplish nothing, for she knew him to be one whom naught could turn from a deed he once undertook and looked upon as justified. and now the most passionate fanaticism had seized him--fanaticism of the most dangerous kind, born of wrongs done to his faith. to whom could she turn for aid? she knew but one who, perhaps, had some influence over fawkes' stubborn mind. however, was not this very one as deep in the treason as her father? winter! the name caused a shudder, bringing to mind that terrible morning ten days past. winter! she must then seek help from him; her hopes clung only to a straw; nevertheless she would go and beg, if need be, even upon bended knee, that he would persuade her father to relinquish this terrible purpose. yes, now was the time to act, for she feared in her indefinite terror that the morrow might be too late. quickly seizing a cloak and throwing it about her, elinor crept toward the door and listened. the place was dark, and quiet as the grave. swiftly she descended the stairs, then groped her way to the door and tried to withdraw the bolts. would they never yield to her efforts? at last they slipped with a sound which echoed through the house. the girl paused, expecting to hear her father's voice, but the silence was unbroken. in a moment she was out in the moonlit street. how quiet and serene everything appeared. how in contrast to the tumult of her feelings. as she stood, the great bell of st. paul's boomingly tolled out the hour--twelve o'clock. "he must," she whispered to herself, "he must be home ere now, but what will he think of my coming to him at this time?" she tried to thrust this thought aside, and to gain repose of mind by walking more swiftly. arrived before winter's residence, and trying the wicket at the entrance she found it yielded to her touch. the girl beheld a stream of light coming from between the curtains of a window on the second floor. the master of the house was then within. quickly elinor passed up the walk and stood before the door. as she raised the knocker her resolution almost gave way. what was she about to tell winter. that she, a girl, was possessed of this terrible secret! suddenly came to her memory the dreadful words connecting this man's name with hers. she thought of the few times when they had been together; how eager he had seemed to be near her; with what a trembling clasp he had carried her fingers to his lips and imprinted upon them kisses which burned themselves into the very flesh. and now she was about to face him in the dead of night--and alone! her fingers relaxed their hold. "courage, courage," she murmured; and quickly laying hold of the knocker again, she smote thrice upon the panel and listened. there soon fell upon her ear the sound of some one coming in answer to her summons. the door opened and a sleepy servant stood regarding her with an air of no small astonishment. "is thy master at home?" she inquired, in a voice which, in spite of her efforts, trembled. "that he is, young miss, but what wouldst thou with him at this late hour? he hath but just returned from a journey, and is sore weary. canst thou not wait until the morning?" "i must see him at once; 'tis on the most urgent business." the hour, coupled with the fairness of the visitor, seemed to fill the servant with surprise, for he stood a moment looking at her, then replied: "if thou wilt step inside, mistress, i'll inform sir winter that there be someone who wishes to hold converse with him, and perchance," he added with a meaning smile, "he'll not be so badly put out after all. what name shall i bear to him? it may be one," he continued significantly, "which would soon draw any bolt sir thomas might have shot." "no name is necessary," she answered, looking at the man and pointing with her finger. "i seek thy master and come not to parley with his menial. go! say a lady would speak with him." the servant read in the girl's eye a look which seemed to brook neither delay nor familiarity, for he turned and went along the passage and up the stairway. as elinor waited, the utter hopelessness of her mission broke full upon her, but it was now too late to draw back from her hasty act; the voice of winter could be heard exclaiming with a laugh: "what, a lady to see me at this hour? troth, i am fatigued, but never so weary that i cannot look upon a fair face. admit her." a door opened and closed; the servant reappeared and beckoned her. "sir thomas will see thee; 'tis the third portal from the landing," he said, pointing up the stairs leading to the floor above. as elinor followed the directions given, she endeavored to frame some fitting sentence with which to begin her interview, but her agitation was too great; she could think of none. arriving before the door she tapped with her fingers upon the panel. "enter, my pretty one," cried a voice. "thou hast already been announced." she stepped within the chamber. winter sat with his back toward the entrance facing a table upon which stood a flagon of wine. as the door closed he turned, and to her horror elinor saw that he was flushed with strong drink. "what? elinor?" exclaimed winter, in astonishment, rising from the chair with such haste that it was overturned and fell with a clatter to the floor. "i crave thy pardon, mistress fawkes," he continued with a bow, mastering his surprise. "thy sudden entrance caused my tongue to utter the name that ever dwells within my heart. pray tell me to what happy circumstance am i indebted for the honor of this visit? i would know the same that i may render homage to it." elinor stood speechless, filled with abhorrence and dread. all her bravery could scarce keep her from flying out of the room. she endeavored to fix her mind on the purpose which had brought her here, and so find courage. at last desperation gave her voice and she began hurriedly: "i know that thou and others were at my father's house this night. i was not asleep as ye all supposed, and have come to beg, to beseech, pray, that my father be released from this terrible treason which hath been talked of. thou wert the only one to whom i could turn for aid--i trust to thy goodness, to thy noble nature;--for the love of god tell me not that i come in vain. see--see," she cried hysterically, her self control gone and falling upon her knees. "i kneel before thee to crave this boon." at her first words winter started as if a pike had been thrust into his side. on his face was written blank astonishment, which expression, as she proceeded, gave way to one of abject fear. it would have been difficult to say which of the two was the more agitated. he dashed a hand to his brow as if to drive away the fumes of liquor which had mounted to his brain; looked at the kneeling figure; gazed on the tapers burning upon the table; and tried to form some words of reply. at last, with an effort at composure, and endeavoring to force a laugh past his dry lips, he said: "what silly tale is this thou utterest. i have not been----" "nay," the girl broke in wildly, "'tis useless for thee to say so. my eyes and ears did not deceive me. would to heaven they had and it were only some mad dream which fills my brain." "then--then--thou hast played the spy," hissed winter, in sudden anger born of drink and fear. "dost know to what thou hast listened? has aught of it passed thy lips? speak!" he cried furiously, seizing the girl's arm and glaring at her in drunken rage. "nay; then thou didst not, and 'tis well; for if thy lips had breathed one word these hands of mine would choke from out thy body its sweet breath." he relinquished his hold, and turning toward the table hurriedly drained a cup of wine. elinor, spellbound with terror at his outburst of fury, stood rooted to the spot. she realized the madness of her words, seeing plainly that the man's condition was one which made both prayers and entreaties useless. again he filled a cup and dashed it off. what his state would be in a few moments she dared not think. his back was toward her; now was her chance to escape! slowly the girl edged her way toward the entrance. at last she reached it; her hand groped behind the curtain for the knob; it turned, but to her horror, she discovered the door was securely fastened. a laugh greeted her from the table. "what, surely, mistress fawkes--nay, by my troth, mistress fawkes it shall be no more, for 'tis too cold a title; therefore, pretty elinor--wouldst leave me, and thy errand but half done? i swear thy words did at first affright; but see, this good wine," he continued, advancing toward her unsteadily, "hath taught me wisdom, and this i know, our secret once hid in thy fair breast, could ne'er be driven forth, even if thou wished, as 'tis too warm a resting place for it to relinquish. why dost thou shrink from me? dost know," he added, a fierce gleam coming into his eyes, "i would try to pluck great saturn from the heavens if thou wished to gird about thy waist his rings? aye, and would give my soul for a kiss from thy warm lips, thinking my soul well sold. elinor!" he exclaimed, in a husky voice, "hast thou never read my passion for thee? 'tis written----" "then!" cried the girl, "think upon that love and for god's sake let me hence." "what? is my love so beggarly a thing that the only answer deigned to its utterance is a scurvy request to get beyond its hearing? nay, i have looked upon thy frozen greetings long enough, and they, i tell thee, have poorly matched my ardor. listen! thou dost wish to go?" he questioned, placing himself before the door and holding to the curtains for support. "well, i will ask but cheap recompense for the loss of thy fair company. 'tis a kiss from thy red lips; what sayest thou?" "and thou dost call thyself a gentleman!" exclaimed elinor looking at him with scorn, her fear in a measure giving place to indignation at the insolent and shameless words. "let me depart, i say--nay, i command thee." "ha! ha! thou, i think, art carrying thyself loftily. 'command!'" he repeated with a laugh. "nay, marry! here thou wilt stay until them thinkest thy going worth the price. and while thou dost meditate upon it i will drink to thy health." he staggered toward the table and refilled the cup. elinor glanced about the room seeking some possible avenue of escape. her eyes rested upon the portieres in front of the window; she moved toward them, but as her dress rustled winter turned at the sound. "aye, walk the room, my pretty one; thou wilt find thy cage well barred. but enough of this," he continued, approaching her, "we do but delay. thou didst ask thy father's release from his compact. well, he shall be set free, but thou must recompense--not in coin, not in some heavy muttered penance, but by thy beauty." he caught the girl in his arms and whispered in her ear. then the indignities which had been heaped upon her gave strength to her arm. no sooner had his drunken tongue uttered the sentence than she smote with all her might the face gazing into hers. the blow for a moment staggered the man and he released his hold; in that instant of freedom elinor sprang toward the window, dashing the curtains aside. "stand back!" she cried, as he made a step toward her, his face purple with rage, "and for thy wicked words ask forgiveness from heaven ere it blast thee. where is thy religion, where thy manhood, thou beast? aye, beast is too good a term for such as thee, for they respect the sex--even the stag will not goad the doe. i fear thee not; move from where thou art and by the god who heard thy wicked words i'll cry thy infamy and treason in a voice which shall 'rouse all london, and wake the sleepy headsman to grind the axe. now, i fear thee not!" for a moment winter paused, looking at the girl. then his quick wit, no longer dulled by the wine which had blinded him to the consequences of the words he had uttered, came to his aid, and he replied: "what? and lay thy father's head, as well as mine, upon the block?" the curtain dropped from the girl's hand; she staggered, catching it for support; then quickly recovered herself and with determination flashing from her eyes exclaimed: "nay, then, i will not cry thy treason; my tongue is mute. but stir one foot and i leap from off the balcony, gladly embracing the cold stones beneath, rather than suffer a touch from thy guilty hands." "come! come!" said winter, baffled by her words and spirit; "i'll not harm thee. i was but heated by the wine. thou mayst depart in peace." "i put no faith in thy words," said elinor, still standing by the casement, "for thou hast taught me how far one who calls himself a man may be trusted. go thou and unbar the door," pointing imperiously with her hand; "then take thyself to the further end of the chamber and there stand." winter hesitated, but even his dulled faculties recognized the superiority of the girl's position, and he sullenly complied with her request. not until he had retired to the extreme end of the room did elinor leave her place. then, she quickly fled into the corridor. winter remained for a moment where he was and, mad with drunken rage when the closing of the outer door announced the escape of his victim, exclaimed: "aye, thou hast outwitted me for a moment; but thy victory is not for long. i shall hold the laurel and also thee before daybreak." then, staggering into the hall, he shouted: "richard! richard!" a man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "come! stir thy scurvy legs; didst see the woman who this moment left me? follow, and when at a place thou deemest fit, throw this heavy mantle about her, and bring her to me. she will struggle, i trow; but thou knowest the remedy. tarry not; go swiftly, or she will escape." at last elinor was in the street, and, dazed for a moment by her sudden release from the peril in which she had just stood, with a terrified look over her shoulder--half fearing to see a staggering figure in pursuit, she fled in the direction of her home. but what form is this which glides from out the gate, and catching sight of the girl hurries in the direction she has taken? like some evil phantom it moves, noiselessly and swiftly, ever keeping well in the shadows. chapter xii. what the moon saw. but what of fawkes? did any gloomy thoughts disturb his rest? did the shadow of the axe or gibbet fall athwart his dreams? if not, why turns he so uneasily in his slumber and at last awakes? "sleep sets ill upon me," he mutters, drawing a hand across his brow. in a moment he arose, hastily dressed himself, walked toward the window, opened it and gazed upon the night. does some subtle bond of sympathy exist between him and the girl who is now in peril of death--or worse? it would seem so, for standing beside the casement, he exclaims: "am i a sickly child, or puny infant, that i awake, frightened by silly visions which war with sleep, and murder it ere 'tis fairly born? troth!" he continued, with knitted brows, "'twas strange my fancy painted such a picture." he stood for a moment wrapped in thought, then added, shaking his head as though unable to thrust aside the memories which troubled him: "by the blessed virgin! a most vivid dream. how she held her arms out to me, yet her lips were mute. aye, and the eyes--the dumb horror written in them, as if beholding a specter which blanched the face and fettered the limbs. i believe," he added with a sudden resolution, "'tis a woman's trick, but i would fain see her face ere i rest again." he stepped out into the corridor, proceeded in the direction of his daughter's room, and softly entering, advanced toward the bed. "not here!" exclaimed he, beholding the empty couch. "nay, thou canst not frighten me," he continued with a forced laugh, gazing about. "come, show thyself; 'twas a merry jest, but let's have it done." he paused; still no answer to his summons. "elinor," he again called, a shadow of anxiety in his tone. "what means it that she is nowhere within hearing?" he quickly retraced his steps, passed down the stairs and tried the hall door. it was unbarred, and opened to his touch. "by heaven!" he exclaimed, "i could swear i shot those bolts before going to rest, and now they are drawn." he stood anxiously looking out upon the star-lit night. his eyes wandered to the doorstep, and discerned upon its covering of frost the imprint of a small foot. he stooped to examine the impression and hurriedly arose. "she has indeed left the house," he cried. "what can have taken the maiden out of doors at this hour of the night?--some secret tryst? nay, i do but jest; she's not the kind to go a-courting after the moon is up. mayhap," he continued, meditating a moment, "a neighbor was stricken ill and they have summoned elinor to lend her gentle aid. marry," added he in a relieved tone, on finding a plausible excuse for his daughter's absence, "i do recollect master carew's woman was soon expected to add one more trouble to her husband's household. it is most likely that she went there. 'tis a dark way to travel, and i will give her a surprise. while thinking a lonely walk lies before her, elinor will find an old but devoted cavalier to keep her company. first," added he with a laugh, "i'll fetch my blade; for 'twould ill befit a gallant in quest of beauty to go unarmed." so saying, he disappeared, and presently returned attired in a heavy mantle, and a long rapier girded to his side. the moon was high, and its light, which whitened the gables of the houses, diffused a bright glimmer below, sufficient to enable fawkes to proceed quickly upon his way. frost had set in, and a keen wind blew; so he was glad to hurry on at a goodly pace. as the streets were quite deserted at this early hour of the morning, or haunted only by those whose business--whether for good or evil--forced them out of doors, he met no one and saw no lights. the man's mind was evidently filled with pleasant thoughts, for ever and anon a smile would flit across his face, as though he dwelt upon the surprised look of his daughter when she would behold him. these agreeable anticipations, which had taken the place for the moment of the sterner purposes which had of late engrossed him, were only thrust out by something which happened just then and brought him abruptly to himself. it was the appearance of a woman, who suddenly issued from an alley a score of yards in front of him, and with a quick glance over her shoulder, disappeared down another turn in the road. the movements of this apparition caused fawkes to pause, when suddenly a second figure, this time a man, came into view and hurried in the direction taken by the girl. "by my hilt," whispered fawkes, peering cautiously out of the shadow in which he stood, "that rogue had a most suspicious air about him; an honest man walks with more noise; but, by my soul! if there is not a third!" the object which had called forth the last remark was still another figure, which came from the same quarter, and proceeded in the direction taken by the first two. "what queer business is now afoot?" fawkes exclaimed, gazing after the retreating forms. "mayhap ere long a trusty blade will not be amiss. i can well afford a few moments to see that all be fair." so saying, and loosening his sword in its scabbard to make sure it was free if suddenly needed, he swiftly passed in the direction taken by the retreating figures. a few steps brought him to the head of the street down which the three had disappeared. by the light of the moon fawkes distinctly saw the shadowy forms, and halting where he stood, watched their movements. the girl was well in advance; the second person, hurrying after. the last of the two crossed to the opposite side of the way and walked well in the shadow cast by the gables of the houses. the girl cast a glance over her shoulder as if feeling the presence of one in pursuit, but evidently finding herself quite alone, slackened her pace to take breath. now, the one nearest her made a strange move, if so be he were bent upon an honest mission; for as soon as the woman reduced her gait to a walk, the man loosened the long cloak hanging about his shoulders, and seizing it in both hands, moved swiftly and noiselessly in her direction. aye, loose thy sword in its sheath, thou, standing in the shadow; for if there be in thee muscle for a fight, soon will the clash of steel ring out upon the frosty air. the man was now up with the girl, who, on hearing footsteps, turned and uttered a scream. once only does she raise the cry, for before she can a second time call out, the cloak is thrown over her head, a rough hand is at her throat, and she feels the pressure of a rope as it is deftly whipped about her. there was a momentary struggle; but it soon ceased, for the woman fainted, and was at the mercy of him who had trapped her. is thy sword caught and useless? thy arm paralyzed? or what causes thee to stand unnerved and trembling? was it the scream that rang out upon the midnight air? had it the sound of a voice dear to thee even now? the man lifted the light figure of the girl within his arms and hurried away. aye, effingston, heaven-sent was the sorrow which drove thee forth to seek solace from the night and stars; but, come, now is thy time! fear not for him--he has recovered himself--and, snatching his rapier from its sheath, with one or two quick bounds is up with the man, crying: "by the god above thee, release the woman ere i crush thy head, thou adder!" the one thus addressed turned, and seeing the determined face at his elbow, paused, but retained his grasp upon the girl. "release her!" exclaimed effingston, raising his sword, "ere i spit thee." the man allowed his burden to slip to the ground, the cloak fell from about her figure, and elinor lay at the feet of him she loved. "thou art quick with thy command, master," replied the other, coolly drawing his rapier. "methinks thou hadst better attend to love affairs of thine own, rather than meddle in that with which thou hast no concern. put up thy blade, i say, and go about thy business, ere i teach thee a trick or two which will let more ardor out of thy body than a three days' diet of beef can replace." "thou knave!" effingston exclaimed, casting a quick glance at the motionless figure upon the ground, and pointing toward it with his rapier. "dost call thyself a man, to steal behind and deal foul blows? verily, thou craven dog, 'tis written in thy countenance, and he who runs may read, that thou hast not the courage even to look a woman in the eye, much less to face a man in honest fight." "i'll hear no more of thy speech," cried the now angry man, leaping meanwhile to the middle of the road; "soon will i put holes in thy genteel carcass which will leave thy vitals cold for some time to come. up with thy sword, if thy bravery be not all talk." he unfastened his leather jerkin and stood awaiting effingston, who loosened the clasp of his mantle. "by my troth," exclaimed fawkes, who still retained his post of vantage; "i swear 'tis not my place to interfere; likely it will be a lusty fight, for both seem to have the proper spirit, and hold the weapon as those accustomed to the steel. marry! it must be difficult to see the eyes in this light, but the point will be more readily kept track of." the combatants crossed swords and stood at guard. "if thou hast any friend to claim thy body, better write his name," said the man in the leather jerkin, as effingston's blade touched his lightly, emitting a grating sound. the only answer was a swift lunge, dexterously parried. not three blows were exchanged before effingston realized that the man before him not only possessed the skill of one long used to sword play, but, further, combined with it the coolness and the keen eye of an old duelist. moreover, the neutral tint of his adversary's dress offered but a poor mark by which to gauge his thrust, while his own costume, being ornamented with silver, gave his antagonist most effective guidance whereby to aim his strokes. the other, also, came to the conclusion that no mere novice stood before him, for effingston had turned every thrust with an ease which surprised him; and several times his sword had crept so closely to the leather jerkin that three or four brown furrows had appeared upon it. "enough of this child's play," effingston's antagonist hissed between his teeth, making another furious lunge. the impetus given to the thrust would have sent the blade to the hilt into the other's body had it come in contact with it, but effingston met the blow in a way least expected, making use of a trick but little known in england at that time, for as quickly as the sword flew forward he stepped lightly aside, at the same time advancing his own weapon. the hilts came together with a crash; the guard of one was entangled in the bell of the other, and the two rapiers remained firmly interlocked. the men now stood so closely that their breasts touched, the breath issuing from their parted lips mingling in clouds. suddenly, almost simultaneously, as if one read the intent in the other's eye, each slowly moved his left arm to his side, seeking the dagger he knew hung there. again, on the same instant, the knives flashed forth; the men sprang quickly apart; the two rapiers went spinning on the roadway, and with a clatter, became disentangled as they fell. no time for breath; each knows it is to the death, and plenty of rest awaits one or both, perchance, in a few moments. the men leaped toward each other; a confused struggle ensued. fawkes from his post could illy make out who had the advantage. suddenly, effingston's foot slipped, he was almost upon his knees--the man was upon him, one hand gripped his shoulder, forcing him to the ground, the other held the knife lifted high to add force to the blow; but that coveted strength cost him his life, for before the hand could descend, effingston quickly raised his dagger, and drove it with all his might up to the guard in the neck left unprotected by his adversary's movement. the man clutched at the figure before him, the blade flew from his grasp and he dropped with a bubbling cry to the earth, the blood spurting from him as he fell. "marry!" exclaimed fawkes, who through all the contest had been craning his neck and breathing hard with excitement, "that was a brave device but not one which i should care to try myself. by the apostle paul!" added he in surprise on hearing the bell of a distant church strike the hour, "it is three o'clock, and here am i watching two gentlemen, whose faces i cannot even see, settle a little difficulty about a woman. but 'twas a lusty fight, and for the moment made me forget the errand which called me forth." saying which and with another glance down the road, he started upon his way. the victor stood regarding his foe, who made one or two convulsive movements as if to arise, but fell back with the blood spouting from the wound and out his mouth. one more struggling effort he makes, but 'tis the last; with a violent convulsion of his whole body the man in the leather jerkin sinks to the earth to rise no more. effingston turned to the second figure lying upon the roadway, and as he gazed upon her, there was expressed on his countenance a certain degree of contempt, but, withal, a love which pride and resolution could not quite kill. as she lies there, the white face touched by the light of the moon, it is like looking upon the dead. "o god," he whispered, as he suddenly knelt beside her, taking one of the white hands within his own, "would that she had died before--before----" he slowly raised the girl in his arms; then convulsively pressed the light figure to him, and letting his head sink upon her breast, sobbed as only a strong man can. again there was silence, broken only by the rattle of ice-covered twigs swept from the trees by the restless night wind. after a moment he regained composure and fell to chafing her hands. a slight motion showed him the girl was slowly recovering from her long swoon. gradually consciousness returned, and lifting her head from the cloak he had placed beneath it, she looked about in a confused way as though unable to make out her surroundings. soon her gaze rested upon effingston, who had drawn a little apart. raising herself, she tottered toward him, and would have fallen had he not put an arm out to prevent her. "what could have made thee treat me so?" she whispered, passing a hand across her face, as if endeavoring to brush away that which hindered her thoughts. "have i not suffered enough?" she continued, piteously. "i was not thy assailant," answered effingston, motioning to the figure on the road; "there he lieth; thou canst go thy way in peace." the girl glanced in the direction and shuddered. "and how came this about?" she questioned, in a dreamy tone, casting a frightened look at the thing in the path. "oh, now i do recollect me," added she, softly, as though to herself, seemingly oblivious of her surroundings. "i had left sir winter, and deeming myself quite safe, was hurrying home, when--for truth, i can remember no more until i found thee near me." she ceased and looked up into his face with an innocent smile. evidently the terrible strain to which her mind had been subjected effaced from it all previous impressions, or left only an indistinct recollection of what had transpired. "it was brave of thee," she murmured, in the same dreamy tone, placing her hand upon his arm. at the name of winter, effingston drew back. had she not by those unguarded words confirmed her guilt? all his pride and anger returned. the resolutions which had but a moment since departed, banished by that helpless figure in the moonlight, now came again with greater strength. of what weakness, he asked himself, had he been guilty? of kissing the lips not yet cold from the caresses of him who had defiled them. "very--brave--in--thee," the girl repeated, in a dull monotone. effingston glanced at her, but that piteously bewildered face cannot move him, and he coldly answered: "'tis the duty of every gentleman to protect the life of a woman, even though her shame be public talk." evidently the girl had not heard, or at least the words made no impression upon her brain, for she nestled closely to him like a frightened child seeking protection. "come," he whispered. she obeyed without a word. they passed upon their way in silence and at last reached her dwelling. effingston opened the door which stood unbarred, and assisted her to enter. he turned to go, not trusting himself to speak. "thou wert not always accustomed to leave me thus," exclaimed the girl, in a voice destitute of expression. "see," she continued, "i will kiss thee even without thy asking," and before the man realized her intent, she threw her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. "they are cold," she murmured, with a shiver. "but the night is chilly--look! now the east is streaked with red." turning, she pointed to the sky, dyed with the crimson light of coming day. the ruddy glow crept up, touching the girl and turning the snow at her feet to the color of the rose. "come to me, dear heart," she whispered, holding out her arms; "take me to thee, that on thy breast i may find a sweet and dreamless sleep." the sun arose; but upon no sadder sight than this man, who plodded wearily homeward--warring forces within, and a desert all about. on his way through the silent streets, made more desolate by the cheerless light of coming day, he saw for a moment a mirage of an honorable love and happiness. in the fair city of his dream he beheld a bright and happy home, made so and adorned by the girl whose kiss was still upon his lips. there, always awaited him a heart which, through its love, added to each blessing, and dulled every sorrow. ever on the portal stood a being he worshiped, who, with her fair arms wreathed a welcome of love about him. they pass within; a bright face offers itself for a kiss; fondly he stoops, but the dream vanishes;--in the breaking of the morn he stands alone;--hope dead within his breast. chapter xiii. at "the sign of the leopard." winter waited long for his servant's return. he walked restlessly up and down the chamber, ever and anon pausing, either for recourse to the flagon on the table, or to draw aside the curtains and gaze out upon the street. at last, sinking into a chair with a muttered curse at the long delay, he fell into deep sleep, overcome by the wine in which he had so freely indulged. dawn broke gray and cheerless. the first rays of the sun penetrated into the chamber and fell upon the sleeper,--his position was unchanged since the small hours of the night. gradually, as the light increased, he stirred uneasily, awoke, and rubbing his eyes, looked about as though not sure of the surroundings. his eye rested upon the flagon, then slowly traveled toward the window. the recollection of the last night, however, flashed before him, and springing from the chair, he dashed out into the corridor. "richard!" he called. no answer followed his summons. "richard," he repeated, in a still louder tone. the only response was the echo of his own voice. "what mad business be this?" exclaimed he, retracing his steps and looking wildly about the apartment. "by this cursed drink have i brought ruin to our hopes and cause. out upon thee," he cried in a transport of passion, suddenly seizing the flagon, and flinging it with all his might across the room. the heavy piece of metal struck the wall, sending out a deluge of wine, and falling with a crash, shattered into fragments an ivory crucifix resting upon a small table. winter stood aghast at the havoc wrought. "an omen," he whispered, white to the lips, glancing about with frightened looks, then kneeling to take up the broken cross. "see," he cried, holding with trembling fingers the image of the crucified savior which had escaped the wreck, and now dripped with wine;--"christ's wounds do open their red mouths and bleed afresh at my awful deeds." the man arose, crossed himself, and thrust the image into his doublet, then wiping the sweat from his brow sank into a chair. "'tis not by these tremblings, or vain regrets, that i may fortify myself, or mend what's done," he exclaimed. "i must bethink me, and let reason check the consequences of my folly. the girl asseverated that she heard all which transpired at her house last night. oh, most unfortunate chance which gave the words into her ear! what foul fiend did raise the cup to my lips and leave my wit too weak to turn the deadly stroke? nay," he continued, after several moments, shaking his head, "she'll not make known the purport of our speech, for the love she bears her father is a potent hostage for her silence, and if i be judge, mistress elinor will make scant mention of her visit yesternight. even if there be small love in her heart for me, a most wholesome fear doth take its place, and for my present purpose one will serve as fittingly as the other. marry," he continued, with a smile, seemingly relieved by his reflections, "thy ready wit hath at last returned; but by st. paul! what hath become of that varlet richard? 'tis more than likely the open door of some pot house spoke more strongly to him than my command, and 'tis most providential if my surmise be true; i must have been mad indeed to trust the rogue on such a mission. small doubt but that he heard all which transpired here last night, for he hath a most willing ear to listen, and a tongue given to wag. 'twould be a heaven-sent deed if something would occur to silence his speech, for his knowledge, if he hath the wit to know its value, may be a deadly menace to our cause. when he returns i'll give the knave silver to quit the country; or, perchance," he added, a hard, cunning look coming into his eyes as he put his hand upon a small dagger at his side, "if that will not suffice, 'twill be necessary for our safety to introduce him to more sturdy metal." the man arose and proceeded to efface the marks of dissipation, and set his disordered dress to rights, saying as he finished, "i must to my appointment with garnet. marry," he added, donning hat and mantle, "i hope he is safely housed, and that my letter to giles martin, which the worthy prelate was to present, did insure him some extra attention, as a pot house, at its best, must be a poor refuge for a priest." it was early in the morning and few people were astir. "gramercy," quoth winter, when he had proceeded some distance on his way, "would that some person were abroad that i might enquire the direction to 'the sign of the leopard;' i swear," he added, glancing about, "it must be in this neighborhood, but i can illy guess where." looking, he perceived a group of men a little distance down the street. "there be some worthies," exclaimed he, "who can perhaps direct me to the hostelry." as he approached he saw they were regarding a figure lying upon the ground. "nay, master alyn," said one, "thou hadst best do naught but let it await removal by the king's guard; if thou disturb the body surely questions might be asked which 'twould bother thy head to answer." "beshrew my heart," exclaimed the man addressed, who, judging from his appearance, was a small tradesman, "i can ill afford to have this evil thing lying upon my step, preventing what little trade might drift this way." winter now came up with the group, and as they turned at the sound of his footsteps, he could see that the object of their remarks was a man lying face downward on the flagging, and his attitude of relaxation showed that death had overtaken him. "what hast thou here, my men?" sir thomas exclaimed, "some victim of a drunken brawl?" "that we cannot make out," answered the first speaker, touching his hat, on perceiving--by his dress and manner--that the questioner was a gentleman, possibly one in authority, "but for truth, he has been stuck as pretty as a boar at yule-tide. thou mayst look for thyself," he added, with some little pride, as of a showman exhibiting his stock, and laying hold of the body by the shoulders he turned it over, so that the distorted face gazed up at the sky. winter started at the sight, unable to repress a cry, for before him was the body of his servant. his wish had indeed been fulfilled; those silent lips would tell no tales. "what, good sir!" cried he who seemed to be the spokesman of the party, on noting the white face of the other; "doth thy stomach turn so readily?" "nay," replied winter, raising a gauntlet to hide his emotion, "but they who meet death suddenly are seldom sweet to look upon, and--and--for truth, i have not yet broke my fast; canst direct me to a certain hostelry in this neighborhood known as 'the sign of the leopard?'" "i can, master, for many a pot of ale i've drank in that same place. look," he continued, pointing, "if thou wilt follow this street until the second turning to the right, from there thou canst readily see the tavern's sign." "my thanks to thee," said winter, taking a coin from his purse and handing it to the man. his eyes again for a moment turned upon the prostrate figure. "and my friends," added he, "i would deem it expedient that ye notify the guards, and have this unsightly thing removed." he then turned and proceeded in the direction given him. this incident brought a renewal of the apprehensions which had haunted him earlier in the morning, and he muttered as he went on his way: "there is the first consequence of my folly, and the next may be--nay, courage; heaven will not be so merciless as to permit one evil deed to overthrow our cause. god will pardon this hasty sin, when he who committed it doth risk life in his holy work. but," he added, with a smile, "'tis providential justice which slew the man, for the dead utter no words." at last he arrived before the house which he sought. "marry," he exclaimed, gazing at the exterior of the tavern; "'tis indeed a sorry place for the saintly garnet to reside in, but it has the advantage of being a secure retreat." he tried the door, which yielded to his touch, and entered the apartment. on the tables stood the remains of last night's libations, and the air hung heavy with the odor of stale tobacco smoke. over all was a spell of silent desolation, as if the ghosts of the songs and merry jests, which had echoed from the walls, had returned with aching heads to curse the room. "this is a sweet place, truly," said winter, looking upon the table. after a short delay the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching, a door opened and the host entered. giles martin, not at once recognizing the man who stood by the table, regarded his guest with some little surprise, for a customer at that early hour was rare. "to what may i serve thee, sir?" said he, advancing toward winter. "well, master martin," exclaimed the one addressed, "dost so soon forget a face? it is, i swear, a poor trick for a landlord." "what, sir thomas?" cried the other in surprise, holding out his hand, "i did not recognize thee in this uncertain light. a thousand pardons, and highly am i honored to find thee in my humble house." "'tis but small honor i do thee," replied the man, with a laugh, drawing off his gauntlets. "didst receive my letter?" "aye, that i did, and have shown the bearer of it every courtesy which this poor tavern can provide. much am i gratified to learn that sir thomas winter remembered one whom he hath not seen since----" "nay, good martin, i do recall the time thou wouldst name. but pray tell me, is my cavalier friend up at this early hour, for i would confer with him." giles cast a quick glance at the speaker, then letting his eyes fall, said: "that he is, and little hath he slept this night, for 'twas late ere he arrived, and when i arose i heard him walking about." "then wilt thou tell him i await; or--nay, stop--thou needst not announce me; i will see him in his chamber. show the way, i will follow." "as thou dost wish," said giles, turning to open a door which hid a flight of rickety stairs leading to the floor above. reaching the landing winter noted that martin was about to follow and exclaimed: "nay, show me the portal, i will not trouble thee further. and if thou wilt be so kind, see to it that we are not disturbed in our conversation." "have no fear for that, sir thomas, i will take care that none do interrupt. the room is in front of thee," saying which, martin turned and descended the stairs. winter tapped upon the panel. "enter," said a quiet voice. he lifted the latch and passed into the room. the prelate had evidently been engaged in prayer, for, as the other stepped within, the priest was arising from his knees. his face seemed in strange contrast to the garb he had donned; the delicate, almost effeminate features of the man were little in keeping with the gay attire of a cavalier. "ah, sir thomas," exclaimed the jesuit, advancing with gentle dignity and extended hand, "glad am i to see thee, for i have been more than lonely, but," he added, with a bright smile, "'tis not my nature to complain; these be but small discomforts, and gladly would i endure greater in the service of my master. hast any news? hath aught happened since we met? but pray be seated," he added, pointing to one of the two chairs, which, with a low bed, comprised the furniture of the room. "nay, good father, nothing hath transpired," replied the other, a shade passing athwart his face; "and now tell me, what dost thou think of fawkes? is his enthusiasm great enough to serve our purpose?" "a most terrible man, but one whose cruelty rests upon the love of god. indeed, it is as thou didst say, if each catholic in england were possessed of but one-half his zeal, then would the gutters run red with the blood of heretics; 'twas such as he who made the eve of st. bartholomew. are we free to speak?" queried garnet, leaning toward the other. "quite free," replied winter, "a faithful friend of mine is on guard that we be not interrupted." "then, 'tis well; i have spent the night in prayer, beseeching the almighty to lead my mind aright that i may decide the justice of the plan proposed. ah," exclaimed the jesuit, arising, and with hands clenched before him, "'tis a hideous act, but," an expression of fierceness coming into his gentle face, "my supplication was answered, the deed is favored by god, for he hath sent me a token of his approval." "a token, thou sayest, good father?" exclaimed winter in an awed voice. "verily," cried garnet, raising his eyes to heaven, "a sign from him whose cause we serve. 'twas thus: long had i knelt in prayer, long had i raised my voice that he who holds the oceans in his palm, and guides the planets in their courses, would lead me to a wise decision. 'o god,' i cried, 'send thou some token that i may know thy will.' even as i gazed upon the crucifix clenched in my unlifted hand, the message i so craved had come, for the cross was stained with blood, which from it fell in sluggish drops. i looked more intently, filled with amazement, and perceived that so closely had i pressed the silver image of the blessed savior it had cut into the flesh. but 'twas god's voice in answer to my prayer." "most marvelous," whispered winter, crossing himself. "but didst thou comprehend all that fawkes proposed? hast dwelt on every point?" "think not, my son," the prelate answered, "that because my eyes have long been used to the dim light of the sanctuary, they have not perceived all the horror of that which must be done. but now," he cried, his pale face flushed with emotion, "god in his wisdom hath for a time taken from me the crucifix and given in its place the sword. so be it," he continued, drawing the rapier hanging by his side and kissing the cross formed by the blade and handle, "he shall not find henry garnet wanting, for not until the angelus doth sound from landsend to dunnet head, will this hand of mine relax its hold, unless death doth strike the weapon from it." "ah, good father," cried winter in admiration of the other's spirit, "thy enthusiasm and courage are surely heaven born, but," he whispered, "if we fail, what then?" "we cannot," broke in the jesuit, his eyes alight with the fervor of his spirit. "have i not told thee that heaven approves our act? victory belongs to us; the white dove doth rest upon our helms. 'tis true that some of us may perish, but what of them? their fame shall live from age to age, and never will the call to mass or vespers sound, never will the clouds of incense mount upward--streaming past the host without their names being within the hearts and on the tongues of the worshipers. think how greatly we be blessed," he continued, laying his hand fondly upon the other's shoulder;--"a few, a happy few, who have been thus elected to raise the cross of christ from out the dust. nay," he added, shaking his head, "i would not wish our danger one jot or tittle less, for, methinks, some portion of the glory which is now our own might depart with it, and i could illy bear the loss of even one small gem which must rest in the immortal crown of our recompense." "then thou dost feel our victory is assured," said winter, in a constrained voice, looking anxiously toward garnet. "nay, i do not feel--i am certain," replied the prelate, decisively. "and now there rests with us the duty of forming our plans, making everything ready to strike the mighty blow. what hast thou to offer or suggest?" "good father, i would not take upon myself to offer a suggestion," said winter; "but methinks it would be well that we all assemble and discuss the matter more fully." "and where shall the gathering be held?--at the house of master fawkes?" "not so," replied the other, so abruptly that the priest turned upon him an enquiring glance. "i mean," continued winter, noting the look, "'twould be unwise for us to be seen again meeting in that place; it might arouse curiosity, and that might be fatal." "then what wouldst thou say to my lord catesby's?" "nay, for i deem the same objection doth apply to his dwelling. i would suggest we gather at the house of sir everard digby. will't suit thee, father?" "i think thy caution most commendable, and thy proposition the best. and when shall the meeting be?" "say a week hence," replied winter. "in the meantime i will see sir everard, and make the necessary arrangements. but what of thee till then?" "disturb not thyself, my son, concerning me," replied the prelate; "i will content myself, and be right comfortable in the care of thy friend the host. dost think he hath suspicions?" "nay," replied the other. "in truth, if his suspicions were aroused, he would be silent; such poor taste hath he, that love for me would make him dumb, and with it is the fact that the man is a zealous catholic; methinks if his help could be safely won he would be most valuable to us. shouldst thou find a fitting opportunity it might be well to sound the man." "i will do so," replied the prelate, "if a chance doth offer itself." "and now," continued winter, rising, "i must away. be ever careful, father, for thy loss would signify the destruction of our hopes." "my son," answered the other, with a smile, "thou dost speak from thy heart; but methinks, if at this moment henry garnet were dragged away and hurried toward the block, the mighty work would be continued; success doth rest in higher hands than mine. now, until we meet again, may the peace of him whose servants we are rest upon thee." chapter xiv. in the shadow of the cross. some leagues from london, in the shire of buckingham, was situated the country residence of sir everard digsby, who, with catesby, wright and percy, was present at the house of the latter on the night in which fawkes reached the city, whither he had been summoned by a letter from sir thomas winter. the dwelling of the young nobleman, being somewhat remote from the more populous districts of the shire, seemed a fitting place for such discussion, and, perchance, of more weighty matters, pertaining to the fast-growing conspiracy against the king and his parliament. this place winter had suggested to garnet as the safest spot for the catholic gentlemen to assemble for the discussion of their plan. 'twas the custom that those noblemen whose wealth afforded them two dwellings, one in london and another in the rural districts, should oft entertain at the latter such of their companions as pleased them; and these, riding forth from the city, singly or in goodly numbers, might pass but a single night, but sometimes when occasion served, a fortnight, in merrymaking at their host's expense. such being a common practice throughout the kingdom little danger of causing suspicion lay in the fact that winter, rookwood, catesby, wright and such others as had been admitted to their council, departed from london in company. garnet, indeed, had ridden on before them, attended by sir digsby and fawkes, nor had any noted their departure; or, if perchance they did, were not disposed to comment upon it. a staunch catholic and a zealous follower of the jesuits, everard digsby had lent himself willingly to the cause of his brother churchmen, having long ago satisfied himself that their actions were justified. in fact, his present convictions were to some extent the outcome of early teachings, for even at a tender age his mind had been under catholic influence, and therefore it was not strange that on reaching manhood he should be a strong adherent of romish doctrine. and still further, his attitude was less to be wondered at, when considered that the seeds of these same convictions were planted by no other hand than the friend, tutor and spiritual adviser of his youth--henry garnet. in truth, he had surpassed the zeal of many associates, for being denied the full privilege of such worship as his faith taught him, he had caused to be erected within the walls of his country residence a small chapel, fitted up under supervision of the superior of the english jesuits. somewhat early in the evening the little cavalcade rode into buckinghamshire, and having reached their destination, were received with much cordiality by the young nobleman and his more austere companions. the ride from london, on account of the inclemency of the weather, had been most disagreeable, and the travelers were nothing loth to stretch their chilled limbs before the great fire prepared in readiness for their arrival, and to partake heartily of the well ordered refreshments which their host had caused to be in waiting. having satisfied the carnal man, they were the more willing to turn to the spiritual repast which had drawn them together; for in each mind the conviction was strong that in plotting against the king they were but serving the ends of god. "good gentlemen," said garnet, the company having drawn about the fire in a room somewhat remote from the more inhabited part of the dwelling, "having partaken so freely of worthy everard's hospitality, it is most fitting that we turn for a season to that which has summoned us from london. methinks there be none absent?" catesby ran his eyes over the group about him, checking each off on his fingers. "winter, my lord of rookwood, good percy, wright, francis tresham and master guido," said he, "these with your reverence, sir everard and myself, make up the number--nine." "'tis well," exclaimed garnet, fixing his eyes for an instant on the face of each. "certain things have arisen which render it most expedient that we make common cause with each other--what think ye?" "that the time is ripe for the maturing of such plans as best are suited to our purpose," replied rookwood; "james hath again declared against us." "'tis even so," broke in percy, "and at the house of master fawkes when thou wert absent, there arose some discussion as to certain ways and methods best fitted to----" "ah!" cried winter, looking toward the corner where was seated the soldier of fortune, with his chin upon his hand; "the opportunity has not served since our last meeting to inquire concerning thy good mother and thy daughter, friend guido. tell me, i pray, did the gathering of so many armed men in thy chamber disturb their slumbers?" "nay," replied fawkes, gruffly; "the dame knew nothing of it; neither my daughter, of that----" "and the lass," continued winter, eyeing the man closely, "is she well and cheerful as becomes her youth and loveliness?" "as to cheerfulness," answered the other, a shade of sadness coming into his face, "methinks the merry smile hath forever forsaken her lips, for now she looketh so pale and wan it doth seem but the shadow of her former self wandering about the house; but thank god, the worst is over, and she is on the road to recovery." "and hath mistress elinor been ill?" inquired winter, turning a surprised look toward the speaker. "i had deemed," answered fawkes, "that my absence from thy house for nigh on to a week would indicate to thee that something was amiss. i every day expected to----" "for truth," broke in the other in a relieved tone, "had i known that thy daughter lay ill i would for a surety have called. but, pray, tell me; is she better now?" "as i have said, she is better; but not herself as yet. in fact, it was on the night of the meeting at my dwelling, after ye had all departed, that i went for a breath of air upon the street and--and--well, it was when i returned that i found the girl in a high fever, and looking much as though she had beheld a foe. the fever spent itself in three days; now, 'tis but the after weakness which afflicts her." "thank god for her recovery!" exclaimed winter, as he eyed fawkes narrowly; but finding nothing in his countenance to arouse alarm, sank back in his chair with a sigh of relief. "and now," said garnet, who had listened with attention to the dialogue, "since thy last words have banished from my mind the anxiety called forth by the recital of thy fair daughter's illness, we may again turn our thoughts toward other matters, and listen to good catesby here." "as thou knowest," began catesby, "it hath ever been my desire to act quickly. therefore i would suggest that no time be lost in carrying out such designs as will rid the kingdom of our enemies." "well spoken," cried digsby; "to that we are agreed." garnet smiled sadly. "would that all england cried amen!" said he, solemnly. then turning suddenly to fawkes, "and thou, master guido, what sayest thou?" the soldier of fortune looked up quickly. "i am ever ready," said he, "whether we deal with all those in authority, or with the king alone." "then?" cried winter, "then?----" garnet cast down his eyes, the soul of the priest struggling with dark apprehensions which arose within him. "if there were any shadow of sin in it," he murmured, "i would not countenance the bringing of it to an issue. no other reason hath drawn me into it save ardent and active interest in the cause of god." then facing his companions he continued: "'tis the will of christ that in the hands of his weakest subjects shall be placed the sword of vengeance which shall sweep these infidels from the land. good catesby hath oft pondered in his mind, with some impatience, the meaning of my check upon his zeal. 'twas that i might seek through prayer a way to our deliverance. that the time is near a revelation hath been vouchsafed to me from heaven." a murmur ran through the little company. the priest's voice changed from tones of solemnity to those of one who spake with authority; and stretching forth the hand, he said: "we are of one mind. perchance master fawkes hath opened a way whereby shall be destroyed both the king and his parliament. what can effect our purpose quicker than the flash of gunpowder? god hath placed it in our hand for us to use, and do his will. yet other things remain; the door being opened, will those who watch us from abroad unite with us in restoring to this unhappy england its altars and its sacrifices? sir thomas winter, thou hast been in france and spain to do man's bidding; wouldst go thither in obedience to the will of god?" winter started, for the meaning of the other's words implied much. "is it a mission?" he asked, fixing his gaze upon the jesuit. "aye!" replied garnet; "a mission of much danger, and one which will need all secrecy. at the court of france dwell certain members of my order, close to the king, and deep in affairs of state. before them i will lay our undertaking, that when england shall be without a government and all the land involved in perplexity and beset with controversies, the armies of the catholic kings may come among us--the way being prepared for their entrance." a murmur of approval burst from catesby, rookwood and percy. "and if sir winter hesitates," cried the former, "i will----" "say no more," interrupted winter; "this day week will see me at the court of france." "and thou, friend guido," said garnet, blandly, "thou art of ready wit, and a good sword may be needful. shall brave winter go alone?" fawkes knitted his brows--"i little thought to again leave england so soon," he replied, gruffly; "yet ere another sunset will i be ready if thus i may serve the cause." a look of kindliness came into the jesuit's eyes; the blind zeal of the man, a zeal that thrust all other thoughts aside, touched him, and with quick perception he saw in the rough cavalier one who, did all others fail, would with his single hand hurl the thunderbolt. taking from his bosom a small silver crucifix, he laid it in fawkes' hand. "give this," said he, quietly, "unto thy daughter; 'twill guard her during thine absence. aye! and dost thou fear to leave her? i swear to thee, i will see to it that she lacketh nothing." fawkes turned upon him a look of deep devotion. bred in superstition, the fact that the priest understood that which troubled him--fear for the safety of his daughter--seemed a sign from heaven. he kissed the crucifix reverently, and put it in his bosom between the hard steel of his cuirass and his heart. garnet turned to the group. "one thing remains," said he solemnly; "'tis the oath which, registered before heaven, shall hold each to his purpose. sir digsby, let us to thy chapel, that beneath the shadow of the cross we may seek that blessing without which all our deeds are sinful, and our purposes as sand." solemnly the little company, headed by the priest and sir everard, wended their way toward the chapel. no words were exchanged between them, for all were deep in thought. as they passed into the chamber set aside for worship, each reverently knelt and crossed himself, then took up a position in front of the altar. as it was late and the brief winter twilight faded from the sky, the chapel lay shrouded in deep gloom, relieved only by the red light burning in a hanging lamp suspended before the tabernacle, holding the consecrated elements. to the men there was something fearfully solemn in their surroundings. before them stood that altar for the preservation of which they were about to pledge their lives. as their eyes became more accustomed to the subdued light, they beheld shadow-like forms slowly appear upon the walls, and while intently gazing, these apparitions gradually materialized and assumed definite shape, resolving themselves into paintings portraying the last scenes in the life of christ. penetrating everything was the clinging odor of incense, which, in some subtle way, brings to mind the awful majesty of god. presently garnet emerged from the sacristy, bearing in his hand a flaming taper with which he lighted the candles on the altar. the jesuit had placed over the costume which he wore a cope of deep red, richly embroidered with gold, and evidently the priest had not even laid aside his rapier, for its dull clank could be heard as he walked about. the rattle of the steel broke discordantly upon the deep silence, but was it not symbolic? a deed of violence was about to be committed, cloaked in the garb of religion! finishing his task, he knelt before the altar in silent prayer. then arising, he passed to the gate of the rood screen, where his commanding figure was thrown into bold relief by the altar lights. presently seating himself, he said in low and solemn tones to the men kneeling in the darkness: "consider well, my brethren, the step ye are about to take; for he who turns back will be likened unto the woman who glanced over her shoulder at a city burning;--to pillars of craven cowardice would ye be changed--monuments to mark how men, even when their duty shone clear as though emblazoned on the azure vault of heaven, lacked heart to carry it out. consider it well, then, all of you!" the deep voice of the priest rose as he uttered the last words, and its resonant tone returned in echoes from the vaulted ceiling as if each statued saint from out his niche cried: "consider it well." "are ye all prepared?" he asked. a deep "all prepared" answered his question. "'tis well. now shall i register your vows before the unveiled host and upon the crucifix, that in the very presence of the son of god ye may swear to perform them unto the end. to thee, my son," continued the superior, addressing catesby, "will i first administer the oath, for 'twas thy hand which was foremost to lift itself in the holy cause." the man arose and knelt before the jesuit. "dost swear," said the priest, holding a crucifix before the other's eyes, "that as thou dost hope for salvation through the blood of christ, so thou wilt yield thy blood if need be in this holy work; setting aside all else until a catholic doth occupy the throne of england?" "i swear it, father," answered catesby, reverently pressing his lips to the cross. to every one of the eight did the superior give the oath, and then took the same himself. "and now," said garnet, when the men had once more resumed their places, "do we proceed to administer to each the sacrament which alone can fill your minds and bodies with sufficient strength to carry out our holy purpose." the priest arose and turned toward the altar, bowed, then slowly ascended the steps. after unlocking the door of the tabernacle with a golden key, he drew forth from the recess the monstrance containing the eucharist. again he bowed, then elevated the host, while the stillness was only broken by the deep tone of the sacring-bell, the men bending in adoration. once more the priest made reverence; then arising, took from out the monstrance the pyx, and facing the group, repeated the words: "ecce agnus dei." all arose and knelt before him on the steps, receiving from his hands the sacrament, and when they had partaken, each silently returned to his place. a sense of the solemnity of their undertaking, accentuated by the awfulness of the act in which they were engaged, filled the men's hearts so that they scarcely beheld the jesuit ascend to the altar and replace the host within the tabernacle, or heard the benediction he pronounced.... once more the men stood in the room they occupied previous to their entrance into the chapel. all seemed loath to speak, being deeply impressed by the ceremony in which they had taken part. at last fawkes made ready for departure, being desirous of reaching london ere daybreak. as he approached the door of the room the superior arose and passed toward him. "friend guido," said garnet, as the other stood ready for the journey, "i will not see thee ere thou and sir winter return from france. let thy mind be at ease regarding thy daughter, for in thy absence i will have her under my special care. hadst better mention to her that she will have a visitor?" "i will be guided by thee in the matter, good father," returned fawkes; "but," he continued, in a husky tone, "guard her well, for she is very dear to me." "have no fear," garnet answered, kindly, laying a hand upon the other's shoulder; "in that will i be as zealous as though she were a daughter of mine own." chapter xv. "thou shalt not kill." the deduction made by winter concerning the silence of elinor had been correct; but the power he had deemed potent to restrain her from uttering what she had overheard, and from giving voice to the indignities he in his drunkenness had heaped upon her, was not alone the reason of her silence; the mind was held in a species of lethargy. now her father had left england; the motive which prompted his departure she could surmise,--his mission was an enigma. and who was his companion? the man whose face was ever before her, whose touch haunted her in dreams causing her to awake and cry in terror to the virgin for protection. the girl was wrought up to a state of hysterical expectancy. even when sitting within doors, an exclamation upon the street would cause her to start, fearing it might be a voice proclaiming the fulfillment of the awful threat which ever sounded in her ears. never did she go abroad and behold a group of men but she approached with trembling limbs and nervous eagerness, feeling that the first words falling from their lips would be that england was without a king. what the effect of this anxiety might have been had she brooded over it long in solitude, is not difficult to tell. but solace arose from an unexpected quarter. on his departure for france, fawkes had mentioned that there was in the city a certain friend, his companion several years before, whom he had again lately met and asked to call from time to time to inquire if he might render any service. the girl awaited the arrival of this visitor with trepidation and some anxiety, being well aware that the companions of her father were, as a rule, men of little refinement, accustomed to the rough life of a camp, and more at their ease in a pot-house than in the society of a young woman. her expectations were pleasantly disappointed, for on his first visit the stranger, by his ease and grace of manner, banished from her mind all doubts concerning him. although habited in the garb of a soldier of the period, there was about him something--a peculiar refinement of speech, a dignity of carriage, a certain reverent homage which he rendered unto her--that won from the girl a feeling of respect and confidence. his visits, far from being cause for apprehension, had become the one bright spot in her daily life; in his company elinor for a brief time forgot the terrible anxiety to which she was a prey. the only circumstance which impressed her as strange was that "captain avenel"--for by this name he had introduced himself--seldom visited the house by day, and there was always a certain amount of implied rather than actual caution in his movements, which seemed to the girl odd, as nothing else in his manner could be deemed in the least mysterious. on one of those evenings, which elinor now looked forward to with some pleasure, she and "captain avenel" sat together in a little room of fawkes' dwelling. "and didst say thou hadst intelligence of my father?" inquired she, eagerly. "this very morning," answered the man, "did i receive a letter brought by packet from calais, and in the note he wished me to make known his safe arrival; further, that he would by the next mail write thee, telling all about his travels. now thou canst set thy mind at rest concerning him, for france in our time offers but few dangers, though in truth i think thy sire hath the look of one to whom peril would be a diversion." "england doth offer more dangers than france," answered the girl, who was now abstractedly gazing into the fire. garnet turned a swift glance in her direction. the words awakened in the priest that feeling of apprehension which had ever been present in his mind since his arrival in london, but until now it had not been called forth by word or deed of hers. on the contrary, in her society the jesuit felt for some reason, probably the innocence and loveliness of the girl, a sensation of rest and security that enabled him to throw off the dread of detection which so constantly possessed him. but he turned and inquired in a quiet tone: "and dost deem england such a dangerous country?" "nay," replied elinor, hesitatingly, "england doth seem all peace and quietude, but----" here she stopped, fearing the man might read what lay hidden in her heart, for he was regarding her with a look of surprise as he noted her embarrassment. "come, my daughter," said he kindly, his gentle heart touched by the fear written on her face, "i have suspected long that some matter did trouble thee. if i have power to lend aid, consider my whitening hair, and hesitate not to confide in me, who am old enough to enjoy the blessing of being called father by thee." elinor looked into the benevolent countenance. "fear not," he continued in a persuasive voice, "if i can counsel thee, thy wish for help is granted ere 'tis asked." she raised her head and met a look of gentle sympathy long unknown to her, and for which her poor heart so fondly yearned. the tears sprang to her eyes and her self control, that which the brutality of winter could not break down, gave way. she turned toward him like a poor tired bird after battling with a storm; her weakness could not endure longer to see protection neath the leaf and branches of his goodness and not avail herself of it. in a moment more the words had passed her lips,--all that she had overheard, the words uttered by fawkes, and the fear and anguish which since had haunted her. "is there naught i can do?" she cried. "o god! when did i ever commit a sin worthy of the punishment?" she raised her eyes to garnet. "even thou art pale to the lips from the hideousness of the thing." through the girl's confession, garnet's attitude remained unchanged. at her first words he started, but with an effort controlled himself. the sudden revelation that their plans were known by one outside those who composed the little band consecrated to the holy cause, filled him with a terror which, at first, reason was unable to check. but as she proceeded, the quick mind of the priest perceived that the girl's one thought was, not to save the king, nor to defeat their hopes, but only to deliver her father from the danger to which he was exposed. the fear gradually passed away, and as elinor ceased speaking, the strongest feeling in the prelate's mind was one of sympathy for her who wept before him. "is there naught," garnet inquired, mildly, when the girl had finished, "that thou can'st see to justify thy father's act, and by that justification bring to thee consolation? think, even though he were marked to die, more honor belongs to him in this, than to live to old age in idleness and inactivity. dwell upon thy love for him, then meditate on his love for the church." "nay," she answered, "my knee doth bend before the altar with as great a reverence as any who do honor to the host, and were my father to fall in open conflict i would not grudge his life given to a noble cause. but this act is not loyalty to god, for, did he not decree, 'thou shalt not kill?' 'tis naught but murder; and if my father fall, he will not meet death as a martyr, but as a common assassin." garnet was silent; the girl's words sounded strangely to him. not wishing to reveal his identity he determined to avoid further argument, fearing suspicions might be raised in elinor's mind which would only make matters worse. what course to pursue he did not know. as far as circumstances permitted, he would help her, but how to effect this was beyond his present comprehension. "i have not told thee in vain? thou wilt aid me?" she inquired. "my child, i must have time to meditate," answered the jesuit. "i cannot give thee advice upon such a weighty matter without due deliberation; but," he added hastily, "all is safe for a time at least; thy father is in france." "i pray god," exclaimed the girl, "that i shall not have reason to regret opening my heart unto thee. nay, thou couldst not be so cruel as to make known what i have told. swear," she cried in sudden fear, noting a strange expression on the other's face, "swear thou wilt keep secret all i have revealed." "alarm not thyself," replied the prelate; "what thou hast uttered is as safe as if 'twere said under the seal of the confessional. know further, thou hast told thy trouble to one who will ever cherish the confidence, even if his help avail thee little. but," added he, tenderly--in the sincerity of his heart forgetting the sword which hung at his side--"may the peace of him whose hand was ready to turn the water into wine, or raise the widow's son, descend and give thee relief." "thou speakest like a priest," she said. garnet started, but quickly replied, "never could a priest grant thee absolution with a gladder heart, than i would release thee from this trouble, were it in my power, and were it the will of god that i should do so." "and dost think it is god's will that i suffer thus?" "perchance, yes," said he, in a thoughtful voice, as if communing with himself, "and it may be his decree that many more do groan with thee. be not regretful thou has told thy sorrow, for even to confide a grief is to make it lighter." "nay, i do not regret, i think there is little else left me but to endure; would that i were dead and beyond the touch of sorrow," she added, with a hopeless sigh. "thou shouldst not wish thyself dead, for to do so is to be unreconciled to the will of god. if this poor hand doth fail to bring comfort, my prayers shall ever be for strength that thou mayst bear with fortitude all which the wisdom of heaven deems just to send. try to look upon thy grief as a tribute god demands to work out some mighty project of his own." "i will try," the girl said, a sad smile coming into her face. "think not i am ungrateful for thy words of comfort." "and now, my daughter, will i wish thee the blessing of sweet sleep, for 'tis late; i will see thee again soon." "thou art very good," she replied simply, "thou, the only one remaining--" her lips trembled and tears filled her eyes; suddenly she threw her arms about him, and between the sobs which shook her frame, exclaimed, hiding her face upon his shoulder, "all that is left me now." garnet regarded the slight figure clinging to him: "oh god!" he thought, "is it thy will that such as these must suffer?" he raised his arm as if to encircle her, but let it drop by his side. "come, my child," he said after a moment, putting her gently from him, "thy tears well nigh unman me; i would it were in my power to give thee consolation, but help must come from higher hands than mine." as he reached the threshold he turned and beheld a picture which haunted him many a day, and for an instant raised within his holy mind a doubt of the justice of such grief. as she stood, the imprint of deep sorrow was on the fair young face--a sorrow the young should never know. one arm was raised as though in mute appeal to him not to forsake her in this misery. a look, and he closed the door, passing out into the night. the effect produced upon garnet by the trouble he had just witnessed was complex. never doubting the justice of the cause he espoused, still, his quiet nature could not hide from itself a feeling of pity that one so good and innocent should be called upon to suffer equally with those whose unholy hands were raised to snatch the cross from off the altar of his fathers. "truly," he muttered, as he proceeded on his way--pressing a hand to his breast that he might feel the crucifix resting there--"it hath been resolved by higher authority than my weak will that this thing must be done. and, henry garnet, who art thou to question? still," he added, sadly shaking his head, the memory of a tear-stained face passing before him, "it is a pity; but for every tear that falls from thy gentle eyes a soul will be redeemed." he continued on his way in silence. as he approached the more densely populated districts of the city, an almost unconscious movement of the hand brought the fold of his mantle over his shoulder, so that it hid the lower portion of his face. the tall figure of garnet was one which could not fail to attract attention, and many a passerby turned to see who the cavalier might be. this did not escape the eye of the prelate, and evidently for the sake of being unnoticed, he turned into a less frequented thoroughfare, and proceeded by a circuitous route to gain the hostelry wherein he resided. the way brought him through a portion of the city composed of narrow intersecting streets and alleys, faced by poor and worn out hovels. a few old warehouses here and there marked the spots where in times gone by fine goods had been stored. as they stood with broken windows and open doors sighing and creaking in the wind, they appeared like living creatures who had fallen from conditions of plenty, and were now, in their hunger, bemoaning the loss of the abundance which once had filled them. in front of one of these buildings garnet paused for a moment to more closely examine the pile, and being deeply absorbed in his task of inspection, was not aware of the glimmer of a lantern which came bobbing toward him along the main road. the first intimations that any one but himself stood upon the street were a sudden flash of light in his face, a heavy hand falling upon his shoulder, and a gruff voice exclaiming: "henry garnet, in the name of the king i arrest thee!" the priest started, and with rapid motion drew his cloak about him, at the same time springing upon the step of the building. the man lowered the light and by its reflection the jesuit could see that he wore the uniform of the king's guard. "come," continued the soldier, drawing his sword, "submission better suits thee as a priest, than does resistance." the blow had fallen so quickly, so unexpectedly, that for an instant garnet stood as one struck dumb, unable either to reply or form a plan of action. however, in a moment his alert mind grasped the situation. he had been recognized, that was evident, but his arrest was simply for disobeying the edict by which he, as well as all his order, were banished from the kingdom. the penalty following the violation of this decree, at its worst, would simply mean imprisonment in the tower. but what, he asked himself, would be the consequence of it? while far from being an egotist, the jesuit knew that he alone was the thinking power of that cause which to him was dearer than life. and now, when plans were fast maturing, the corn ripening in the field, awaiting but the hand of the reapers, he was placed in sudden danger which threatened to frustrate all their hopes. these thoughts flashed through his mind with the rapidity of lightning as he confronted the man standing at the foot of the steps. escape he must,--but how? "come, henry garnet," the man repeated, ascending the steps, lantern in one hand, a sword in the other. "thou art my prisoner, and in the name of his most gracious majesty, james i., i arrest thee!" a bold rush now would be of no avail, for the man stood with the point of his rapier close to the prelate's breast, almost touching his doublet; furthermore garnet's sword was in its scabbard, and at the first attempt to draw it, he, in all probability, would be run through the body. was there no alternative but to yield? a gust of wind caused the door at his back to creak. in an instant the jesuit had sprung for the portal, but the soldier, perceiving his purpose, lunged with his weapon, and so true was the aim, that the prelate's cloak was pinned fast to the wooden frame. an instant he was held there, but the clasp of the mantle giving way released its wearer, and garnet stood in the dark entry, the door shut, and his foot set firmly against it. the move had been none too quick, for the soldier hurled himself upon the closed portal, which caused the old boards to groan, but they did not yield; the only result of the man's efforts were, that the lantern flew from his grasp, rolling down the steps into the street. the priest heard him descend to recover the light, and relinquishing his hold upon the door, groped his way through the darkness, hoping to elude his pursuer in the building. his hand came in contact with the baluster, and he quickly ascended the rickety stairs. by this time, the guard had relighted his lantern and was peering cautiously into the hall, evidently fearing a sword thrust from out the darkness. in this instant's hesitation, garnet gained the loft above. here the obscurity was less intense, for the waning moon shining through a broken window into a room at his left, enabled him to see his way more distinctly. there was little time for choice of direction, for even now the soldier had commenced to ascend, and garnet, not venturing to grope further in the gloom, turned toward the ray of light, and passed quickly into the room, pressed himself against the wall and waited. the priest could see his pursuer holding the lantern above his head, as he ascended the stairs, looking carefully about the while. the soldier approached the chamber in which the jesuit lay hid, peered in at the door, and as if not satisfied with this cursory examination entered. at last the man seemed satisfied, and with a muttered curse was about to leave the apartment, when a fatal turn of the lantern swept one of its rays full upon the jesuit. "ah! there thou art, my sly fox!" cried the soldier, springing, sword in hand, at garnet; another instant would have seen the priest pinned fast to the wall, had not the man's foot in some way become entangled in the mantle hanging upon his arm, throwing him headlong with great clatter of steel to the floor. in a moment garnet was upon him, both hands at the soldier's throat, the long fingers pressing firmly the windpipe; one more strong clasp and the priest released his hold, seized the other's sword, which had fallen to the floor, and stood with its point upon the man's breast. "swear by the god thou fearest, and upon thine honor, that thou wilt remain in this room until i leave the house! swear it!" the priest repeated, "ere i run thee through!" no answer followed his command. "come. swear it!" he repeated, pressing the rapier firmly against the other's chest. the ominous silence fell upon the priest as strange. he stooped to look into the face. the light was dim, and still lower he bent. suddenly the sword dropped from his hand, for the jesuit saw by the bulging eyes which stared into his that he had demanded an oath from a corpse. those long white fingers had pressed more firmly than they knew; the man's windpipe was crushed like paper. "my god!" the jesuit whispered, kneeling beside the prostrate form, horror of the deed falling upon him. "of what have i been guilty? this man's blood upon my head?" terror-stricken, he looked about the room. again his eyes returned to the thing lying beside him. was that a movement of the distorted face? he gazed upon it in horrible fascination. slowly the lips of the dead man parted, the jaw dropped, and it seemed as though a hideous smile lay upon the distorted visage. "ah!" cried garnet, springing to his feet, "even in death thou art the victor, for i am shackled to thee. never in this world can i escape the recollection of thy countenance!" the priest fell upon his knees, and raised his hands: "god help me and forgive me for this deed!" he cried. "if i have sinned, 'twas not to save this worthless life of mine; not that i deemed it sweet to live, but that i might survive to consecrate or yield that life in the furtherance of thy holy work!" he paused a moment in silent prayer, then arose, and taking a crucifix from his doublet, knelt by the figure on the floor and pressed the symbol to the dead lips. "nay," said he, as he stood regarding the man, "i did not wish thy death, and would gladly yield my life to see thee breathe again, but 'twas ordained thou shouldst go first. and who next?" he added, raising the cross and gazing upon it--"mayhap he doth wear a crown." chapter xvi. monteagle and salisbury. four months passed; months of impatience to the conspirators who awaited with eagerness the hour to strike against the government. winter and fawkes had returned from france, their mission in part accomplished, as they had obtained from certain of the catholic nobility promises of assistance in the way of men and money, did the doors of england open to receive them. the plot to strike at the heart of the ruling powers was slowly maturing; fawkes, now the leading spirit, worked diligently both with brain and hands to perfect the plan decided upon by winter, catesby and the others. secure in a feeling of strength, the king had little thought that fate was slowly winding about him and his ministers a shroud which prompt action alone could cast off. toward the close of a sultry midsummer day, lord cecil, earl of salisbury and prime minister of england, after holding audience with the king, returned to his dwelling, glad to cast aside his decorations and forget during a few hours the weighty affairs of state. he was scarcely seated, with a glass of wine in hand, when my lord of monteagle was announced as waiting in the ante-chamber. 'twas no strange thing for this nobleman to seek the minister at his home, for between them there was a warm friendship, and it pleased cecil to receive the other at any time he chose to visit him. he therefore ordered that monteagle should be at once conducted to his apartment, and a second glass of wine prepared. as the peer entered, the keen eyes of his host noted that his bearing betokened a mind ill at ease. "faith!" said he, rising from his seat and extending his hand, "thou bearest a most sour visage, my lord. hath ridden in the sun, or did thy cook forget his occupation and serve thee an ill-prepared repast?" monteagle smiled faintly. "nay," said he, "'tis my mind which is somewhat disturbed." "then sit thee down," cried cecil cheerily, "and unburden thyself to me of all save affairs of state; of them am i exceeding weary, for the king hath a new hobby, a tax on beets and onions, in the discussion of which the afternoon has been consumed." "then his majesty devised another way----" began monteagle. salisbury raised his hand. "'tis treason," said he in feigned displeasure; "wouldst have us in the tower, good monteagle, that thou speak so lightly of james' statesmanship?" then changing his jesting tone to one of gravity: "but tell me, what troubles thee? hath the air of france failed to restore the spirits of thy son, effingston? he hath not returned?" "he is still in paris," replied the other, touching his lips to the glass which had been proffered him, "i this day received a letter in which he speaks encouragingly of his health, and announces his return within the month. thy mind is easy, my lord?" "and why not?" demanded the prime minister, holding aloft his glass that he might watch the reflection of the sun's rays upon the wine. "england is at peace, the king seated firm upon his throne, and the ship of state rides on an even keel. hast dreamed of treason, my lord monteagle?" "perchance not treason," replied his companion, drawing his chair nearer, "but--certain things my son hath written, added to others coming under my own observation, have caused me some uneasiness--a shadowy suspicion, as it were, that an ill plan is brewing against the king's authority." "tut!" cried salisbury. "'tis a fit of indigestion, about which thou hadst best consult thy doctor. yet, what be these suspicions?" "thou knowest," replied monteagle, sinking his voice so that it scarce reached the other's ear, "there are certain catholics among the nobles who chafe grievously under the exactions of laws passed by parliament and approved by james." salisbury shrugged his shoulders. "that is beyond peradventure," said he, "but the laws will stand." "of that i would speak nothing," replied monteagle, "being neither king nor parliament, but it hath been hinted that perchance the wind of discontent may fan into life a flame of----" "thou hast relatives among the catholics," interrupted cecil, looking keenly at the other, "hast become a confidant?" monteagle shook his head. "nay," said he, "nor do i desire to mix in affairs concerning my former faith. yet, i have knowledge of certain meetings which have taken place composed of sundry persons opposed to the policy of james." "the dogs cut by the lash herd together in their discomfiture," replied cecil, "yet they fear to bite the hand which stung them." monteagle frowned, for the words of the prime minister were not to his liking. "there is more," said he; "certain of those have been seen in france." "'tis a most catholic country," replied salisbury, "and, perhaps, wishing to worship unmolested before their altars, some have gone thither for their religion's sake." "my lord!" cried monteagle, perceiving the minister was in a mood for jesting, "hast thou had no fear that some hidden danger might lurk beneath the calm exterior of the peace which covers england? do not smile, but hear me. thou knowest the viscount effingston is in france, at the court of henry, and hath mingled much with some who are close to the throne. perhaps it may not have reached thine ears that some months back a bloodless duel was fought between him and one sir thomas winter, a zealous catholic and enemy to the king." "ah!" broke in salisbury, "thy speech grows interesting; and what brought about this duel?" "'twas an insult cast upon me by this winter," replied monteagle. "effingston chancing to hear, resented it, and an exchange of sword thrusts followed; but that is past. as i told thee this morning i received a letter from paris in which the viscount says he hath met this winter and another, a soldier of the commoners, and----" "a second duel hath followed?" interrupted the minister. "not so," replied the other, "but being suspicious of the fellows, my son did set a spy upon them, feeling sure that no honest errand took them into france." "and what did he discover?" asked salisbury. "that winter and his companion sought many times audiences with certain high churchmen known to be enemies of england. once, he chanced to meet them upon the street, when winter flushed a scarlet and hastily passed. after this he learned that two englishmen, one a soldier who had served the king of spain, gained the ear of certain prelates and noblemen; that their conferences had been conducted with much secrecy, and having finished, the men left paris in the night, taking poste for calais." "and what then?" asked salisbury, "did thy son learn anything concerning those secret conferences?" "no way was open to him," answered monteagle, "but he thought it best to lay the matter before me; the more so that winter and the other have returned to london." the prime minister pondered for a moment. "faith! my lord!" said he, "thy zeal for the welfare of the state is most commendable, and the king shall know of it, but thy spirit is overwrought with idle fear. what if certain catholics in england have sought audience with those of their faith in paris? have we then fear of france? my word upon it, good monteagle, that calm thought will quell thy doubts. of this thomas winter i know something; a reminder of the luckless essex, a gentleman whose zeal doth warp his reason, and who, should he presume too far, will feel the axe, i warrant. thou sayest he is again in england; perchance he builds a castle which the sight of a line of soldiers will scatter to the winds. again i thank thee for thy counsel, my lord, nor will i neglect such matters as pertain to the safety of the king. if it come to thee, that these dissatisfied catholics grow too bold in speech, for i fear not other signs of treason, lay it before me, that i may stop their tongues, ere evil thoughts be planted in the minds of them who cry 'amen' to any wind of speech delivered in the market place." monteagle arose, for he perceived 'twas useless to speak further of ill-defined plots and perchance groundless fears of treason against the king. "i but considered it my duty as an english gentleman to look to the welfare of----" he began. "thou hast my confidence," interrupted salisbury, "and though i seem to treat lightly thy suspicions they will be most carefully heeded should occasion arise. there be certain chambers in the tower, where those too zealous in their faith may pass the time in prayer, thanking god the king is merciful, and stays the axe." monteagle bowed and left the room. "it may be," he muttered, "that my mind doth dwell too much upon this matter, but i know sir thomas winter well, and there be certain of the jesuits yet in england." chapter xvii. sowing the wind. late of an evening near to michaelmas, three men applied for admission at the door of a house close to the edge of the thames, and which, by reason of its surroundings, assured security from observation to those who might choose to abide therein. knocking upon the panel with the hilt of a heavy rapier which he had drawn from its scabbard, the shorter of the trio listened impatiently for the sounds which would precede the drawing of the bolts within. his companions, who were in the shadow of a neighboring wall, glanced about apprehensively. "'tis an ill-favored place, sir thomas," whispered one, grasping tighter the hilt of his sword as though the touch of the steel might calm in a measure his disquietude. "scarce is it to my liking that friend guido hath chosen so----" his companion laughed uneasily. "he hath a keen wit," replied he, "and much precaution is necessary that none suspect at the eleventh hour. as thou seest, good percy, 'tis a most peaceful region, with few abroad and no signs of the authorities." "peaceful, indeed," replied percy, casting his eyes down the poorly lighted and narrow street through which he had come; "so is a charnel-house, yet one would scarce----" a second rap upon the door, delivered with increased force, interrupted the whispered conversation. "within!" growled fawkes, bending so that his lips were on a level with the keyhole. "art sleeping, master keyes, or----" the shuffling of feet answered, and a voice nearly inarticulate from drowsiness demanded in no gentle tones who sought admittance to an honest dwelling at so unseasonable an hour. upon fawkes replying, the bolt was withdrawn, the door opened a few inches and the face of master keyes appeared in the aperture. the soldier of fortune motioned to his companions who quickly joined him. "good robert, here, is a most cunning rogue," said he half laughingly, "having feigned sleep----" the warden of the door forced a sneering smile. "faith!" said he, making way that the others might enter, "'twas such feigning as may ever come to me when i would forget my troubles, and there be in my purse no silver to purchase that which is opposed to conscience. what wouldst thou, guido fawkes? that i sit upright in a corner from eventide till morn that thou be not kept waiting before the door? ill was the day when, listening to thy words, i undertook this errand; thou art fain to wish that i may be blown to the devil by thy six and thirty barrels of----" fawkes hastily laid his open palm across the mouth of the irate man. "what now?" growled he gruffly, "that thou must cry aloud the contents of thy cellar? hast not been paid?" "aye," grumbled the man, drawing back, "for sitting over hell! may those selfsame spanish hirelings to whom thy powder goeth, be blown to their master with scant courtesy!" winter whispered in percy's ear: "a pretty trick, good percy, yet what more natural than, wishing to turn a penny by furnishing powder to the dons, brave guido should act with much secrecy, so that it be not seized by the authorities?" already they were in the house, and the door was securely fastened. fawkes laid aside some of his cautiousness. "friend robert is a faithful man," said he, turning to his companions and speaking with much significance; "therefore have i entered into an agreement with him, that i, being under contract to the spanish ambassador to convey certain barrels of gunpowder into flanders, he should guard them till the time be ripe for loading into such vessels as will carry them to the ship which i have hired." "then," replied winter, taking from his wallet a gold piece and tendering it to keyes, "he will accept this token which, i warrant, will be increased by others of its kind if his diligence pleaseth thee." on seeing the gold the man's ill temper vanished. "good gentlemen," cried he, seizing eagerly the coin, "i spoke but hastily." "that we know," said winter, "and, perchance we, had we been so rudely awakened, would have done as thou didst. hath any disturbed thee during thy guardianship?" "none, save a few drunken braggarts who found their way hither, and would have battered in the door. did any come whose wits were sharper than their caution, i would have----" "what?" asked fawkes pointedly, as the speaker hesitated. "faith!" replied keyes, "being a poor man, and a bag of gold pieces forthcoming upon the safe loading of this devil's face powder onto the spanish vessel, 'twould be but just, that did any seek to cheat me of it--well, the river tells no tales; what think ye, gentlemen?" percy shuddered; winter pressed his hand. "nay, good percy," he whispered, "'tis scarce like to happen, yet even so, we would be but instruments in the hand of god." during this conversation fawkes, who seemed to be familiar with the house, had led his companions into a small apartment whose window overlooked the river which, washing against the stone foundation of the dwelling, offered a safe retreat did any, bent upon trouble making, force the street door. winter and percy glanced about them. the place was bare save for a rude cot, a shaky table upon which flickered an iron-bound lantern, and a small chest that, did occasion require, could be placed against the narrow door. at a sign from fawkes, keyes drew aside the bed, disclosing in the floor the outlines of a trap door, which covered an opening to the cellar beneath. stooping, he raised the heavy cover, revealing the top rounds of a rude ladder leading into the blackness below. "'tis there!" said fawkes shortly, "wouldst see it, gentlemen?" percy drew back, when keyes, misunderstanding his hesitancy, caught the lantern from the table. "i will go down," said he, "and thou mayst safely follow; the stuff be well housed, tight as a drum, and, as thou seest, the lantern scattereth no fire." "but will not the dampness of the place destroy its usefulness?" asked winter. "there is little fear," replied fawkes, "although it lieth below the surface of the river; the cellar is hewn from the rock, and dry as a tinder-box. lead the way, good robert, take heed with thy light." with much cautiousness the two men followed fawkes and his guide down the ladder to the floor ten feet below. reaching it, keyes held up the lantern so that its feeble rays penetrated the darkness. piled against the walls of the subterranean chamber, winter and percy discerned irregular dark objects rising to the height of their heads. "'tis the wind which will free england of the pestilence," said fawkes grimly; then catching the quick glance of winter, which reminded him of the presence of master keyes, added: "which sown in flanders will bring forth a whirlwind against those who serve not god after the manner of the righteous." "a goodly amount of the grains," said percy, placing his foot again upon a round of the ladder; "and how much saidst thou, good master keyes?" "as fawkes hath told me, some six and thirty barrels," replied the watchman; "enough, methinks, to send all london up to the stars." "and the king, also," whispered winter in fawkes' ear, and added, "let us to the room above. my stomach hath small liking for thy cellars." percy was already half way up the ladder, and the others quickly followed. to the soldier of fortune and to master keyes, 'twas of little moment that they had stood in the presence of such an engine of destruction, which, if properly applied, would shake to its foundation the strongest structure in europe. but in winter and percy, especially the latter, the presence of the gunpowder, thoughts of the purpose for which it was to be used, and the lives which must be sacrificed, overcame for the moment their fanatical zeal, and they withdrew with a feeling akin to horror. 'twas truly the seed of death; and in sowing the wind might they not, themselves, reap the whirlwind? a short time in the upper chamber restored their calmness, and they no longer seemed such fearful things, those grim barrels of harmless looking black grains, which might lie harmless for centuries, as they had seen them, or, at the touch of a single tiny spark, shake london as by an earthquake, vacate a royal throne, and exterminate in an instant the proudest government in europe. percy, of more gentle disposition than his companion, gazed into the face of guido fawkes with a feeling akin to awe. his was the brain which had suggested this terrific method for the destruction of the king and parliament; his the voice that had pronounced the words which laid bare the plan to catesby, winter and the others. if fawkes had never come from spain, perhaps----, but the subject of his gloomy thoughts was speaking in reply to a question put by sir thomas. "thou hast noted," said he, "that this dwelling lieth close to the river; so, 'twill be no great matter to remove the barrels from the cellar to the deck of a boat lashed beneath the window, and, if a dark night be chosen for the work, none, i warrant, will perceive the matter. what sayest thou, friend robert?" "that there is much of wisdom in thy speech," replied the other; "and once upon the boat, the channel to the sea, where will lie thy spanish galley, is open. when, thinkest thou, the powder will be moved?" "i know not," replied fawkes, sharply,--"in due time----" then, turning to his companions: "gentlemen, having seen that which lies below, what may be your pleasure?" "to return quickly," replied percy, relieved at the thought of escaping from such an ill-favored locality. keyes chuckled. "thou art in haste to quit my presence, and my pretty devil's powder, good gentlemen," said he; "didst sleep so near as we, perchance you would come to love it as master fawkes and i do. one spark from this weak lantern, and----" "come!" cried percy, drawing his arm through that of winter,--"we are satisfied; what need to tarry longer?" in the street once more they, with fawkes leading, hastened to gain a more populous section of the city. 'twas to winter's house they went, where catesby was waiting impatiently. he, with fawkes, had visited the house by the river on the night previous, therefore he fell into their discussion with good knowledge of the subject in hand. "thou shouldst have been a general," said he to fawkes; "it scarce comes to me how so goodly a quantity of powder could be stored in yonder place without detection." "'twas no great matter," replied fawkes, setting down the wineglass winter had handed him, "a little here, a trifle there, requiring some weeks in the gathering; but now, as thou hast seen, there is enough." winter laughed. "faith!" said he, "i would fain not have thee for mine enemy, friend guido; else, some fine night, while i dreamed not that danger threatened, my good dwelling would come to grief." fawkes smiled grimly. "not so," said he; "if thou wert an enemy, and i had sworn to kill thee, 'twould be by other means,"--touching the hilt of his sword. "what thou hast seen is reserved for kings and parliaments." "the powder is well stored," broke in catesby,--"what next?" "that hath been attended to," replied percy. "as thou knowest, certain events must transpire ere master keyes gives up his guardianship. to me has fallen the duty of looking into the matter. the cellar of the parliament house must be reached ere further effect can come from our planning." "what hast thou decided?" asked winter. "upon a simple solution of the matter," replied the gentleman-pensioner. "foreseeing our course, i have made an agreement with one henry ferrers for the hiring of a dwelling close to the house of parliament. the documents are already signed and sealed. as in many houses, the cellar extends some feet below the surface of the street and, next it, lies the foundation wall of the house." "then," cried catesby, "we will play the mole; is it not so, good percy?" "thou hast said it," replied the other; "to reach the cellar beneath the house of lords we must pierce through the foundation. 'tis of great thickness and the task will not be easy." "i am little used to delving," growled fawkes, "but there is no other way." "and garnet?" inquired catesby. "garnet hath gone from london," said percy, "nor will he return until the fuse has reached the powder. he is now at coughton house to await such time as we shall summon him to join our forces." "and them hast all in readiness?" asked winter. "in the house of henry ferrers are tools for digging--picks, hammers and the like," replied percy. "and in another place lie six and thirty kegs of trusty powder," added catesby; "the instruments are at hand." then rising: "come, gentlemen! our conference is ended; to-morrow we work, not talk." chapter xviii. the cellar. the house of master ferrers stood on the narrow strip of land between the house of lords and the river thames. the wall of the dwelling being adjacent to that which guarded the east side of the parliament house, 'twas not so difficult a matter for one bent upon gaining secret entrance to the latter, to tunnel through it. being of soft bricks it would afford but a slight obstacle to determined men. to penetrate the official structure was a harder undertaking, the thickness thereof being some nine feet, and the masonry of flinty stone, firmly cemented, and hardened into a compact mass by the lapse of years. but, having once pierced through the two walls, the first of brick, the other of stone, one would find himself in a chamber of some extent, lying directly beneath the assembling place of the peers, and the throne from which the king witnessed the convening of his parliament. though, in fact, a cellar to the main building, the room was upon a level with the street without, the walls being of "stout stones" and the ceiling formed by beams upon which rested the flooring of the house of lords. 'twas in this room the conspirators proposed to place the six and thirty barrels of gunpowder, and--parliament being in session--to apply a spark to the slumbering power by which those who occupied the room above would be blown heavenward with such scant ceremony that none among them should have time to cry: "good lord, have mercy upon us! amen!" in selecting the house against the east wall of the peer's meeting place, percy had acted with some wisdom. the thames was the silent highway of london, and did a boat stop beside the river entrance of the dwelling, none would be likely to take any note thereof, nor to think it matter of suspicion for one who occupied the place to use the water as means of conveying such commodities as he chose to his storeroom or cellar. in this manner the powder stored under the guardianship of master keyes was removed by night to the second storage place, that it might be in readiness when the time arrived for placing it beneath the floor of parliament. many persons dwelt in the neighborhood; in the vicinity were clustered the houses of the keeper of the wardrobe, auditors and tellers of the exchequer, and many other officials of the government, any of whom might notice the barge lying close at the edge of the garden on the river front, and the men carrying from it to the house divers packages, but it was not probable that they would. none, unless having business with master percy, would approach the door, nor enter the garden, much less question the carriers concerning that which they removed so carefully. it was at the end of the tenth day after the visit of percy and sir thomas to master keyes that the six and thirty barrels--twenty-four hundred pounds--of powder were safely stored in the building next the parliament house. but ere this was accomplished, those who had undertaken the digging of the tunnel began their work. under cover of the darkness, catesby, wright, percy, winter and fawkes, entered the house leased by the gentleman-pensioner, and being provided with a goodly quantity of baked meats and other necessaries, that nothing should arise to call them abroad, they began their work upon the brick wall beyond which lay the masonry proper of the house. of the five, four were gentlemen of blood, to whom the handling of pick and bar came not so readily. to fawkes, skilled through long service in foreign lands, where the undermining of walls and fortifications was a common occupation, it fell to direct the work, although in actual digging he took small part, it having been agreed that he should serve as watchman, warn the others did any approach the garden, or danger arise from sounds in the cellar reaching the ears of those whose curiosity might bring unwelcome investigation as to so strange a proceeding. crowded as they were in the narrow space, the four conspirators, with doublets cast aside and limbs weary from their unusual occupation, plied drill and crowbar, enlivening their toil by discourse upon the subject of the undertaking, and stopping ever and anon to refresh themselves with ale, or wine. "faith!" said sir thomas, looking woefully upon his begrimed hands and vestment, "'tis a sorry thing to play the mole, when a sword thrust delivered from behind a curtain, or the stroke of a poniard, would as well free us of these tyrants." "'twere perchance easier," replied percy, driving his drill through the last layer of bricks which stood between them and the second wall. "i, for one, would choose the lord to give me work under an open sky, where there be less dust to blind the eyes and stifle the breath." catesby laughed harshly. "could garnet hear thee," said he, "a discourse of patience would soon be forthcoming. to your work, gentlemen; we have already pierced one wall." an exclamation from wright interrupted them. "by the wounds," he growled, throwing down his crowbar with much show of temper, "one wall, indeed; a paper covering compared with this," and taking the bar again drove its point with great force against the one now exposed, belonging to the house. the iron rebounded from the solid masonry as though driven against a sheet of steel, for the flinty stone turned it easily, and only a shower of sparks answered the blow. "what hast thou there?" asked winter. "the gate of hell," retorted wright, kicking the bar with his foot, "nine feet of it, by master percy's computation, and, i warrant, as many years will be required to see the further side. try it, good catesby, 'tis a nut a giant could scarce crack, though he wield a battering ram." taking up a lantern which stood by the wall, catesby examined the masonry with great carefulness. "thou shouldst have struck the mortar," said he, tapping the cement between the blocks of stone with the point of his drill, "wouldst tear away the rock itself?" for some moments he worked diligently, streaming with perspiration and his loud breathing filling the narrow place. a hole scarce three inches deep rewarded his exertions. "'tis well reasoned," growled he at length, "here is a riddle for master fawkes; wilt summon him, friend percy?" glad for an excuse to leave for a moment the ill-savored cellar, percy hastened on his errand, and fawkes presently entered, looking keenly about. "what now, gentlemen?" said he, "hast made an opening?" "that have we not, save through this wall of brick," replied catesby, "methinks thy gunpowder could scarce open a further way, friend guido. look thou at yon barrier of stone." taking the lantern, fawkes followed the suggestion. "'tis, in truth, most strongly put together," said he at length, "but with due patience and diligence this also may be overcome. give me a drill." having received one from the hand of winter he attacked the masonry, striking here, picking there, until, having loosened a goodly portion of cement, he caught up a heavy crowbar, and inserting its point into the narrow opening, bore down upon the iron with all his strength and the block of stone, freed from its fastening, was detached and fell with a dull crash upon the floor at his feet. the soldier of fortune wiped his brow. "'tis of the smallest," said he, "but the others will give way in turn. thou must first be sure that the mortar is removed, when, using sufficient force, the rocks will loosen, thus making the hole larger." "there be too few of us," said winter. "i think some word should be sent to my brother robert, that he join us in this business, and also master keyes, who being a man of much resource, and, perchance, skilled in such labor as this, may aid us much." "can he be trusted in so dangerous a venture?" asked wright. "of thy brother robert there is no fear, but what of this master keyes?" "friend guido will answer for his loyalty," replied winter; "the man is reliable, though his zeal turneth to the securing of money. already have i examined him, and found that within his mind lay some suspicion as to our object in collecting such a quantity of powder. for recompense he will dig most industriously, and promise of reward when our mission is accomplished will make him dumb. thou hast my word upon it." "then," said catesby, "let him be summoned hither, and thy brother also; much labor lies before us; seven men can scarce accomplish it, and we are now but five." it was agreed that on the following night fawkes should bring keyes and robert winter to the cellar, when, with a greater number to labor, the work of forcing a passage through the wall could be accomplished more rapidly. in the meantime, being excessively wearied, the conspirators left the cellar and sought repose. * * * * * two weeks passed. the excavation in the wall of the parliament house had increased day by day, until a hole some five or six feet in length, large enough to admit the body of a man, was bored through the solid masonry. with the assistance of the two additional members to their little party the conspirators worked with renewed energy. filled with enthusiasm they had little sense of fatigue, and plied pick and drill vigorously that they might gain entrance to the room beneath the lord's chamber before the convening of parliament, which, as percy learned, was to take place on the fifth of november. confident that their work was appointed by god, those men of gentle blood curbed their impatience, though laborious and slow was the task, and every muscle and bone ached when the tools were laid aside. for a time the disposal of the earth and rock taken from the tunnel puzzled them, but fawkes with characteristic quickness found a way;--such of the debris as would attract little attention was scattered about the garden; as for the larger rocks and mortar, the river was close at hand, and, as robert keyes had said, it told no tales. so they worked, beguiling the weary hours with discussions as to what would follow the success of their project. england would be without a king; the machinery of the government shattered, and the way would be open for seating a catholic upon the throne. prince henry, successor to the crown, would perish with his father and the peers in parliament. they would seize the royal heirs who remained, prince charles and the princess elizabeth, hold them in durance, while the catholics would choose the heir-apparent and appoint a protector for the kingdom. it was a daring plan and the prospect of its execution lightened their toil, and intensified the flame of their zeal. somewhat near the middle of the day, when, having ceased for a moment the attack upon the wall, wright, who had remained in the tunnel after the others had gone out, rushed wildly forth, his face pale under its coat of dust and his limbs trembling strangely. "what aileth thee?" cried catesby, alarmed at his companion's aspect, "hath the wall fallen in upon----" "nay," replied wright with harsh voice, "but i go in no more; the devil hath seized this tunnel, and----" catesby entered quickly, and in a moment was at the end of the narrow aperture. on either side arose the rough masonry, torn and ragged where the stones had been forced apart; upon a heap of debris stood wright's lantern, burning dimly, beside it his heavy drill and hammer. catesby looked hurriedly about, but all was silent; the air was hot and stifling and the smoke from the lantern filled his nostrils. he turned to retrace his steps, with rough words for wright upon his lips, when a faint sound fell upon his ears; an unearthly thing, which startled him and sent to his heart a thrill of superstitious terror. 'twas a measured tinkling, as of a silver bell, which rose and fell with steady cadence. instinctively his hand went to his left hip, but the familiar hilt was absent; he had left it in the room above, guarded by robert winter, who watched with fawkes. snatching from his bosom a small silver vial filled with holy water, the trembling conspirator sprinkled a few drops upon the walls--the tinkling ceased, and from the entrance behind sounded the voice of percy: "what hast thou found, good catesby, a goblin, or----" the answer of the other was upon his lips when, above his head, apparently from the center of the solid masonry itself, came a sound as of the rushing of mighty waters, which continued for a short space of time, then died away. the noise reached the ears of those in the room without, and it needed not the white face of catesby showing in the opening to send them upon their knees with prayers to the virgin for protection. at that moment fawkes appeared among them. "what now?" said he gruffly, much amazed at so strange a sight, "think ye, good gentlemen, that praying will cause the stones to separate?" "brave guido!" cried winter with trembling voice, "either this place is bewitched or our plans discovered; we have heard----" the renewal of the noise interrupted him. fawkes laid his hand upon his hilt and, with his lips pressed close together, thrust his head into the entrance of the tunnel. for a moment he remained silent, then turned with a grim look upon his face. "'tis from the place which we strive to reach," said he shortly; "go ye to the room above, while i learn its meaning;" and without more delay he left the cellar, followed by his terror-stricken companions. disguised in the dress of a common porter there was little danger in his venturing abroad. after an absence of about an hour, he returned to the six conspirators. "faith!" said he, tossing his cap upon the table, "thou mayst lay aside thy tools, sir thomas, and the others likewise." "and wherefore?" asked percy with bloodless lips. "are we then discovered? if so, i will die with sword in hand----" "speak not of dying," replied fawkes, a smile passing over his face; "rather set thy wits to working. thou art good at bargaining; hire for us, therefore, this cellar beneath the house of parliament." the catholic gentlemen gazed at him in astonishment, wondering if some sudden terror had beclouded his brain; or, did the man but jest with them? "hire the chamber under parliament house?" gasped catesby, "as well might good percy bargain for the royal prerogative of james." "ye think me mad," said fawkes, "but listen. after leaving you i made my way with all haste to the door of the parliament cellar, which was open, and discovered the meaning of the noise which reached us in the tunnel;--'twas the sliding downward of a goodly quantity of coal, owned by a woman of some property called bright, a dealer in coals and faggots. she being present, attending to the removal of her own, i addressed her and learned that, having hired the cellar from the authorities, she was about to give it over to them. "'and is't for rent?' asked i. "'that it is,' replied she; 'for he who hath the renting of it, one whynniard, by name, did offer it for the coming quarter, but it pleaseth me to store my coals elsewhere.' "thou seest, therefore, that this room is for us if we do choose, and master percy, well versed in such matters, has but to bespeak this whynniard and possession will be given of a most valuable corner of the house of parliament." this sudden turn of fortune rendered the conspirators for the moment speechless. winter was the first to regain his balance. "it shall be done," cried he; "right glad am i that such a chance hath come to us. good master percy, bestir thyself, before another seize the opportunity." to all, it seemed that the hand of god had opened a way for them, and percy made haste to do his errand, and with such success, that ere another sunrise the room beneath the house of lords was in the hands of those who hoped to overthrow the government. having gained so easily the place they had sought to acquire by stealth and painful labor, the conspirators at once set about conveying into it the powder now stored in the house of master ferrers. fawkes, to whom this work fell, bought, and ordered deposited in the chamber, a goodly quantity of coals and faggots, so that one chancing to enter would note only a pile of such commodities as dealers in fuel collected for sale. care was taken that the unfinished tunnel in the wall should be covered so that none would notice it. this was easily done by replacing a few of the outer stones and cementing them together. some days yet remained before the opening of parliament; during that time percy, catesby, winter and others of the conspirators, formed such plans as would be to their advantage when the kingdom, shaken to its center by the death of the king and his ministers, should be thrown into confusion. as for fawkes, each day found him in the fatal cellar, where he studied the condition of his coals and faggots, making sure that no prying eye had penetrated the covering, under which was hidden the "devil's powder" awaiting the spark which would free english catholics from james of scotland and his parliament. chapter xix. the note of warning. during the last week of october, sixteen hundred and five, near the day for the convening of parliament, lord monteagle suddenly appeared in his house at hoxton, from which he had been absent a month. his manner was perturbed and preoccupied in the extreme. usually of a genial disposition, he surprised the servants who attended him, by an impatient order that supper be served at once, as he and the gentlemen accompanying him had already fasted too long. soon after seven in the evening he dispatched a footman upon an errand into the neighboring street. this man shortly returned in haste, presenting to his lordship a sealed letter, addressed, in a cramped hand, to "the right honorable, the lord monteagle." he received the missive, handling it in a fastidious manner, and inquired with some show of spirit how it had come through a servant, instead of being delivered in the usual way. "'twas given me," replied the footman, "by a reasonably tall person who stood upon a corner of the street, and directed with much semblance of authority that i give it into thy lordship's hand and to no other." "'tis a most unwonted thing," said monteagle, breaking the seal, "probably some petition for alms which----" then, on glancing over the sheet, he started, and turned to a gentleman beside him. "good thomas ward," said he, "'tis written in a most illegible and wretched hand which i can scarce decipher; neither bears it any date or superscription. i pray thee take and read aloud, that all may hear and pass opinion upon so strange a matter." ward accepted the paper, and smoothed it out upon his hand. "it seems the writing of a laborer," said he, "one who doth wield a pick and spade with more ease than a quill. a most unmannerly jumble of ill-conditioned words, as thou shalt judge, my lord, upon hearing." so saying he read aloud as follows, while the others sat and listened: "my lord out of the love i beare to some of youer friends i have a cayer of youer preservation therefor i would advyse yowe as yowe tender youer lyfe to devyse some excuse to shift of youer attendance at this parleament for god and man bathe concurred to punishe the wickedness of this tyme and thinke not slyghtly of this advertisment but retyre youer selfe into youer country where yowe may expect the event in safty for though there be no appearence of any stir yet i say they shall receyve a terrible blowe this parleament, and yet they shall not see who hurts them. thys cowncel is not to be condemed because it may do yowe good and can do yowe no harm, for the danger is passed as soon as yowe have burnt the letter, and i hope god will gyve yowe the grace to make good use of it to whose holy protection i commend yowe." "a most amazing document," said ward, as he returned it to monteagle; "and what think you of it, my lord? canst detect the meaning of so strange a warning?" his lordship contracted his brow and studied the writing with much attention. "'tis as you perceive," said he, "a warning unto me that some unexplained danger lies in the way." "a boorish jest," cried one at the table; "think not upon it, my lord." "which is proved beyond doubt by the action of the one who brought it," said another; "he dared not deliver it at the door." monteagle folded the letter carefully and thrust it inside his doublet. there arose in his mind suspicion that in the tenor of the message lay the verification of the warning to lord salisbury, and that, mayhap, beneath the apparent serenity of the kingdom, smoldered a volcano which needed but the touch of a directing master hand to send belching forth its contents of treason and blood. into his mind came also the words of the prime minister spoken one afternoon several months before, that should aught be unfolded of plots or treasonable designs, they should be disclosed to him, and thus the danger to the state be averted. he had therefore a feeling of relief when the meal was ended, and his companions left him to carry out his intention. the raw october night was filled with storm and blackness, but the spirit of lord monteagle burned within him to lay before salisbury and, perchance, the king, the warning which had come to him. scarce a quarter of an hour elapsed after rising from the table ere, covered by a great cloak, booted, and with a stout rapier girt at his side, he left hoxton house unnoticed, and turned his steps toward the dwelling of the prime minister. although the hour was late cecil had not retired when he received the announcement that monteagle sought an interview. surprised at so unusual an occurrence the minister hastened to greet his visitor, ordering, as was his custom, that a light repast be set before him. "and what now, good monteagle?" asked he, looking at his companion with a smile, "hast thy digestion played thee false again?" "of that thou shalt judge, my lord," replied monteagle, taking the letter from his doublet and handing it to the minister. salisbury mastered its contents with an aptness peculiar to himself. "faith!" said he, letting his eyes rest searchingly upon the face of his companion, "and how camest thou by this thing, my good lord?" monteagle related briefly the scene at the supper table. "and didst thou have the letter read aloud, in the presence of thy gentlemen?" asked the minister. "its contents were unknown to me," replied the other; "the writing was obscure and i did request thomas ward to decipher it." salisbury pondered for a moment. the warning of danger threatening those who would sit at the opening of the coming parliament perplexed him, and drawing nearer to a light he studied the letter carefully. "thou hast done well," said he, suddenly turning to monteagle, "in placing this paper in my hands without delay, yet----" he laid a finger on the letter, "perchance 'tis nothing, or--there may be much behind these ill-written lines. thou perceivest that herein is written: 'for the danger is passed as soon as you have burned the letter!' what then can be the use of such a warning? as, hadst thou put the sheet to fire, there had been no danger." "'tis beyond my comprehension," replied monteagle, "'tis a riddle." salisbury looked up quickly. despite his assumed indifference at the time, the former conversation with the ex-catholic nobleman had aroused in his mind suspicions that some danger might lurk beneath the calm which had lulled the king into a feeling of security. he understood well that, although there had been no open manifestations of treason on the part of zealous adherents to the catholic faith in england, there were among them men who but awaited opportunity to show in no gentle way, their displeasure at the policy of james. he remembered also, that monteagle had been a catholic, though now a firm partisan of the government and in high favor at whitehall. might it not be possible that some knowledge coming to him of a plot against the state, and, not wishing to openly accuse his former compatriots, he had taken a more subtle way, seeking by veiled warnings and hints, to arouse suspicion in the other's mind, and so lead to some action on the part of the government? yet, it was not in accordance with his policy to reveal his real thoughts; therefore, again thanking the other for his zeal with reference to the letter, he dismissed him with a promise that the matter should not be forgotten. after monteagle had left he again studied the missive, endeavoring to read between the lines, and bringing all his wit to bear upon the meaning. then, as it was his custom to work quietly and without haste, for six days he held the document before making it known to the king. james was at first alarmed, but upon perceiving that the minister retained his calmness, he put aside his fears and questioned salisbury closely concerning the meaning of the strange warning. in the latter's mind was no thought of arousing james to hasty action, for, if in truth a plot was brewing, too sudden a movement on the part of the government would warn those engaged in it, and only postpone the culmination to a more favorable opportunity. following this line of thought the prime minister calmed the sovereign's fears, and the king, trusting to the prudence and shrewdness of his chief counselor, dismissed the matter with a jest. report, indeed, reached the ears of winter, catesby and others of the conspirators, that lord monteagle had been warned to absent himself from parliament on the opening day. they were alarmed for a time, and sought solution of the problem, wishing to know who had played the traitor. suspicion pointed to one francis tresham, whose sister had married monteagle, and who, naturally, would seek to save his brother-in-law. but as tresham denied all knowledge of the matter, the government made no move, and even salisbury, usually alert, remained inactive. after a week of uncertainty, the conspirators again gathered their forces and the plot against the king and parliament continued to ripen. fawkes, beyond all others, became more reckless. "should all else fail," said he, "i remain firm; and at the end will kill this king even, if needful, in the royal bedchamber." chapter xx. on the stroke of eleven. "what, my daughter, up at this late hour!" exclaimed fawkes, as he entered the room where elinor sat. "i had deemed thee long abed." the man threw himself into a chair by the fire with an air of fatigue, and sat in moody silence. the girl glanced up; then arising, passed over to him and lightly kissed his brow. the caress did not meet with any response; in fact, he seemed scarcely conscious of it, and after a moment's hesitation, elinor resumed her seat. she had led a strange existence for the past eight months;--ever waiting, ever dreading, and as yet nothing had occurred. to her this period had been one of breathless suspense, like the moment before the storm, when trees hang lifeless in a stifling atmosphere, and animals raise their heads in frightened expectancy, awaiting with nameless terror the first gust which shall herald the tornado. since her father's return from france, she noted that the air of preoccupation apparent before his departure, was now intensified. while in his kindness toward her the girl could detect no change, still, there had come between them a species of estrangement. seldom was there an opportunity for them to converse, for fawkes was up before daylight, and rarely returned until after the midnight hour had sounded. often it was in her heart to ask his confidence--often to hint that she had overheard his words on that fearful night,--but when she approached with such intent, a nameless something in his manner held her mute. the source from which she had hoped would flow sweet waters of comfort and relief proved dry and arid as summer dust; he to whom in an outburst of anguish she had confided her grief vanished completely from her life, as though the earth had engulfed him. true, garnet visited her many times after the night she unburdened her heart to him, but his counsel was ever the same--to wait; at times she even imagined there was in his tones a hint at justification of her father's utterance. however, since the day on which fawkes had returned, the jesuit had never passed the threshold of the house. how to account for this absence she knew not, but in a vague way associated it with the mystery surrounding her father. winter, elinor had not seen; her wonder at his studious avoidance of her was matched by the terror with which she anticipated meeting him. and her first grief?--the forced sacrifice of life's happiness with the man she loved--had time been kind, and stilled the aching of her heart? no; for in it the flame burned as brightly as when upon that day, long ago, his first kiss had breathed upon the glowing spark, changing it into a tongue of flame which leaped to her very lips. where effingston had gone, she did not know, but her prayers were ever the same, that in the abyss wherein lay her own fair fame he should cast his love;--so grief for him would cease to exist. at last the silence of the room was broken by the man before the fire, who turned toward her, and, as if but just noting her presence, said, drowsily: "daughter, methinks such late hours ill befit thee. it hath long since struck twelve; thou hast already lost thy beauty sleep." elinor arose, laid aside the work with which she had been employed, passed over to fawkes, then stooped and kissed him. as her lips touched his, he reached up, took her face between his hands and gazing at her said, after a moment: "my pretty one, if at any time death should take thy father from thee, wouldst ever cease to love him?" the girl started; for the words had broken strangely in upon her thoughts. evidently the man beheld the shocked look, for he continued, putting his arm about her slight form and pressing it close to him, "nay, my daughter, thou needst not be alarmed at what i say, for--for 'twas nothing. thou knowest in years i do grow apace, and 'twould be small wonder if death did perchance tap me on the shoulder and say, 'thou art the man!' there, there, little one," he added kissing her, "thou needst not reply; i can read an answer in thy eyes." "and, prithee, didst ever doubt my love for thee?" whispered the girl, as she gently placed her arms about his neck. "nay, never!" answered fawkes, quickly, in a husky voice, "but--but 'tis sweet to hear thee tell thy love, and," he added, taking one of her white hands within his own, "thou art all i have. if at any time death should steal thee from thy father's arms, methinks he would soon follow in thy light footsteps." "much happiness it doth give me to hear from thee such words," the girl replied, "even though they have but solemn import." "and dost thy father's affection need repetition? surely, thou knowest 'tis all thine own." for an instant there was silence, broken only by the crackling logs. then the girl said, as though dwelling upon his words: "nay, i never doubted thee--but--but----" "but what, my daughter?" fawkes asked, tenderly, pressing her fingers to his lips. "well, perchance," she answered with a smile, "i did but wish, like thee, to hear again the confession of it." his only response was the pressing of her figure closer to his heart. "tell me," she began after a moment, in a hesitating voice, casting a half-timid glance at her father's face; "dost think one ever speaks words from anger that--well, that in calmer moments he would give a world to unsay?" "what brought such question to thy mind, daughter?" enquired the other with a smile of surprise. "perchance 'tis but a causeless query," she replied, smoothing his tumbled locks. "many foolish things are spoke in passion," said fawkes; "things which leave a lifetime of regret behind. i do remember that once, in this very room, my temper did o'erleap its bounds and lent my tongue words which i would give a year of sweet life to unsay. dost know my meaning, darling?" he inquired, looking at her with moisture in his eyes. "'twas when i had not long arrived from spain; in truth, 'twas on the very night when thou----" "nay, i will not hear thee repeat," she interrupted, laying her hand upon his mouth. "i know all, but thou canst not think how happy this doth make me." "didst thou imagine i could mean those wicked words?" asked the man tenderly, "'twas a sudden outburst of temper on hearing--well, well, since thy dainty fingers forbid my speech i will be mute." "see!" cried elinor, springing to her feet, in the first happiness of her relieved mind. "now thou shalt hear me laugh and sing all through the day, till thou wilt cry mercy. and mayhap some time thou and i," continued the girl, seating herself beside him, "shall leave this chilly land with all its cares and fly to a fairer country, where cold winds are not known, where sweet flowers do ever bloom, and we will love each other; in that, forget all else, and in forgetting; be forever happy and at rest." "perchance, some day," murmured the man. "but now, one more caress and thou must to thy bed, or 'twill be light ere thou art in dreamland." she arose, a bright smile upon her face--brighter than he had seen resting there for many a day. "ah!" she cried, once more throwing her arms about him, "would that i could give to thee the happiness thy words have brought to me." "and so thou canst," replied the man, suddenly. "how may that be done?--tell me quickly!" she exclaimed, playfully, "that i may the sooner begin." "it is, sweet elinor," said fawkes, gazing down into her eyes, "that thou wilt always love this man before thee--nay, even," he continued with a depth of feeling in his tone which she had never heard before, "even shouldst thou hear him branded as--as--no matter what manner of things might be uttered against him, thou art always to remember that he at least loved thee with all his heart, and that thou wert his life." he stopped abruptly; the tears which coursed down his stern face seemed strangely out of place. "ah!" exclaimed the girl, "i cannot bear to have thee doubt me; thou knowest i shall be ever thy loving daughter, even unto the end of this life and in the next." the man was silent for a space; then mastering his emotion, and passing a hand quickly across his face, he said: "think naught of my words, little one; they were but idle, born of fatigue. now, once more good night to thee, and a long, sweet sleep." so she left him; but at the door she turned, and fawkes remembered afterward the bright and happy smile which lay upon her face. with a light heart she went to rest, for her father's words had banished from her mind the hideous doubt with which it had so long been oppressed. the dreadful gulf between them had, at last, been bridged, and once more they stood together hand in hand as in days gone by. she was almost unwilling to yield herself to sleep, fearing lest, on awaking, she might find her happiness but a vision of the night. slumber claimed her at last, and she fell into dreams of her new-found joy. many hours elapsed and the morning sun shone brightly into her room, when there fell upon the girl's ear the sound of voices in the apartment below. remaining a moment in a dreamy state, wondering who the early visitors might be, she suddenly caught a sentence which stiffened the blood within her veins and brought back to her heart in deadly force the awful fears she had thought forever gone. those in the chamber beneath had evidently been in conversation for some time, for she heard them advancing toward the door as though to depart. then a voice, which the girl recognized as sir thomas winter's, said in a low tone: "now, the last arrangements are made; all doth await thy hand. ah," he continued, "would that i might see the outcome of this. 'tis a ghastly thing, even though it be----" "what?" interrupted another voice, which elinor knew to be her father's. "doth thy heart begin to turn at this late hour? marry, my one wish is that even now the clock stood on the stroke of eleven, for in five minutes thereafter england will be without its king and parliament." "hast all that thou wilt need?" inquired winter. "yea, verily," the other answered. "here are flint and steel, quite new. the touchwood and the lantern are hidden beneath the faggots in the cellar. but stay, thou hadst better lend me thy time-piece; mine is not over trustworthy, and i would keep accurate track of the moments." "here is the watch," said the other voice; "it was true to the second yesterday. and now, for the last time, dost fully understand the signal? it is to be the first stroke of eleven. the king is expected at half after the hour of ten; that will leave thirty minutes' margin, and the lords will have assembled before james doth take his place." "knowest thou," inquired fawkes, when winter had ceased, "what may be the first measure before the house?" "methinks," replied the man, "one lord effingston will speak upon a bill relating to the duty upon wool." and he added, with a laugh which the girl could distinctly hear, "perchance his fine words will be interrupted, if thy tinder be not damp." "thou needst have no fear of that," answered fawkes, gruffly. "but let us hence, for 'tis even now past the stroke of ten." she heard them pass quickly out, and soon their footsteps died away in the distance. elinor lay for a moment dazed,--the blow had fallen! the words he had uttered but a few short hours ago were a lie, uttered to blind her. she recoiled in horror from even the thoughts of that man with the black and treacherous heart. he was now a father but in name; all her love turned to that other man, who, in that very moment, was standing over a hell which awaited but the hand of fawkes to send it belching forth. was there yet time to save him? all her energies bent themselves to this one purpose. she arose and dressed hurriedly, forming her plan of action the meanwhile. a sudden terror came upon her. if by some accident the mine should be prematurely exploded, what then? but she recollected the cautious man who was to fire it, and the thought quieted her. the bell in a neighboring steeple chimed the quarter after ten. forty-five minutes only remained,--barely time, if she hastened her utmost, to reach the parliament buildings before eleven would ring out upon the air. she was soon ready and hastened toward the door, her trembling fingers scarce able, in their eagerness, to lift the latch. at last they found the cord, but the portal held firmly to its place. again she tried, putting forth all her strength. still it did not yield. the horrible truth flashed upon the girl; the heavy door was securely fastened from the outside! chapter xxi. the fifth of november. as elinor stood confronted by the barred door, a madness born of terror seized her. frantically she beat upon the panel until in places the wood was stained with her blood. again and again she threw herself against the heavy oak, but with no result. after many vain attempts she sank, almost fainting, to the floor. as she lay breathless, her tender hands bruised and bleeding, there fell upon her ear the echo of the chime once more;--ten thirty! the sound infused new life into her slight form. springing to her feet she seized a bench near by, and with a power almost superhuman, raised the heavy piece and struck the portal with all her might. a shower of dust rewarded her. another blow and a wide fissure appeared across the panel. once more the bench crashed against the door, and it gave way, a shower of splinters flying into the hall below. quickly she hastened down the stairs and gained the street. people turned wondering looks upon the flying girl as with strength born of desperation she sped toward parliament house. as she reached the neighborhood a group of men who stood engaged in conversation, noted her, and one drew forth his watch:--"there is one carrying a petition," said he; "but fifteen minutes yet remain before the opening of the house." the words quickened her energies; a quarter of an hour yet! in a moment she was in sight of the buildings. it had been her purpose to hasten to the hall, but suddenly flashed the thought that her entrance might be barred, and questions be asked. no time now but for one thing,--to seek her father in the cellar, and snatch the torch from out his hand.... the clock marked the hour of half past ten when fawkes, having taken leave of sir thomas winter, reached the door of the dark room under parliament house. as he had left it, so he found it;--the portal locked, and silence reigning within where lay the faggots and the gunpowder. the soldier of fortune glanced about. save for a few idlers the narrow passage flanking the cellar door was unoccupied. soon even those went on their way, and unobserved he opened the portal and slipped into the fatal chamber, closing it noiselessly behind him, but leaving it unbarred; for, the spark once applied to the powder, there would be scant time for escape. the cellar was in darkness save where, through the rusty bars of a small window, a feeble ray of light struggled with the gloom, losing itself amid the shadows. stepping carefully, that no footfall might reach the ears of any above, he groped his way along the rough stone wall. upon reaching a depression in the masonry, he took up from its hiding place a lantern, a rude affair formed of iron, pierced by countless holes, and within it a tallow candle, which, when he lighted it, sputtered fitfully and sent forth a sickly yellow light, the glare only serving to intensify the gloom. a rat, frightened by his approach, scurried into some dark corner with a plaintive squeak which startled him, despite his iron nerve. "faith!" he muttered, a grim smile relaxing for a moment the stern lines of his face, "thou art strangely nervous, guido, that such a thing doth make thee tremble! 'tis an adage that such vermin as i have disturbed make haste to leave a fatal ship, and, methinks, this ship of state is very near the rocks. 'tis a sign from heaven that i shall not fail." then, turning to the pile of faggots: "so innocent are ye, that even elinor, with all her gentleness, might bear you in her arms and take no harm; but----" here he bent and touched a hidden cask: "thou art more to my liking, and the king shall hear thee speak for me. thine is the voice which shall tell all england that----" for a moment the monologue was interrupted and he busied himself with the fuse, pouring from a flask taken from his doublet, fresh grains of powder upon the train already laid, that nothing should be lacking to speed the fire to its destination. overhead sounded countless footsteps, as the pages and attendants upon the floor of the parliament chamber hastened hither and thither upon their various errands. "my good lords and bishops are assembling," muttered fawkes; "a most gallant gathering, i warrant. pity 'tis, that all must perish; for there be some who have small voice in the passing of the laws." suddenly there fell upon his ear the muffled sound of a cheer raised by countless voices. the smile upon his lips grew scornful: "the king!" he muttered, "greeting his good parliament. 'tis said he loves a well-timed jest; pity to rob england of such a famous clown; perchance in hell the devil may use his wit to while away the dinner hour." the noise above increased; the peers had entered the hall; the king had ascended the throne, and it lacked but fifteen minutes to the first stroke of eleven, when the parliament would open--and the flint would kiss the steel. despite his hardihood the man waiting in the gloom beneath the feet of the sovereign and his noblemen grew restless as the fatal moment approached. through his brain flashed thoughts of the fearful consequence of his bloody deed,--the terror, the widespread consternation and the chaos which would follow the destruction of the parliament. to him came, also, the thought of his daughter--what she would say to him; but then--she was a child and little comprehended affairs of state. when all was over garnet would quiet her fears, and her father would be a hero in her eyes. unconsciously he drew forth his dagger and pricked with its point the mortar between the stones of the pillar against which he leaned. with something to occupy his mind the moments would speed faster. the lantern, burning dimly, stands upon the floor near his side; beyond lies the fuse, ready for the fire. just at this moment elinor, having reached the door of the cellar, paused an instant upon the threshold, then, scarce conscious of what she was doing pushed open the unbarred portal and stepped within the gloomy chamber. so silent was her coming that fawkes, busy with his dagger and the mortar, did not perceive it. the girl hesitated, trembling in every limb; the blackness of the place, the intense excitement under which she labored, and the fearful thought that already the fuse might be burning, her father gone, and death so near, held her spellbound. she saw the faint glimmer from the lantern, a hundred tiny streaks of light glowing through the darkness. her father must be there beside his light, and summoning all her energies she moves quickly forward, intent only upon accomplishing her mission. the rustle of her garments struck upon fawkes' ear. he turned and saw the half open door, the dim outline of the form which stood between him and the faint light struggling through the aperture. with a quick indrawing of the breath he grasped the hilt of his dagger and turned to face the advancing figure. shall anyone thus ruin all, at the eleventh hour? his nerves became as if made of steel, all signs of indecision vanish; face to face with danger he becomes once more the hardened veteran who has met unflinchingly the fierce charge of the foemen in the lowcountry. elinor at length perceived him whom she sought, and stretched out her hands to grasp him, for the dry lips refused to frame the words her tongue would utter. in that moment, noting the extended arms, and thinking the other would lay violent hands upon him, fawkes sprang forward and seized the frail form about the shoulders; small time to note the softness of the flesh and the clinging woman's garments, or the low cry which answers the grasp of his iron hand. the blackness of the place hides their faces, and his business is to carry out the plot. for a moment the two--father and daughter--are locked together in a firm embrace; the slender figure of the child bent and tortured by the cruel pressure of the pitiless fingers. she struggled desperately, and in her efforts to free herself fawkes finds the way to end the matter quickly. "thou wouldst undo the work," he hisses. "didst think to find me unprepared? thou art a cunning knave, but this----" no eye, save that of god, sees the uplifting of the dagger, the quick movement of the arm, the rapid thrust which drives the fatal steel into that tender breast, letting forth her life-blood upon the rough pavement of the cellar. elinor reeled and released her hold upon him. in her agony god stretched forth his hand and held her in his grasp so that, ere she died, the end for which she had come might be accomplished. one word, a bitter cry wrung from her heart, escaped her lips: "father!" but fawkes heeded it not. as he sent home the dagger his foot struck the lantern, overturning it, and sent the iron case with its burning contents rolling across the floor toward the powder train. in another instant the fire will have reached the fuse,--and 'tis not yet time! with a frantic push he hurled the victim of his murderous blow away from him, and hastened to snatch the sputtering light. his violence flung the stricken girl to the floor, but with a last effort of will, she staggered to her feet and groped blindly for the door, one little hand outstretched before her, the other covering the cruel wound made by her father's knife. at last she found the portal, and gained the narrow way to the street. there was but one thought in her heart,--to reach the hall above before death claimed her. * * * * * within the house of lords all was ready for the opening of the parliament. james, clothed in royal robes of state, and exchanging jests with his favorites, was lolling upon the throne. the peers were in their seats; some, deep in conversation, others, silently gazing at the gorgeous scene of which they were a part. at a table standing near the space before the throne, sat lord monteagle and his son, the latter engaged in arranging the notes of his speech on the bill which he was soon to bring before the house. effingston seemed to be strangely nervous as the hour for his address drew near and his father had evidently made some jesting remark concerning his tremulous hand, when suddenly the attention of all was drawn toward the great doors at the extreme end of the room. affected by the tumult, james turned impatiently to see who had dared disturb the solemnity of the hour. those who were looking in that direction started with amazement. through the open portal, flanked by its two rows of yeomen of the guard, advanced a slender girlish figure, with face white as marble and whose dark eyes sought the king. clad in a gown of some soft gray stuff which had been torn open at the throat, revealing the gentle curve of the white bosom, the girl staggered up the long aisle leading to the throne. between the fingers of the hand pressed above her heart showed a crimson stain which, touching the bodice of her dress, gradually spread itself upon the soft color. amazed at so unwonted a spectacle the peers could only stare, transfixed. the girl had reached the space before the throne and stopped beside the table at which effingston stood, who alone, of all the house, had started to his feet and confronted her. for one brief moment she gazed into his eyes, then stretched forth her hand. the white lips parted, she cried in a stifled voice: "my lords! flee the house ere----" the voice fell to a whisper, she reeled and sought to grasp the table for support. effingston sprang toward her, but before he reached her side, her form sank slowly to the floor and lay at his feet. unmindful of the presence of the king, and of his fellow peers, the young nobleman raised her in his arms. none beside lord monteagle heard him whisper:--"elinor!" at her name the closed lids opened, and her lips parted in a faint smile. "my love!" she murmured faintly, her head sinking upon his shoulder like that of a tired child slowly falling to sleep. "i am guiltless--thou alone--'twas for thy sake----" a spasm of pain swept across her face; he felt a shudder shake the slender form, and a beseeching look sought his face. "i understand, my darling," he whispered, pressing his lips to hers. she sighed. a happy light shone in the fast glazing eyes. "elinor!" he murmured. "one more word----" but god had taken her. chapter xxii. fawkes before the king. for a moment a great stillness pervaded the house of lords. the king had half arisen from the throne, his hands tightly grasping the gilded lions on either side, and his eyes fixed upon the dead form of elinor, lying at effingston's feet. all followed the monarch's glance, the ministers and peers leaning forward to better see the stricken girl growing rigid in the clasp of death. so profound was the silence in the great hall, that the footsteps of those without were heard with startling distinctness in every part of the room. before all the peers, leaned lord monteagle, his gaze riveted upon the face of his son. as for effingston he heeded nothing; like an image of stone he stood, his limbs powerless and his blood turned to ice; the face of the dead was not whiter than his, yet, upon her face was the smile of peace, in his, the shadow of conscious, mortal agony. so sudden had been the coming of that tender maid, born of the people, but now more noble than any lord of england, that none save, perchance, salisbury, monteagle and the king, comprehended its meaning. the girl's dying cry that all should flee the house of parliament, was a mystery to the lords; but to the mind of the prime minister, and to monteagle and james, came as by a flash of lightning, the veiled meaning in the letter, which, strong in his feeling of security, the king had hitherto looked upon as an idle jest, gotten up to disturb his dreams. raising his eyes from the spot where elinor lay, her blood staining the polished floor, he turned them upon salisbury, with a look of interrogation. the minister collected by an effort his scattered senses. into his mind came as though by divine inspiration some inkling of the nature of the threatened danger. turning quickly, he summoned to his side master edmond doubleday, an officer of the royal household. "go," said he hoarsely, "into the cellar, and whosoever thou findest there, be it man or woman, seize quickly. perchance the king's life dependeth upon thy expedition." of quick wit, the officer comprehended that his superior had surmised some plot, the solution of which might be found below. hastening from the hall he gathered on the way a dozen gentlemen, and together the company hurried from the house and sought the door which opened to the chamber under it. something guided their steps--great, crimson splashes upon the pavement, blood drops which left a well-marked trail from the space before the throne of the king--to the narrow entrance of the cellar wherein lay the danger which they must avert. little did guido fawkes know--as little had the dead girl comprehended--that her heart's blood would mark the way which would lead him to the scaffold because it would be the means of hastening on his enemies, directing them with no uncertain significance to his hiding place. in the semi-darkness of the cellar, amid his coals and faggots, with the six and thirty barrels of gunpowder ready for the spark, the daring soldier of fortune stood with trembling limbs, and a nameless terror at his heart. unflinching in the face of danger, the first in all deeds of hardihood, famed for his valor in the lowcountry, the overturning of the lantern so near the powder train, and the low cry of agony which followed the driving home of his dagger, had unnerved him. for one brief instant he thought he recognized the cry--that from the gasping lips so near his own had fallen the word "father!" but in the excitement of the moment he dismissed the dreadful thought. some idle, curious knave had chanced to see the cellar door, and entered. was it his fault that he had resorted to the knife to prevent the discovery of his presence? occupied with the overturned lantern he had noted little what befell the other. stabbed to death, the intruder probably lay in some dark corner where the soldier's frantic push had sent him. the lantern burned dimly, and time was speeding, so 'twould be an ill thing to waste it upon a dead man. steadying his nerves by an effort, fawkes took out the watch which winter had given him, and bending toward the flickering light studied the dial. the hour was at hand; in five minutes the great clock in the tower of st. paul would mark the stroke of eleven, and he would fire the fuse. searching in his doublet he drew forth a tinder box and touchwood. five minutes more and he would strike the spark; in five more the red, spitting serpent would reach the hidden powder; by then he would be safe, and, mingling with the crowd, would hear the roar of thunder heralding the passing of james stuart and his parliament into eternity. as he waited, the flint held ready to strike the steel, there flashed through his mind the thought of his daughter, but she was safe at home, and----the sound of hasty footsteps and the passing of dark forms before the dim light struggling through the half closed entrance to the cellar, broke his revery. was it another come to meet his knife point? as he drew back, shading the lantern with his cloak, the door was burst violently open, and a dozen men, the first holding aloft a torch, pushed into the cellar. fawkes thrust the flint and touchwood into the bosom of his doublet, and, ever cool when danger threatened, bent carelessly over the pile of coals and faggots. coming thus, without knowledge, any might have judged him an honest coal monger busy at his trade. those who entered so hastily rushed upon him; edmond doubleday raised a dagger, intent upon driving it into his body, but seeing fawkes unarmed he lowered the steel and seized him by the shoulders. in an instant the soldier shook off the other's grasp. "who art thou?" cried he fiercely, "what is thy business, sir?" for reply doubleday turned to his companions. "surround the fellow, gentlemen," said he sharply, "and search the cellar." fawkes was quickly hemmed in by a wall of men, each with drawn sword in hand. on the instant it flashed upon him that the plot was known, and that further dissimulation would be profitless; therefore he held his peace while two or three of his captors searched the cellar. one muttered an exclamation; he had come upon the fuse, and following it, perceived the barrels beneath the pile of faggots. fawkes smiled grimly. "if thou wilt look yet further," said he, "haply thou wilt find a dead man." but nothing was discovered save fawkes, his faggots, and the gunpowder. the captive started. he had not then killed him who grappled with him in the darkness; sorely wounded, the other had escaped to set the bloodhounds upon his hiding place. he had thought his hand more sure. after thoroughly searching the cellar those who had taken fawkes led him to the passage without. he noted upon the stones the drops of blood, and smiled,--his knife had not been useless after all. as the little company with the soldier of fortune in their midst hurried along the passage there ran toward them sir thomas knyvet and half a score of the royal guards. perceiving the prisoner, the knight looked at him critically. "what!" cried he, turning to doubleday, "hast not bound the ruffian? 'tis the king's pleasure that any whom thou hast taken be brought before the throne." no cords were forthcoming, for, in their haste, small matters had been neglected, but one of the gentlemen, taking from his pocket a pair of garters proffered them to doubleday. "take these," said he; "i warrant they will hold the knave." fawkes submitted without a protest, watching with grim indifference the passing of the garters about his legs and wrists. once he smiled; but 'twas a fleeting shadow. within the house his captors searched him, coming upon the tinder box, touchwood, and winter's watch--things which were to bear heavy evidence against the prisoner. in the hall of parliament all was confusion; elinor, guarded by effingston, still lay dead before the throne, and the ministers were gathered about it. the tumult ceased as fawkes was led through the doorway. he was to meet the king whom he would have slain, yet he advanced with uplifted head, not a muscle quivering. the peers made way for him, so that a space was cleared before the throne. suddenly his eyes fell upon effingston; for an instant he paused, then following the gaze of the grief-stricken nobleman, saw her who lay upon the floor. a mist gathered before his eyes; a blinding flash of unreal but fierce accusing light seared his brain and turned him into stone. horror-stricken he advanced, scarce conscious that he moved, until he stood before the body of his daughter upon whose breast showed the red wound made by the knife. the king, salisbury, and the ministers had turned and were looking fixedly upon him, but fawkes was unconscious of their gaze. he saw only the white face, the half-closed eyes, the cold lips which had kissed his own so fondly and called him "father." as the flashing of a great light coming out of the darkness, the truth gleamed in its red horror upon him--the reason of the presence of another in the cellar, the drops of blood along the pavement. she had sought to save him from the crime of murder--and he had killed her! he would have cried out and thrown himself upon his knees beside the dead, but his iron will controlled the impulse, and the hands of the guard upon his shoulder held him firm. what cared he for axe or gibbet now? he had loved her next to his religion, and had slain her. the king was speaking: "ah!" said he, "what have we here, brave gentlemen? doth tremble so at the sight of one dead girl? who art thou, fellow?" fawkes replied nothing, nor, perchance, heard the voice of james; his thoughts were in spain, where, when a child, elinor had climbed upon his knee. "faith!" cried the king, "hast caught a dumb man, good master doubleday? or hath the decoration of the garter so overcome his senses that he is in a maze?" some of the gentlemen about the throne smiled, for james loved a jest; but effingston turned away and pressed his father's hand. "come!" cried the king, impatiently; "wilt not find thy tongue? 'tis not my custom to speak a second time. what didst thou in the cellar?" fawkes raised his eyes and the king saw in them a look of such utter hopelessness that some chord of pity in his heart was touched. "my good lord cecil," said he, turning to salisbury, "methinks terror, or something worse, hath driven away his wits; we but waste words upon him. see to it, pray, that he be closely guarded, for certain questions must be put to him. the warden of the tower hath a way to loosen stubborn tongues." so saying, he arose with much dignity and left the hall, followed by many of his gentlemen. fawkes they took out by another way--the road which led to the tower. he gave no sign, but let his gaze dwell in one last farewell upon the body of his daughter. then his eyes met those of effingston, and in the other's look he read that the dead would rest in peace and honor. chapter xxiii. the banquet. on the evening of that memorable fifth of november, there were gathered in a spacious residence at ashbery, saint ledger, a small company evidently bent upon pleasure. during the day they had passed their time in the many ways gentlemen were wont to choose when seeking forgetfulness of the din and distractions incident to a great city. but it was not difficult to discern that the hearts of the men were far from interested in the various sports undertaken by them. the hours from morning until dark had been spent in a variety of ways, but none evinced any enjoyment in their pastime. a few had beguiled a small part of the day in hunting, but they failed to find even in that excitement relief for the anxiety which so oppressed them. at last twilight came, lingered, and glided into night. but with the darkness the uneasiness of all increased. nor would this fact have caused wonder had it been known what thoughts lay in the mind of each; that they were momentarily expecting tidings upon which depended not only their hopes and happiness but, perchance their lives as well. indeed, the company had been bidden thither by none other than lord catesby, who deemed it expedient that those not actually engaged in carrying out the plot for the assassination of james and his parliament, should tarry at his country residence until news of the accomplished deed should be brought them. acting upon the suggestion, he, together with sir everard digsby, rookwood, robert morgan, grant and the brother of sir thomas winter, had ridden forth from the city the day before; and now, with apprehension which their sanguine hopes could not fully thrust aside, they awaited the news which was to tell them how the fearful plot had prospered. after a day, the length of which was measured not by the standard of moments but by that of slow-moving years, all had assembled to partake of the evening repast. surrounding the glittering table were anxious and thoughtful faces. the host was silent and distraught, but not more so than his guests. the terrible strain under which they labored forbade much conversation; and if a laugh, perchance, mounted to the lips of any, it sounded hollow and mirthless. "what now, good gentlemen," cried catesby, with an attempt at gayety, when silence had again fallen upon the group; "ye are in truth but sorry companions. it would appear that something besides good vintage lay in the cellar beneath us. come, fill your cups and let wine bring to our lips the jest, since wit seemeth utterly barren." "nay, my lord," exclaimed rookwood, as he thrust his glass aside; "i for one am done with pretensions; 'tis time some news did reach us." the man drew forth his watch, and glancing at it, said with a frown: "by our blessed lady, 'tis past nine and we have had no tidings!" the anxiety in the speaker's tone seemed to find a silent response in the heart of each. before them all the wine stood untasted. a barking cur upon the highway caused them to start to their feet and listen, thinking the sound might be the herald of an approaching horseman. "'twas nothing," said the host wearily, when once more seated. "patience, patience, gentlemen; i think this delay doth not bode ill to us, for as ye are aware, bad news is ever atop of the swiftest steed." "ah, good catesby," exclaimed digsby, "it is to thee we look for consolation in this terrible hour. but i do most devoutly wish some intelligence, be it good or evil, would arrive; for naught can be worse than this awful waiting." "talk not of evil tidings," broke in grant, nervously; "our minds are full enough of fears without thy----" "nay, good robert," interrupted sir everard, "'twas but a figure of speech i used. nothing is further from my mind than to play the croaking prophet." "art sure, my lord," queried rookwood, "that sir winter did comprehend in what manner the intelligence was to be brought?" "quite certain of it," answered the host; "for 'twas the last topic upon which we spoke before i left the city. have no fear; he understood full well that master keyes was to ride post haste the moment all was accomplished." "how long would it take a horseman, riding at his best speed, to travel the distance?" enquired rookwood, again drawing forth his watch. "if nothing occurred to hinder on the way, and his mount was fresh at start, methinks the journey should be made in eight hours." "then," exclaimed the other, thrusting back his time-piece, "if all be well we would have heard ere now. i fear me--nay--i know not what i fear." but hark! what sound is that which at last falls upon the listening group? was it the wind sighing through the leafless trees? nay, it cannot be; for now they hear it again, and more distinctly. there is no mistaking the flying hoofs of a horse striking the hard road. all spring from the table. the moment has arrived; they are to know. as each gazes into the white face of the other, he but beholds the reflection of his own pallid countenance, and speech for a moment is impossible. "god!" cried rookwood, listening; "catesby, thou didst say but one rider was to bear the message, and i hear the noise of several rushing steeds, if, indeed, i be not mad." louder and louder grew the clatter of the hoofs, whiter and whiter the faces of the waiting men. at last five horsemen dash in at the gate and ride without drawing rein across the lawn and up to the very window of the banquet room. no need to ask what tidings. winter is the first to throw himself from his steaming horse, and followed by percy, the two wrights and robert keyes, staggers into the room. they are covered with mud and streaming with perspiration. their hats and swords were left behind--evidently lost in the wild ride from london. breathless they stand, for a moment unable to speak. written on the face of each is an expression of utter despair, mingled with fear and pain, such a look as an animal wears when, shot through the body, it blindly flees from death. winter is the first to find voice; and clutching at the table, which shakes under his trembling grasp, pants, in a tone which is scarcely audible: "flee for your lives! there is yet time for us to escape. we cannot help him who is in the tower. our own necks will pay for further delay." there is a horrified silence, broken only by the hard breathing of the men. at last rookwood, pale with emotion, sprang toward the speaker, gasping: "what is this thou sayest? failure! it cannot be! thou must be mad!" "nay," cried percy, "'tis so, 'tis so, indeed. fawkes is captured. nothing is left for us but flight. come, to horse! to horse! i say. even now the soldiers are on the road, and any moment the sound of hurrying hoofs in pursuit of us may fall upon our ears." in an instant the utmost disorder reigned. chairs were overturned in the eagerness of the men to take in hand their swords, which rested against the wall. glasses, swept from off the board, fell with a crash, adding to the general din. the floor was strewn with eatables and wine, carried from off the table in the mad rush. panic ruled, and it had placed its sign-manual upon each face. at last, above the uproar, the voice of catesby can be heard, and standing by the door he addresses the fear-stricken men. "gentlemen!" he cried, "has the grasp of terror seized upon and turned you all mad? why should we fly, and by that course brand our deeds as sinful? are we criminals? have we stolen aught? are we creatures to be hunted through the country? come! play the part god has given to each, and at the end, since success is not ours let us meet death here, hand in hand, as becomes brothers in one faith--like martyrs!" the words of the speaker had small effect upon the men, and did not check the general confusion. those who had just arrived were in the garden attending to their jaded steeds, knowing full well that upon them depended their lives. rookwood burst again into the room, attired in a heavy riding mantle. "come," he cried to his host; "to horse while there is time! 'twould be a wickedness to tarry longer; it meaneth naught but self-destruction. our steeds have been resting, and many miles may be placed between us and london ere break of day. endanger not all our lives by thy foolish scruples." at last the finer sentiments of catesby were overruled by the words and entreaties of his companions, and he with them, hurried to the stable. with trembling fingers the bridles were fastened, the girths drawn, and in a moment all were ready for the flight. with a clatter the cavalcade sped out of the gate and thundered down the road at breakneck pace, disappearing in the darkness. so ended the day which was to see the culmination of a deed which these fleeing men once dreamed would set the world on fire! and what had come of it? for them, nothing but the dancing sparks struck out by the hoofs of galloping horses, bearing their guilty riders from under the blow of a swinging axe. fawkes, their unhappy tool, was already in the grip of the avenging power; and was tasting a more bitter gall than that of torture and death, for that he had, with his own hand, shed the blood of his well-beloved daughter, but not one drop of the heretic blood he so thirsted to spill. chapter xxiv. "in the king's name." the bomb having exploded so unexpectedly in the camp of the conspirators, fawkes a prisoner in the hands of the government, which, following the custom of the day, would probably under torture wring from him a confession, the gentlemen who had been so zealous in the cause had now no thought but of flight. so sudden had been the exposure of their plot--laid bare to the eyes of all england at the eleventh hour--that the bold plans for a well-regulated defense were overthrown completely, and could not be carried out in any degree. garnet, indeed, was for the time safe, his hiding place unknown to the authorities, and did fawkes resist with physical and moral force the torture, the jesuit might not become involved in the consequences of his treason. but catesby, percy, the two winters and others stood in the shadow of the scaffold. that no mercy would be measured out to them was beyond peradventure. though of brave spirit, they feared, and could but flee before, the anger of the law. it was indeed a pitiful and chagrined body of horsemen who, hurrying through worcestershire and the adjoining county, sought to hide themselves from the king's officers. pausing in their mad flight, they rifled the house of lord windsor, taking such arms and armor as best suited their needs. close after them rode the soldiers of the king incited by promise of reward and honor did they capture and deliver the little band into the hands of salisbury and his ministers. one face was missing from among those fleeing for their lives in such wild haste. catesby, percy, my lord of rookwood, the two wrights, grant, morgan and robert keyes rode side by side, but thomas winter, he who had summoned fawkes from spain, was absent. small need of words between the proscribed conspirators. a single purpose was in each heart--to escape those in pursuit. as dull night drew on, the horses jaded, their riders fainting from fatigue and fear, the luckless gentlemen reached holbeach, the house of stephen littleton. the early stars were twinkling in the gray vault of heaven when lights from the welcome asylum greeted their eyes. percy turned to catesby, who rode at his side. "good robert," said he, "there must we perforce remain till morning; horseflesh can scarce endure the strain much longer, and those who follow must needs halt, also. stephen littleton hath been our friend, therefore is his dwelling at our disposal. 'tis a stout structure, and should the king's men find us therein--some will go with us to the other world." catesby smiled sadly. "here will we indeed rest," replied he; "for, as thou sayest, the beasts be weary. england is small, good percy; we must not lack courage." noting the two leaders pull up their horses at the gate of the dwelling, the others did likewise, and all dismounted and entered the place which, to some, was their last abode--save the grave. in the main chamber a cheerful fire crackled; for in the month of november the air was chill, and master littleton perceiving the gentlemen trembling as from cold, caused to be thrown upon the embers a goodly number of faggots which blazed brightly. the sight recalled to percy's mind the fatal cellar under the house of parliament, where he had last seen fawkes guarding with watchful eye the secret which lay beneath so innocent a covering. having removed their heavy boots and outer clothing the conspirators talked together, seeking to dispel the gloom which rested upon the company. all were ill at ease, for, although percy had said the king's officers would rest, it was possible they might secure fresh horses, push on, and attack the house ere morning. expecting no mercy if taken alive, each resolved to sell his life dearly. the hours passed on to ten in the evening, when a thing happened which, to the minds of many in england, exemplified the law of god--that the wicked shall perish through their own evil devices. wishing to have all in readiness should the officers come upon them during the night, and fearing that the gunpowder with which they were provided might have become dampened by reason of the humidity of the weather and its prolonged exposure to the elements, christopher wright poured upon a platter some two pounds of the black grains, and set it beside the hearthstone. noting the action another of the party brought a second bag of powder and treated it likewise, thinking to remove it when sufficiently dry. percy perceived the danger and withdrew from his position before the blaze. "were it not well," said he, "to have a care, lest a spark falling outward do much harm to those within the room?" "nay," replied wright, "'tis my purpose to watch it closely; the stuff, being damp, is worthless." percy spoke no more, not wishing to be thought unduly nervous, and the company relapsing into silence watched the flames, each intent upon his own dark forebodings. for many minutes they remained thus, but starting at each sound from without, and hearing in every rustle of the leafless trees and shrubbery the hoofbeats of horses bearing their pursuing enemies. the heat of the room, added to sleepless nights which had followed the arrest of guido fawkes and the discovery of the conspiracy, gradually overcame the majority of the party, and all but percy and catesby nodded in their seats. these two, the first confederates with winter and the superior of the jesuits to formulate the plan for destroying the king and the government, sat moodily side by side, their burning eyeballs glassy in the red reflection of the flames, and their hearts heavy with thoughts of dismal failure and impending ruin. "would that garnet were with us now," muttered catesby, thrusting one foot upon the fender; "perchance his wit might devise some means to free us from our entanglement and perplexity, and save the cause. would that fawkes had----" percy raised his eyes quickly. "thou art then sorry----" he began. "nay," replied catesby with some haughtiness. "if i had thought there had been the least sin in it i would not have put my hand to it for all the world. no other cause led me to hazard my fortune and my life but zeal for the true faith. we have, in truth, failed, good percy; yet was the match burning which, in another moment, would have given the spark to the powder, and the thunderbolt of which friend guido spake to us would----" carried away by his earnestness he thrust forth his foot beyond the fender and struck the faggots which blazed in the fireplace. a shower of sparks answered the blow. one, falling beyond the hearthstone, found the platter heaped with the deadly grains. then, in truth, the spark was given to the powder, but it was not that which lay beneath the floor of parliament; it was the powder in the room wherein nodded the would-be murderers of the lords and the king of england. ere catesby was aware of the awful danger, before percy--who had noted the falling spark--could cry out, there came a blinding flash, a cloud of sulphurous smoke, the crashing of bent and broken timbers, and the affrighted cries of the luckless inmates of the room. yet in one thing there seemed to be a merciful interposition. carried upward by force of the explosion, the bag containing a greater quantity of the powder was hurled through the opening in the roof, and fell into the yard untouched by fire; had it been otherwise, the public executioner's work would have been less, and fewer dripping heads had graced the spikes upon the tower. blinded by fire and smoke but unharmed, save for a scorching of the hair and beard, the conspirators groped their way into the open air. upon their souls rested a cloud of superstitious dread. in the explosion of the gunpowder they saw the hand of god; and--'twas not turned against the king! * * * * * it was scarce daybreak when the horse bearing sir thomas winter stopped before the door of the ill-fated holbeach mansion. report had reached him of the explosion, also that many of his companions were sorely wounded, and that catesby lay dead, with body shattered by the firing of the powder. then was proved his gentle blood, and the valor of his race. those with him when he received the news begged him to fly; but he only looked upon them with clouded brow, and said: "nay; catesby is dead. i will see to his burial; a gallant gentleman,--and my friend!" thus he rode in all haste to holbeach, to find there his friends unharmed;--close following him were the soldiers of the king. scant time was given to the luckless gentlemen to prepare for receiving them. "what have ye resolved to do?" asked winter, having heard the story of the night. "we mean to die," replied percy stoutly; "we can scarce hold the house an hour." "then," said winter quietly, "i will take such part as you do." and looking to his sword and firearms, he leaned against the casement of the window facing the road on which the king's men would come. toward noon they came, a gallant company of gentlemen and musketeers, flushed with the early morning ride and filled with zeal to take the traitors who awaited them behind the walls of master littleton's house. watching from the window winter saw many faces which he knew; sir john foliot, francis conyers, salway, ketelsby, all staunch adherents of the king;--men who, being dispatched upon any errand, would carry it through most zealously. before the cavalcade rode a doughty gentleman, sir richard walsh, sheriff of worcestershire, armed with the royal authority to seize the persons of such conspirators as chanced to fall in his way. it was the sheriff who halted the troop some fifty paces from the house, and, attended by sir john foliot and two musketeers, advanced boldly to the closed door. trying the latch and finding the portal barred, he tapped upon the panel with the hilt of his sword. none from within replied. again the sheriff rapped, and a voice demanded who it was that sought admittance, and what might be his errand. "that," replied sir richard, "is well known to thee. open, therefore, in the king's name!" the conspirators hesitated, for the command was one wont to be obeyed in england. "open!" repeated the sheriff; "lay down your arms!" "we will die," replied catesby firmly, "but will not open unto thee." "die thou shalt," replied sir richard cheerily, "with thy head upon the block." so saying, and perceiving that those within would sell their lives dearly, he returned to his men, ordering that some quickly fire the building, others stand ready to receive any, who, driven forth by fear or flame, might seek to escape through the garden. perceiving that they were like to be burned alive, those in the house resolved to gain the garden, and with sword in hand contend with the king's men. 'twas winter who unloosed the bolt; and perchance something had come of the venture, for the besieged were of most determined purpose, if some of the soldiers had not discharged their muskets, and a ball striking sir thomas in the shoulder wounded him sorely. a second fire sent a rain of balls through the open doorway, some of them hitting my lord of rookwood and the two wrights, christopher and john,--stretching them dead upon the floor. "god's mercy!" cried catesby; "let us forth, ere we all be murdered. stand by me, tom, and we will die together." winter, whose face was white with pain, replied hoarsely: "that will i, sir; but having lost the use of my right arm, i fear i will be taken." yet he stooped and caught up his sword with his left hand, standing a little back of catesby and percy who blocked the doorway. "wouldst contend against us?" cried the sheriff of worcestershire, and then ordered that a third volley be delivered by his musketeers. most of the balls lodged themselves in the wall of the building, or tore splinters from the casement of the door. but one, as though resolved to atone for the fruitless efforts of its fellows, sped on its deathly errand, striking robert catesby in the neck, passing quite through, and burying itself in the breast of percy, who with scarce a cry fell dead at winter's feet. bleeding profusely, catesby attempted to regain his footing, but death was near and he fell back crying to winter to lift him up that he might help defend the doorway. the conspirators who remained unharmed, drew back in terror, crouching behind the furniture with no thought of resisting the king's authority. seeing that percy, rookwood and the two wrights were dead, catesby dying, and none to support him, winter cast aside his sword and bent over his stricken comrade. at that moment certain of the sheriff's men charging upon the open doorway, perceived him standing there, and one, bearing a pike, thrust it at him so that the point pierced his doublet and wounded him grievously. staggering under the blow winter, his clothes covered with blood, gave back, and again was wounded in the side by a rapier. "cowards!" cried he, striking blindly at the foremost soldier with his naked hand, "can ye not touch a vital part, but must torture me so?" one, perceiving him sorely wounded and unarmed, seized him and in a moment he was bound and dragged into the yard. the others, keyes, john grant and henry morgan, were quickly overcome, and now of the nine catholic gentlemen who had resolved to defend the house, five lay dead, and four were in the hands of the authorities. having so handily brought his errand to a successful termination sir richard, of worcestershire, fell into great good humor. "faith!" cried he, sheathing his bloodless sword, "'tis a merry gathering for my lord of salisbury to look upon. four plump birds ready for the axe man, and four and one knocking at the gate of hell. rare sport, in truth, hath been the taking of so ill a brood; therefore, gentlemen, to london and the tower with the nine. though some be dead, their necks are ready for the axe, i warrant. 'tis a brave sight will greet the populace, anon." chapter xxv. reaping the whirlwind. those who watched with fawkes said he partook of no food, slept not--neither spoke, and refused to utter the names of his fellow conspirators. he sat all day in his cell without moving. at times there came into his drawn and haggard face a strange and unearthly light, as though he suddenly beheld a form glide from out the shadow of the dungeon, and kneel beside him. at these moments he would stretch forth his arms as if to embrace the airy figure of his brain, and whisper, nodding his head slowly the while: "thou wert all i had--in a moment, darling;--wait until thy father can but pass this dreary portal." they put him to the rack, but elicited nothing. he endured the torture as though scarce feeling it; and even in agony, was heard to mutter: "in a moment, my little one--but a moment more." his trial, with that of the others implicated in the plot, was over. the sentence of death had been pronounced upon each. three days after, everard digsby, with robert winter and grant, met death by hanging in the churchyard of st. paul's. three remained awaiting the headsman's axe--thomas winter, keyes and guido fawkes. their execution was anticipated by the populace of london with unwonted eagerness. the desire of the people to see justice meted to those whom they deemed the prime movers in a conspiracy which had shaken england to its foundation, was only rivaled by the curiosity resident in each heart, to behold the one who, with undaunted nerve, had stood beneath the house of lords ready to fire the mine which would rob the kingdom at one fell blow of both its monarch and parliament. in that age public executions were signals for general holidays; people flocked from the most distant shires, decked in best attire, to witness the doing to death of some poor malefactor. but this was no ordinary occasion; and, as if to emphasize the fact, a great throng had assembled at westminster even before the sun arose, on the day set apart for the beheading of the remaining three conspirators. at an early hour companies of halberdiers were forced to exercise their authority in keeping the crowd at proper distance from the ominous structure erected in the middle of the square. the object about which this innumerable concourse of people gathered was a high platform covered with black cloth, in the center of which stood the block. the condemned men had been brought from the tower shortly after midnight, and were now lodged in the space beneath the scaffold, which had been converted into a kind of closed pen. the hour for the execution was eleven, and as the time approached the multitude gradually swelled, being increased by thousands; as though some pitiless monster were fattening itself upon thoughts of the blood so soon to be shed. again and again the pikemen were forced to thrust back the surging mass, and at last the soldiers did not hesitate to use their weapons as the throng forced its way up to the very ropes surrounding the scaffold. but now above the babel of tongues the great bell of the cathedral boomed out the hour of eleven. as its last note died away the roar of voices gradually subsided, until it sunk into a dull murmur of expectancy, but again it broke forth into a cheer as the headsman ascended the stairs leading to the scaffold. this man was popular with the rabble and noted for his dexterity and strength. as the applause greeted him he recognized the homage rendered with a bow. his was a gruesome figure, as, attired in the costume of the office, his features concealed by a scarlet mask, he leaned easily upon the handle of the glittering axe--and waited. soon four soldiers, under command of an officer, approached the door of the inclosure and stood two on either side with halberds reversed. a moment of breathless stillness followed; the portal opened and one victim was led forth. surrounded by guards he was solemnly conducted to the foot of the steps leading to the block. keyes, for it was he, ascended without aid, and reached the platform. a murmur of disappointment ran through the multitude as he came into view, for they had supposed fawkes would be the first to die. the man for an instant stood quite still; he had been the first of the little procession to reach the top, and seemed undecided which direction to take, but only for a moment stood he thus; two of the guards quickly approached and led him toward the center of the scaffold. he knelt without assistance, laid his cheek upon the block, his right shoulder resting in the notch fastened for its reception. the soldiers retired. the headsman drew back, swiftly raised the axe above his head, measured the distance with a practiced eye, and struck. the favorite of the rabble had again acquitted himself well. the head of the victim fell on one side of the block, the quivering trunk sinking to the floor upon the other. a cheer greeted the deed, then silence once more fell upon the multitude. some soldiers now appeared carrying a box of sand. they quickly ascended the steps and scattered its contents upon the wet boards. having finished, one of the men seized the head which still lay where it had fallen, fixed it upon the point of his pike and stuck the weapon with its gruesome burden upon the railing. the headless trunk was flung without ceremony into a cart which was in waiting. again the procession formed; once more a victim knelt; the axe fell, and another head stared down upon the throng below. a ripple of expectancy again broke forth. two had died; the next must be the one for whom they waited. all strained their necks in eagerness to catch the first glimpse as he should be led forth, and this was the sight for which they had longed:-- a man unable to stand alone; his form, weakened by torture and sickness, was dragged up the steps and stood confronting them. his arms were not bound, for they hung lifeless. those who stood near could understand the absence of fetters; there was nothing upon which to clasp them, save a mass of crushed bones, in many places stripped of flesh by the cruel cords of the rack. he seemed quite oblivious of his surroundings, turned his head neither to the right nor to the left, but gazed past the headsman--past his captors--and far beyond the sea of upturned faces. his lips were seen to move, but only those who supported him could catch the words:--"in a moment, my little one!" he whispered; "thy father will soon kiss thy sweet lips--and then--we will love each other, and in that love forget all----" they hurried him toward the block and were obliged to place his head upon it; his weakness was so great that he would have fallen had they not supported him. his guards drew back, the axe, already lifted, was about to descend, when, the poor limp figure slipped and fell with a thud to the floor, unable to save itself by reason of the uselessness of the arms. again he was lifted; once more the axe was raised, and even in that moment they heard him whisper the name ever upon his lips: "elinor!"--crash!--and he was away to clasp her to his breast. conclusion. of henry garnet something remains to be said. the alarm which was felt at the revelation of the treason which might, but for the arrest of fawkes in the cellar under parliament house, have resulted in the disruption of the government, was widespread, and it became necessary for the jesuits remaining in the kingdom to hide most secretly. as catesby had said, the superior, upon leaving london some weeks before the discovery of the plot, had taken refuge in the house of sir everard digsby at coughton. 'twas there he received a letter from one of the conspirators announcing the failure of the enterprise to which he had lent himself. for three weeks he remained in hiding, when, by night, and in disguise, he was removed to hendlip house, where with another of his order, and two servants, he escaped for a time the diligent search instituted by salisbury, and urged on by the king. on the twentieth of january following the fatal fifth of november, sir henry bromley, a magistrate, arrived with an armed force at hendlip, being in possession of a commission to search the mansion. the house was full of secret apartments, and for seven days the king's officer looked in vain for the superior of the jesuits. but on the eighth a soldier, chancing upon a room occupied by one of the women of the place, discovered in an aperture of the chimney a reed pipe, which excited his curiosity and suspicion. hearing of the matter, sir bromley followed the clew thus given him, and behind the wall, in a secret chamber, came upon garnet and his companion, oldcorne, who, since the coming of the authorities, had been fed through the reed with broths and warm drinks. taken to london, the superior of the jesuits was treated kindly. many examinations were given him, nor was torture resorted to in his case, though oldcorne was put to the rack. through all garnet divulged nothing, and there had been some likelihood of escape, for the king was kindly disposed, had not a trick resorted to by the government resulted in his undoing. allowed to hold communication with the unfortunate oldcorne, a watch was stationed behind the wall of the cell, and such conversation as passed between the churchmen was taken down. the facts thus revealed hurried garnet to his doom. his trial was held late in march, and although he defended himself ably, the evidence of his having been a party to treason was conclusive. through all he maintained that, though cognizant of the design to blow up the house of parliament, he had taken no active part with the conspirators. holding that the secret had come to him through sacramental confession, he affirmed that, by his faith, he was bound to disclose nothing concerning it. the trial ended with the sentence that he follow in the footsteps of fawkes, winter and those others who had met death upon the scaffold. even then, the king, loth to see executed so famous a prelate, stayed for a time the hand of the axeman. 'twas not till the third day of may, three months after the death of his former companions, that garnet died--the last of those unfortunate men who sought to gain their ends by violence. the end. transcriber's notes . few quotes are opened with marks but are not closed and vice-versa. obvious errors have been silently closed, while those requiring interpretation have been left as such. . the following misprints have been corrected: "fawke's" corrected to "fawkes'" (page ) "reovered" corrected to "recovered" (page ) "exlaims" corrected to "exclaims" (page ) "'tis" capitalized to "'tis" (page ) "readinesss" corrected to "readiness" (page ) . other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been retained. it might have been, by emily sarah holt. _______________________________________________________________________ this book is mainly about the treasonable plot to blow up parliament, by mining through to its lowest floor, or basement, from an adjacent house. this plot was hatched by a number of catholic gentlemen, and was quite ingenious. these people came from a wide area of england, and numbered about thirty. one point of interest to your reviewer is that one of the places where they met, or retreated to when not personally involved in mining, was a house called white webbs, just on what is now the northern limit of london. this house is now in use as a very nice and popular restaurant, well known to me. it was at the time a disused hunting lodge in enfield chase. the discovery of the plot, and the execution of its participants is celebrated every year in britain, with great displays of fireworks, on a day ( th november) named after one of the plotters, guy fawkes. it is interesting to learn so much more about the background of this plot. emily holt wrote a large number of books with a historical background. this book is the third of a series involving a family from derwent-water in the north of england. the link with the gunpowder plot is rather weak, but worth reading if you enjoyed the first two books of the series. on the other hand the majority of the book deals with the plot, and is very well researched, and told in a very plausible manner. as usual with this author you will find that there are a good many footnotes, which we have done our best to make available but not intrusive. there is a great deal of conversation in elizabethan english, but this will not bother you if you are used to reading the plays of shakespeare. finally, there are a few short extracts from contemporary letters, in which the spelling would not pass muster these days, but there were no real standards of spelling in those times. in a very few cases in these letters we have adjusted the spelling to give you, the reader, greater ease in comprehending them. you may care to make this book into an audiobook, in which case it will take about . hours to play. we hope you will do this because it will make it much easier for you to enjoy the book. ________________________________________________________________________ it might have been, by emily sarah holt. preface. "there is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death." that is one of the main lessons to be learned from the strange story of the gunpowder plot. the narrative here given, so far as its historical portion is concerned, is taken chiefly from original and contemporaneous documents. it has been carefully kept to facts--in themselves more interesting than any fiction--and scarcely a speech or an incident has been admitted, however small, for which authority could not be adduced. those of my readers who have made the acquaintance of _lettice eden_, and _joyce morrell's harvest_, will meet some old friends in this tale. chapter one. the last night in the old home. "which speaks the truth--fair hope or ghastly fear? god knoweth, and not i. only, o'er both, love holds her torch aloft, and will, until i die." "fiddle-de-dee! do give over snuffing and snivelling and sobbing, and tell me if you want your warm petticoat in the saddle-bag. you'd make a saint for to swear!" more sobs, and one or two disjointed words, were all that came in answer. the sobbing sister, who was the younger of the pair, wore widow's mourning, and was seated in a rocking-chair near the window of a small, but very comfortable parlour. her complexion was pale and sallow, her person rather slightly formed, and her whole appearance that of a frail, weak little woman, who required perpetual care and shielding. the word require has two senses, and it is here used in both. she needed it, and she exacted it. the elder sister, who stood at the parlour door, was about as unlike the younger as could well be. she was quite a head taller, rosy-cheeked, sturdily-built, and very brisk in her motions. disjointed though her sister's words were, she took them up at once. "you'll have your thrum hat, did you say? [note .] where's the good of crying over it? you've got ne'er a thing to cry for." another little rush of sobs replied, amid which a quick ear could detect the words "unfeeling" and "me a poor widow." "unfeeling, marry!" said the elder sister. "i'm feeling a whole warm petticoat for you. and tears won't ward off either cramp or rheumatism, my dear--don't think it; but a warm petticoat may. will you have it, or no?" "oh, as you please!" was the answer, in a tone which might have suited arrangements for the speaker's funeral. "then i please to put it in the saddle-bag," cheerily responded the elder. "lettice, come with me, maid. i can find thee work above in the chamber." a slight sound behind the screen, at the farther end of the parlour, which sheltered the widow from any draught proceeding from the window, was followed by the appearance of a young girl not hitherto visible. she was just eighteen years of age, and resembled neither of the elder ladies, being handsomer than either of them had ever been, yet not sufficiently so to be termed beautiful. a clear complexion, rosy but not florid, golden-brown hair and plenty of it, dark grey eyes shaded by dark lashes, and a pleasing, good-humoured, not self-conscious expression--this was lettice, who said in a clear musical voice, "yes, aunt," and stood ready for further orders. as the door shut upon the aunt and niece, the former said, as if to the sister left behind in the parlour-- "a poor widow! ay, forsooth, poor soul, that you are! for you have made of your widowhood so black a pall that you cannot see god's blue sky through it. dear heart, but why ever they called her faith, and me temperance! i've well-nigh as little temperance as she has faith, and neither of them would break a cat's back." by this time they were up in the bedchamber; and lettice was kept busy folding, pinning, tying up, and smoothing out one garment after another, until at last her aunt said-- "now, lettice, bring thine own gear, such as thou wilt need till we light at minster lovel, for there can we shift our baggage. thy black beaver hat thou wert best to journey in, for though it be good, 'tis well worn; and thy grey kirtle and red gown. bring the blue gown, and the tawny kirtle with the silver aglets [tags, spangles] pendant, and thy lawn rebatoes, [turn-over collar] and a couple of kerchiefs, and thy satin hat thou wert best leave out a warm kerchief for the journey." "and my velvet hood, aunt, and the green kirtle?" "nay, i have packed them, not to be fetched out till we reach london. thou mayest have thy crimson sleeves withal, an' it list thee." lettice fetched the things, and her aunt packed them in one of the great leather trunks, with beautiful neatness. as she smoothed out the blue kirtle, she asked--"lettice, art thou sorry to be gone?" "truly, aunt, i scarce know," was the answer. "i am sorry to leave aunt milisent and my cousins, and aunt frances,"--but aunt frances was an evident after-thought--"and i dare say i shall be sorry to leave all the places i know, when the time comes. but then so many of us are going,-- you, and grandmother, and aunt edith, and cousin aubrey, and aunt faith--and there are so many new places to see, that on the whole i don't think i am very sorry." "no, very like not, child." "not now," said a third voice, softly, and lettice looked up at another aunt whose presence she had not previously noticed. this was certainly no sister of the two plain women whose acquaintance we have just made. temperance murthwaite had outlived her small share of good looks, and faith's had long since been washed away in tears; but edith louvaine had been extremely beautiful, and yet was so notwithstanding her forty years. her hair was dark brown, with a golden gleam when the sun caught it, and her eyes a deep blue, almost violet. her voice was sweet and quiet--of that type of quietness which hides behind it a reserve of power and feeling. "at eighteen, lettice, we are not commonly sorry to leave home. much sorrier at thirty-eight: and at eighty, i think, there is little to leave but graves." "ay, but they're not all dug by the sexton," remarked temperance, patting the blue kirtle to make it lie in the hole she had left for it. "at any rate, the sorest epitaphs are oft invisible save to them that have eyes to see them." edith did not answer, and the work went on. at length, suddenly, the question was asked-- "whence came you, edith?" "from mere lea, whither i have been with mother and aubrey, to say farewell." "and for why came you hither? not to say farewell, i reckon." "nay," replied edith, smiling. "i thought i might somewhat help you, temperance. we must all try to spare poor faith." "spare poor faith!" repeated temperance, in a sarcastic tone. "tell you what, edith louvaine,--if you'd think a bit less of sparing her, and she'd think a bit more of sparing you, it would be a sight better for poor faith and poor edith too." "i? i don't want to be spared," answered edith. "no, you don't, and that's just it. and faith does. and she oughtn't. and you oughtn't." "nay, temperance. remember, she is a widow." "small chance of my forgetting it. doesn't she tell me so six dozen times a day? ask faith to do any thing she loveth not, and she's always a widow. i've had my thoughts whether i could not be an orphan when i'm wanted to do something disagreeable. what think you?" "i think your bark is worse than your bite, temperance," said edith, smiling. "i'm about weary of barking," answered temperance, laying smooth a piece of cobweb lawn. "i think i'll bite, one of these days. deary me, but there are widows of divers sorts! if ever there were what paul calls `a widow indeed,' it is my lady lettice; and she doesn't make a screen of it, as faith does, against all the east winds that blow. well, well! give me that pin-case, lettice, and the black girdle yonder; i lack somewhat to fill up this corner. what hour must we be at selwick, edith?" "at five o' the clock the horses are bidden." "very good. you'll bide to supper?" "nay, not without i can help you." "you'll not help me without you'll tell faith she's a snivelling lazy-bones, and that you'll not, i know. go and get your beauty-sleep-- and comfort lady lettice all you can." when edith had departed, and the packing was finished, the aunt and niece went down to supper. it consisted of polony sausages, sweetmeats, and an egg-pie--a lancashire dainty, which rachel the cook occasionally sent up, for she was a native of that county. during the entire meal, faith kept up a slow rain of lamentations, for her widowhood, the sad necessity of leaving her home, and the entire absence of sympathy which she experienced in all around her: till at last her sister inquired-- "faith, will you have any more pie?" "n-o," said faith with a sob, having eaten nearly half of it. "nor any more sausage?" "oh no!" she answered, heaving a weary sigh. "nor sucketts [sweetmeats; subsequently spelt _succadet_] neither?" faith shook her head dolefully. "then i'll help you to a little of one other thing, which you need sorely; and that's a bit of advice." faith moaned behind her handkerchief. "as to quitting home, that's your own choice; so don't go and pretend to fret over it. and as to sparing you, you've been spared a deal too much, and i've been a fool to do it. and just bethink you, faith, that if we are now to make one family with my lady lettice and edith, you'd best be thinking how you can spare them. my lady lettice is a deal newer widow than you, and she's over seventy years on her back, and you've but forty--" "thirty-nine," corrected faith in a choked voice. "and she's leaving her home not from choice, but because she has no choice; and she has spent over fifty years in it, and is like an old oak which can ill bear uprooting. i only trust those newcastle louvaines will get what they deserve. i say it's a burning shame, never to come forward nor claim aught for fifty years, until sir aubrey and both his sons were gone, and then down they pounce like vultures on the widow and her orphan grandson, and set up a claim, forsooth, to the estate--after all these years! i don't believe they have any right--or at any rate, they've no business to have it: and if my lady lettice had been of my mind, she'd have had a fight for it, instead of giving in to them; and if aubrey banaster had had a scrap of gumption, he'd have seen to it. he is the eldest man of the family, and they're pretty nigh all lads but him. howbeit, let that pass. only i want you, faith, to think of it, and not go treating my lady lettice to a dish of tears every meal she sits down to, or she'll be sorry you're her daughter-in-law, if she isn't now; and if her name were temperance murthwaite it's much if she wouldn't be." "oh, you can say what you like--you always do--" "beg your pardon, faith; i very generally don't." "you haven't a bit of feeling for a poor widow. i hope you may never be a widow--" "thank you; i'll have a care of that. now, lettice! jump up, maid, and don your hat and mantle, and i will run down with you to selwick while there's a bit of light. my lady lettice thought you'd best be there to-night, so you could be up early and of some use to your aunt edith." it was not temperance murthwaite's custom to let the grass grow under her feet, and the three miles which lay between the little house at keswick and selwick hall were put behind her and lettice when another hour was over. selwick hall stood on the bank of derwentwater, and was the residence of lettice's grandmother, the widowed lady louvaine, her daughter edith, her grandson aubrey, and hans floriszoon, the orphan nephew of an old friend, mynheer stuyvesant, who had been adopted into the family when a little child. it was also theoretically the abode of lettice's aunt faith, who was aubrey's mother, and who practically flitted from the one house to the other at her rather capricious will. it had become her habit to depart to keswick whenever her feelings were outraged at selwick; and as faith's feelings were of that order which any thing might outrage, and nobody knew of it till they were outraged, her abode during the last six years had been mainly with the sister who never petted her, but from whom she would stand ten times more than from the tenderer hearts at selwick. lettice's hand was on the door when it opened, and there stood her cousin aubrey. "good even, aunt temperance," said he. "you are right in time for supper." "thank you, master aubrey late-hours," replied she; "'tis a bit too late for my supper, and lettice's likewise, without she can eat two of a night. how is it with my lady lettice? i hope, lad, you help and comfort her all you can." aubrey looked rather astonished. "comfort her?" he said. "she's all right." "how old are you, aubrey?" "why, aunt temperance, you know i was twenty last month." "one makes blunders betimes, lad. that speech of thine sounded about ten." "what mean you, aunt temperance?" "nay, lad, if god have not given thee eyes and brains, i shall be ill-set to do it.--run in, lettice. _no_, i'm not coming--not while to-morrow morning. remember to be up early, and help all you can--both of you. good even." temperance shut the door, and they heard her quick foot tread sharply down the gravel walk. "i say, 'tis jolly moving house, isn't it?" said aubrey. "i can't think why aunt temperance supposes that grandmother or any body should want comforting." "well, we are young, and she is old," replied lettice; "i suppose old folks care more about those things, perhaps." "oh, 'tis but because they are lazy and have the rheumatism," said aubrey, laughing. "beside, grandmother cares not about things like mother. mother's for ever fretting, but grandmother's always cheery." the cousins left the deep whitewashed porch and the oak-panelled hall, and went forward into the chief sitting-room of the house, known as the great parlour. the word "withdrawing-room" was still restricted to palaces and palatial mansions, and had not descended so low as to a country gentleman's house like selwick hall. the great parlour was a large room with a floor of polished oak, hung with tapestry in which the prevailing colour was red, and the chairs held cushions of red velvet. on the tiled hearth a comfortable fire burned softly away, and in a large chair of dark carved wood beside it, propped up with cushions of red velvet, sat an old lady of seventy-six, looking the very picture of comfort and sweetness. and though "her golden hairs time had to silver turned," and she was now a widow indeed, and desolate, some of my readers may recognise their old friend lettice eden. her eyes, though a little sunken, kept their clear blue, and her complexion was still fair and peach-like, with a soft, faint rose-colour, like a painting on china. she had a loving smile for every one, and a gentle, soothing voice, which the children said half cured the little troubles wherein they always ran to grandmother. aunt faith was usually too deep in her own troubles, and aunt edith, though always kind, was also invariably busy; while there was considerable hesitation in making an appeal to aunt temperance, who might answer it with a box on the ear instead of a comforting kiss, or at best had an awkward way of turning the tables on the plaintiff by making him out to be the offender instead of the defendant. but nobody ever hesitated to appeal to grandmother, whose very rebukes fell as softly as rose-leaves, and were always so justly deserved that they had twice the effect of those which came from perpetual fault-finders. aubrey had grown up in this atmosphere, but it was much newer to his cousin lettice, the daughter of dudley murthwaite and helen louvaine. until she was twelve years old, lettice had dwelt with her father at skiddaw force, her aunt temperance having supplied the place of the dead mother who had faded from her child's memory, for helen passed away when her daughter was only two years old. it had not been exactly dudley's choice which had placed temperance in that position. he would have preferred his wife's youngest sister, edith, to fill the vacant place of mother to his little girl; but edith firmly though kindly declined to make her home away from selwick hall. the natural explanation of course was that she, being the only unmarried daughter of the house, preferred to remain with her parents. edith said so, and all her friends repeated it, and thought it very natural and proper. and no one knew, except god and edith, that the reason given was only half the truth, and that the last place in this world which edith louvaine could take was the place of that dead sister helen who had so unconsciously taken the one thing which edith coveted for herself. thus thrown back on one of his own sisters, dudley tried next to persuade faith to make her home with him. it might have been better for faith if she had done so. but she liked the more luxurious life of selwick hall, where she had only to represent herself as tired or poorly to have any exertion taken for her by some one else; and she was one of those unconscious impostors who begin by imposing on themselves. whatever she wished to do, she was always capable of persuading herself that she ought to do. faith therefore declined to remove to her brother's house. the last resource was temperance, who, when appealed to, averred herself perfectly ready to go wherever she was most wanted. one baggage-horse would be enough for her luggage, she thanked goodness; she had two gowns for winter and two for summer, and no reasonable woman ought to have any more. as to ruffs and puffs, cuffs and muffs, she troubled herself with none of those ridiculous vanities. a plain laced bodice and skirt were good enough to work in, and a pair of stout shoes to keep her out of the mire, with a hat and kerchief for outdoor wear, and a warm cloak for cold weather. her miscellaneous possessions were limited to a big work-basket, two silver spoons and a goblet, and three books--namely, a copy of the four gospels, a prayer-book, and luther on the lord's prayer. packing and unpacking were small matters. in these circumstances, and temperance's change of residence was the affair of an afternoon. six years afterwards her brother dudley died; and temperance, taking into consideration the facts that skiddaw force was a very lonely place, having no house within some miles save a few isolated cottages of charcoal-burners and shepherds; that a small house at keswick belonged to lettice; and that the child's grand-parents on the mother's side were desirous to have her near them, let the house at skiddaw force, and came to live at keswick. the family at selwick hall had once been much larger than now. all were gone but these few--milisent to another home; anstace, walter, and helen lay in the churchyard, and ned, the father of young aubrey, under the waves of the north atlantic; and then mynheer stuyvesant, the old dutch gentleman who had been driven from his own land for the faith's sake, and having been the boys' tutor, had stayed for love after necessity was over, took his last journey to the better country; and dear, honest, simple cousin bess wolvercot, friend and helper of all, went to receive her reward, with-- "nothing to leave but a worn-out frame, and a name without a stain; nothing to leave but an empty place, that nothing could fill again--" and after that, lady lettice felt herself growing old. the evening shadows crept further, and her right hand in household affairs was gone; but with the constant love and aid of edith, she held on her way, until the sorest blow of all fell on her, and the husband who had been ever counsellor and comforter and stay, left her side for the continuing city. since then, lettice louvaine had been simply waiting for the day when she should join him again, and in the interim trying through growing infirmities to "do the next thing,"--remembering the words uttered so long ago by his beloved cousin anstace, that some day the next step would be the last step. when sir aubrey louvaine died, at the age of seventy-nine, two years before the story opens, aubrey, his grandson and namesake, became the owner of selwick hall: but being under age, every thing was left in the hands of his grandmother. the pang of lady louvaine's bereavement was still fresh when another blow fell on her. her husband had inherited selwick from a distant cousin, known in the neighbourhood as the old squire. the old squire's two sons, nicholas and hugh, had predeceased him, sir aubrey had taken peaceable possession of the estate, and no one ever doubted his title for fifty years, himself least of all. three months after his death, lady louvaine was astounded to receive a lawyer's letter, claiming the selwick lands on behalf of one oswald louvaine of newcastle, a young man who asserted himself to be the grandson of the long-deceased hugh. his documentary proofs were all in order, his witnesses were numerous and positive, and lady louvaine possessed no counter-proof of any kind to rebut this unheard-of claim. after a vain search among her husband's papers, and a consultation with such of her friends and relatives as she judged suitable, she decided not to carry the matter into a court of law, but to yield peaceable possession to young oswald, on consideration of his giving her a writ of immunity from paying back dues of any kind, which indeed it would have been quite out of her power to discharge. sir aubrey's income was comfortably sufficient for the family wants, but there was little to spare when both ends had met. mr oswald accepted the terms as an immense favour on his part; and at the age of seventy-six lady louvaine was deprived of the home wherein she had dwelt for fifty-six years, and summoned like abraham to go forth into the land which god would show her. where to go was the next question. her daughter milisent, with her husband robert lewthwaite, would gladly have received her, and implored her to come to them; but nine children, a full house, and a small income, barred the way in that direction. no offer of a home came from red banks, where the children of her eldest daughter anstace lived, and where the income was twice as large as at mere lea, while the family did not amount to half the number. temperance murthwaite trudged up to selwick to offer the tiny house which was part of lettice's little patrimony, actually proposing herself to go to service, and leave lettice in her grandmother's care. this faith regarded as a cruel injury, and lady louvaine would not hear of it. from her daughter-in-law. mrs walter louvaine, at kendal, came a sweetly-perfumed and sweetly-worded letter, wherein the writer offered-- a thousand apologies, and a dozen excuses for not receiving her dear and revered mother. her grief in having so to write, she assured them, was incalculable and inconsolable. she begged that it might be taken into consideration that diana was shortly to be married, and would require a trousseau--which, she did not add, comprised a pound of gold lace, and six pairs of silk stockings at two guineas the pair: that montague, being in a nobleman's household, was an appalling expense to her; that the younger boys were growing up and would require situations found for them, while jane and frances would some day need portioning: all which facts were so many heavy burdens,--and had not the apostle said that he who neglected to provide for his own was worse than an infidel? lady louvaine received this letter with a slight sigh, a gentle smile, and "poor frances!" but the usually calm, sunny temper of edith was not proof against it. she tore the letter in two and flung the fragments into the fire. "edith, my dear daughter!" ejaculated her astonished mother. "mother, i can't stand it!" was the response. "i must either do this or something worse. and to drag in the apostle paul as a prop for such hypoc--i'll just go and churn, and perhaps i can talk like a christian when i come back!" such things as these did not move lady louvaine. but there were two things which did move her, even to tears. the first was when hans brought her a little box in which lay five silver pieces, entreating her to accept them, such as they were--and she found after close cross-examination that part of the money was the boy's savings to buy cherished books, and part the result of the sale of his solitary valuable possession, a pair of silver buckles. the other took place when notice was given to all the servants. each received his or her wages, and a little token of remembrance, with bow or courtesy, and an expression of regret on leaving so kind a mistress, mingled with good wishes for her future welfare: all but one. that one was charity, the under-housemaid from pendle. charity rolled up her arms in her apron, and said curtly--"nay!" "but, charity, i _owe_ you this," responded her mistress in some surprise. "if you're bound to reckon up, my lady, betwixt you and me, there mun be somewhat set down o' tother side o' th' book," announced charity sturdily. "yo' mun mind you 'at yo' took me ba'at [without] a commendation, because nob'ry [nobody] 'd have me at after mistress watson charged me wi' stealing her lace fall, 'at she found at after amongst her kerchiefs; that's a hundred pound to th' good. and yo' nursed me through th' fever--that's another. and yo' held me back fro' wedding wi' yon wastrel [scoundrel] nym thistlethwaite, till i'd seen a bit better what manner of lad he were, and so saved me fro' being a poor, bruised, heart-broke thing like their margery is now, 'at he did wed wi'--and that counts for five hundred at least. that's seven hundred pound, madam, and i've nobut twelve i' th' world--i'm bankrupt. so, if you please, we'll have no reckonings, or i shall come off warst. and would you please to tell me when you look to be i' london town, and where you'll 'light first?" "my good charity! they named thee not ill," answered lady louvaine. "i trust to be in london the end of march--nigh on lady day; and i light at the white bear, in the king's street, westminster." "pray you, madam, how many miles is it hence?" "'tis about two hundred miles, charity." for a moment charity was silent. then she said, "an't like you, madam, i'd fain go the first o' march." lady louvaine was a little surprised, for she had given her servants a month's notice, which would expire on the fifteenth of march. however, if charity preferred to be paid in time instead of money, that was her own affair. she assented, and charity, dropping another courtesy, left the room. lady louvaine's house in london had been obtained through the earl of oxford, a distant cousin of her husband, in whose household her son walter had long before taken unwholesome lessons in fashion and extravagance. the earl, now in his grand climacteric, had outlived his youthful frivolity, and though he had become a hard and austere man, was yet willing to do a kindness to his kinsman's widow by engaging a house for her, and offering for her grandson a squire's place which happened to be vacant in his household. she would have preferred some less showy and more solid means of livelihood for aubrey, whose character was yet unfixed, and whose disposition was lighter than she liked to see it: but no other offered, and she accepted this. a few days before the time for departure, up trudged temperance murthwaite again. "madam," said she, "i'm something 'feared i'm as welcome as water into a ship, for i dare guess you've enough to do with the hours, but truth to tell, i'm driven to it. here's faith set to go after you to london." "poor child! let her come." "i can get as far as `poor,' madam, but i can go no further with you," answered temperance grimly. "somebody's poor enough, i cast no doubt, but i don't think it's faith. but you have not yet beheld all your calamities. if faith goes, i must go too--and if i go, and she, then must lettice." "dear temperance, i shall be verily glad." "lady lettice, you're too good for this world!--and there aren't ten folks in it to whom i ever said that. howbeit, you shall not lose by me, for i purpose to take rachel withal and she and i can do the housework betwixt us, and so set edith free to wait on you. were you thinking to carry servants, or find them there?" "i thought to find one there. more than one, methinks, we can scarce afford." "well then for that shall rachel serve: and i'll work the cost of my keep and more, you shall see. i can spin with the best, and weave too; you'll never come short of linen nor linsey while i'm with you--and lettice can run about and save steps to us all. what think you?--said i well?" "very well indeed, my dear: i were fain to have you." "then you'll look for us. good-morrow!" the last evening was a busy one for all parties, and there was little time to spare for indulgence in remembrance or regret. it was two hours later than usual, when lettice at last lay down to sleep and even then, sleep seemed long in coming. she heard her aunt edith's soft movements in the neighbouring gallery, where she was putting final touches to the packing, and presently they slid unconsciously into the sound of the waterfall at skiddaw force, by the side of which lettice was climbing up to the tower of london. she knew nothing of the tender, cheerful "good-night, mother dear!" given to lady louvaine--of the long, pathetic gaze at the moonlit landscape--of the silently-sobbed prayer, and the passionate rain of tears--such different tears from those of faith!--which left a wet stain upon edith's coverlet. it was hard to leave the old home--hard to leave the new graves. but the next thing the young niece heard was only--"time to rise, lettice!" spoken in the usual bright manner--and, looking up, she saw aunt edith fully dressed. lettice sprang up in a fright, and scrambled into her clothes with all the haste possible. she, who was to have helped aunt edith, to be fast asleep in bed when she was ready! it was not many minutes before lettice was dressed, but her morning prayer had in it sundry things which were not prayers. breakfast was nearly over when a curious rolling sound was heard, followed by the tramp of horses: and aubrey jumped up to look, for it was half-an-hour too soon for the baggage-horses to be brought. he had to run into the porch-chamber to see what it was, and before he returned came old roger the serving-man, with a letter in his hand, which he gave to his mistress. she opened the letter, but finding it somewhat difficult for dim eyes to make out, she gave it back to roger, desiring him to read it. [note .] so roger read:-- "madam,--since i need be in london this next weekend, where i look to tarry some time, and am offered a seat in my good lord of northumberland's caroche, it were pity that my caroche should go thither empty, in especial when so good and old a friend is likewise on her journey. may i therefore beg that your ladyship will so far favour me as to use the caroche as your own, from this day until friday week, when, if it serve your convenience, it may return to me at radcliffe house? my servants have orders to obey your ladyship's directions, and to serve you in all regards as myself. "i kiss the hands of fair mistress edith, and beg my best compliments to your young gentlemen, and am, madam, yours to my little power, dilston." aubrey had come back whilst roger was reading, and scarcely gave him leave to make an end of the letter. "madam, 'tis my lord dilston's caroche, with six great flanders horses, and three serving-men, all as fine as fiddlers, and never a soul in the caroche--" "truly, this is of the lord's goodness," said lady louvaine. "i did indeed fear the journey on horseback, but there seemed none other means." "the like did i for you, dear mother," added edith. "i am most thankful for my lord dilston's kindly proffer. it shall ease the journey to you more than all we could do." lady louvaine bade edith write an answer, and ordered roger to take back to mere lea the three saddle-horses lent her by mr lewthwaite, explaining why they were no longer needed. it was then settled that the four ladies and lettice should travel in the coach, aubrey, hans, and rachel going on horseback. hans had gone out, and they saw him talking in the front with lord dilston's postillion. now he came back. "well, hans, what wormed you out of the postillion?" inquired aubrey. "his master's goodness," said hans. "have you a bit left for me? or do you want it all for yourself?" "it is all for my lady. my lord dilston was meaning to have gone to town himself in his own caroche, till he heard of your ladyship's trouble, and then he cast about to know of some friend that was going, so he might leave it for you. then he heard of my lord of northumberland, and he begged a seat in his caroche; and madam penelope stuffed the caroche with all the cushions that were in the house, and a hamper of baked meats, and wine, and a great fur mantle to lap your ladyship in; and my lord bade the postillion to drive very soft, that you should not be shaken, without you told him to go fast, and the footmen were to have a care of you and save you all that they could. said i not well, his goodness?" "truly, hans, you did so," answered edith; "and right thankful should we all be, first to the lord, and then to my lord dilston, that my dear mother can now journey in safety and comfort." lady louvaine said, softly, "bless the lord! and may he bless this kind friend! truly, i marvel wherefore it is that every one is so good to me. it must be, surely, for my dead aubrey's sake." "oh, of course," said young aubrey, laughing; "they all hate _you_, madam, you may be sure." his grandmother smiled on him, for she understood him. now came the murthwaite sisters trudging up the path, temperance carrying a heavy basket, and faith bearing no greater weight than her handkerchief, behind which, as usual, she was weeping. "good-morrow, madam," said aunt temperance as she came in. "a fine day for our journey." "you're to ride in a caroche, aunt temperance!" cried aubrey. "who--me? no, i thank you, my young master. i never set foot in such a thing in my life, nor never will by my good will. i like the feel of a horse under me well enough; but that finicky gingerbread thing, all o'er gilding--i'd as soon go on a broomstick. whose is it?" "'tis my lord dilston's, that hath most kindly proffered it to mother for the journey," replied edith. "we had settled that we four, with lettice, should journey therein; but if you would rather be on horseback, temperance--" "that would i, by ten mile," said she. "i hate being cooped up in a four-post bed, with all the curtains drawn; and that lumbering thing's no better. faith'll go, i don't doubt; any thing that's a bit smart and showy!! take her: and lettice may please herself. i dare say the child will have a fantasy to ride in a caroche for once in her life." "indeed, aunt, i would like it," answered lettice, "for very like i may never have such another chance while i live." "truly, that's little like," retorted temperance with a laugh. "so have thy ride, child, if thou wilt.--dear heart! lady lettice, i ask your pardon." "for what, temperance, my dear?" "taking your place, madam, instead of my own. here am i, deciding what lettice shall do or not do, when you being in presence, it belongs to you to judge." lady louvaine gave her gentle smile. "nay, if we must stand upon our rights, you, temperance, as her father's sister, have the right to choose." "then i choose to obey you, lady lettice," said temperance with a courtesy. "madam," now announced hans from the door, "the baggage is packed, and the caroche awaiteth your ladyship." edith helped her mother to rise from, her chair. she stood one moment, her hand on edith's arm; and a look came into her eyes such as a drowning man might give to the white cliffs whereon his home stood, where his wife and his little children were waiting for him. so she stood and looked slowly round the chamber, her eyes travelling from one thing to another, till she had gone all over it. and then she said, in a low, pathetic voice-- "`get thee out of thy country, and from thy father's house, unto the land that i will show thee.' once before i had that call, and it led me to him who was the stay and blessing of my life. yet again i go forth: o my father, let it lead to thee, unto thy holy hill, and to thy tabernacle! remember thy word unto thy servant, wherein thou hast caused me to hope--`certainly i will be with thee,'--`i will not fail thee, nor forsake thee,'--`fear not, for i have redeemed thee: i have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.' lord, keep thine own!--now, my children, let us go hence with god." in something like a procession they went forth from selwick hall. lady louvaine first, leaning on edith and hans, to whom aubrey was always ready to resign troublesome duties; then faith, temperance, aubrey, and lettice. at the door stood the great coach, painted in dark mulberry-colour and picked out with gilding, the lining and cushions of blue: and harnessed to it were the six great horses, dark roan, with cream-coloured manes, knotted likewise in blue. the servants wore mulberry-coloured livery, corded with blue. lady louvaine took her place on the right hand of the coach, facing the horses, faith being at her side. opposite sat edith, and lettice by the door. "aunt temperance!" called out aubrey from the doorstep, "you shall have my horse, if you will; i am going in the caroche." "you are _what_, sirrah?" demanded aunt temperance, with the severity of at least one lord chief-justice. "i shall ride in the caroche," repeated aubrey calmly. "northumberland, cumberland, westmoreland, and durham!" was the awful answer. the young people knew what that meant. when temperance said "dear heart!" she was just a little surprised or put out; when it was "lancaster and derby!" she was very much astonished or provoked; but when she supplicated the help of "northumberland, cumberland, westmoreland, and durham!" it meant from aunt temperance what swearing would from any one else. "i should like to know, if you please, mr aubrey louvaine, whether you are a king, a sick woman, or a baby?" "well, aunt, i don't think i am any of them at present." "then you have no business to ride in a caroche till you are. i never heard of such a thing in my life. a man to ride in a caroche! we shall have them hemming handkerchiefs to-morrow." "you won't have me," said aubrey. "i won't have you in there," retorted temperance bluntly, "without my lady lettice call you in, and that she won't. will you, madam?" "certainly not, my dear, after your decision," she replied. "indeed, i do think it too effeminate for men, persons of high honour except, or them that are sick and infirm." "that rascal's not sick, any more than he's a person of honour.--thee bestride thy horse, lad--without thou canst find an ass, which would suit with thee better.--now, hans, come and help me to mount." when all were mounted, the six great horses tugged and strained at the big coach, and with a good push from the four farm-servants, it moved forwards, at first slowly, then faster. the farm-servants stood bareheaded, to see the family depart, crying, "god bless you, my lady, and bring you home in peace!" faith sank back sobbing into the corner, and there were tears in edith's eyes which she would not let fall. "farewell!" said lady louvaine, leaning forward. "farewell, my good, kind old friends--thomas, william, isaac, and gideon--i wish you god's blessing, and a better head than i." "nay, nay, that'll ne'er be, nor couldn't, no wise!" cried old gideon, and the rest all echoed his "nay, nay!" "farewell!" said his mistress again, somewhat faintly, as she sank back into the corner. "friends, god will bless me, and he shall bring me home in peace." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the thrum is the fringed end of a weaver's web; a thrum hat was made of very coarse tufted woollen cloth. note . this was quite a common occurrence at that time, when men-servants were usually better educated, and ladies and gentlemen much less so, than now. chapter two. the journey to london. "and yet, i do remember, some dim sense of vague presentiment swept o'er me, as beyond the gates we turned to make the long descent." at the bridge-end, as they came up, were milisent and her husband, with seven of their nine children,--even little fortune, but five years old, whom milisent lifted into the coach and set on her aunt edith's knee, saying "she should say all her life that she had sat in my lord dilston's earache." then milisent came in herself and sat down for a moment between her mother and faith, whilst her husband talked with aubrey, and all the children crowded about hans, always a favourite with children. after a few minutes' conversation, robert came up to the coach-door with--"time to go, milly. we must not tarry mother on her journey, for she is like to be weary enough ere she come to its end." then milisent broke down, and threw her arms around her mother, and cried,--"o mother, mother, how shall i do without you? must i never see you again?" "my milisent," said lady louvaine, "i shall not carry god from thee. and thou wilt surely see me again, sweet heart, where we shall part no more for ever." for a few minutes milisent wept as if her heart would break; then she wiped her eyes, and kissed them all round, only breaking down a little again when she came to her sister edith. "o edith, darling sister, i never loved thee half well enough!" edith was calm now. "send me the other half in thy letters, milly," she replied, "and i will return it to thee." "ay, we can write betimes," said milisent, looking a little comforted. then to her niece,--"now, lettice, i look to thee for all the news. the first day of every month shall we begin to look out for a letter at mere lea; and if my sister cannot write, then must thou. have a care!" "so i will, aunt," said lettice. milisent alighted with a rather brighter look--she was not wont to look any thing but bright--robert took his leave and then came all the cousins pouring in to say good-bye. so the farewells were spoken, and they went on their journey; but as far as they could see until hidden by the hill round which they drove, milisent's handkerchief was waving after them. lady louvaine bore the journey better than her daughters had feared; and our friends deemed themselves very happy that during the whole of it, they were not once overturned, and only four times stuck in the mud. at the end of the fourth day, which was friday, they came up to the door of the hill house at minster lovel. and as they lumbered round the sweep with their six horses, edith cried joyously,--"oh, there's old rebecca!" to edith louvaine, a visit to the hill house was in a sense coming home, for its owner, her father's cousin, joyce morrell, had been to her almost a second mother. when people paid distant visits in the sixteenth century, it was not for a week's stay, but for half a year, or at least a quarter. during many years it had been the custom that visits of this length should be exchanged between selwick hall and the hill house at minster lovel alternately, at the close of every two years. but edith, who was aunt joyce's special favourite, had paid now and then a visit between-times; and when, as years and infirmities increased, the meetings were obliged to cease for the elders, edith's yearly stay of three or four months with the old and lonely cousin had become an institution instead of them. her feeling, therefore, was much like that of a daughter of the house introducing her relatives to her own home; for lady louvaine was the only other of the party to whom the hill house had been familiar in old times. its owner, the once active and energetic old lady, now confined to her couch by partial paralysis, had been called aunt joyce by the louvaines of the second generation ever since their remembrance lasted. to the younger ones, however, she was a stranger; and they watched with curious eyes their aunt edith's affectionate greeting of the old servant rebecca, who had guarded and amused her as a baby, and loved her as a girl. rebecca, on her part, was equally glad to see her. "run you in, mrs edith, my dear," said she; "you'll find the mistress in the credence chamber. eh, she has wearied for you!--good evening, madam, and i'm fain to see your ladyship again. would you please to allow of my help in 'lighting?" while rebecca and hans assisted her mother to descend, edith ran into the house with as light and fleet a step as if she were fourteen instead of forty, and entered a large, low chamber, hung with dark leather hangings, stamped in gold, where a bright lamp burned on a little table, and on a low couch beside it lay an old lady, covered over with a fur coverlet. she had a pleasant, kindly old face, with fresh rose-colour in her cheeks, and snow-white hair; and her face lighted up when she saw edith, like a candle set in a dark window. edith ran to her, and cast her arms about her, and she said, "my edith, mine own dear child!" as tenderly as if she had been her own mother. lady louvaine followed her daughter, leaning on hans and rebecca, who took her up to the couch, and set her down in a large chair furnished with soft cushions, which stood close beside, as if it were there on purpose. she laid her hand upon joyce's, who fondled it in both hers. then joyce gave a little laugh. "lettice, dost thou wonder to hear me laugh?" asked she. "i seemed like as if i saw, all at once, that sunshine afternoon when thou earnest first over from the manor house, sent of my lady norris to make friends with us. dost remember?" "and thou earnest tripping lightly down the stairs, clad of a russet gown, and leddest me up to see anstace. `do i remember it!' ah, joyce, my sister, there be sore changes since that day!" "be there so?" said joyce, and smiled brightly enough. "a good number of miles nearer home, lettice, and a good number of treasures laid up for both of us, where neither moth nor rust shall hurt them. my treasures are all there which are not likewise thine. and now let me see the new gems in thy jewel-box. who art thou, my maid?" "i am lettice murthwaite, madam, if you please." "my dear heart, i do not please to be called madam. i am thine aunt joyce. come here and kiss me, if thou wilt." lettice knelt down by the couch, and kissed the old lady. "there is not much of nell here, lettice," said joyce to lady louvaine. "'tis her father the child is like. now then, which of these two lads is aubrey--he with the thinking brow, or he with the restless eyes?" lady louvaine called aubrey, and he came up. "why, thou art like nobody," said aunt joyce. "neither ned nor faith, nor any of ned's elders. lettice, where is faith? hast not brought her withal?" faith was in the hall, listening to a lecture from temperance, embellished by such elegancies as "stuff and nonsense!" and "listen to reason!" which ended up at last with "lancaster and derby!" and faith came slowly in, with her everlasting handkerchief at her eyes. "nay, faith, sweet heart, no tears!" cried the old lady. "sure there's nought to weep for this even, without thou art so dog-weary that thou canst not keep them back." "mistress morrell, i wish you good even," said temperance, coming in after her sister. "if you'll but learn faith to keep that handkerchief of hers in her pocket, you'll have done the best work ever you did since we saw you last in derwent-dale. she's for ever and the day after a-fretting and a-petting, for why she'd better tell you, for i'm a dutchman if i can make out." aunt joyce looked from one to the other. "so unfeeling!" came faith's set form, from behind the handkerchief. "and me a poor widow!" the old lady's face went very grave, and all the cheeriness passed out of it. "faith, you are not the only widow in the chamber," she said gently. "temperance, my dear, she is weary, maybe." "she hasn't got a bit of call," rejoined temperance. "sat all day long in my lord dilston's smart caroche, lolling back in the corner, just like a feather-bed. mistress joyce, 'tis half ill-temper and half folly--that's what it is." "well, well, my dear, we need not judge our neighbours.--edith, my child, thou knowest the house as well as i; wilt thou carry thy friends above? rebecca hath made ready my lady's chamber for my lady,"--with a smile at her old friend--"and the fetterlock chamber for faith and temperance. the old wardrobe is for thee and lettice, and the lads shall lie in the nursery." names to every room, after this fashion, were customary in old houses. the party were to stay at minster lovel for four days, from friday to tuesday, and then to pursue their journey to london. in the old wardrobe, a pleasant bedchamber on the upper floor, lettice washed off the dust of the journey, and changed her clothes when the little trunk came up which held the necessaries for the night. then she tried to find her way to the credence chamber, and--as was not very surprising--lost it, coming out into a long picture-gallery where she was at once struck and entranced by a picture that hung there. it represented a young girl about her own age, laid on a white couch, and dressed in white, but with such a face as she had never seen on any woman in this life. it was as white as the garments, with large dark eyes, wherein it seemed to lettice as if her very soul had been melted; a soul that had gone down into some dreadful deep, and having come up safe, was ever afterwards anxiously ready to help other souls out of trouble. she would have thought the painter meant it for an angel, but that angels are not wont to be invalids and lie on couches. beside this picture hung another, which reminded her of her grandfather louvaine; but this was of a young man, not much older than aubrey, yet it had her grandfather's eyes, which she had seen in none else save her aunt edith. now lettice began to wonder where she was, and how she should find her way; and hearing footsteps, she waited till they came up, when she saw old rebecca. "why, my dear heart, what do you here?" said she kindly. "truly, i know not," the youthful visitor answered. "i set forth to go down the stairs, and missed the right turning, as i guess. but pray you, rebecca, ere you set me in the way, tell me of whom are these two pictures?" "why," said she, "can you not guess? the one is of your own grandfather, sir aubrey louvaine." "oh, then it is grandfather when he was young. but who is this, rebecca? it looks like an angel, but angels are never sick, and she seems to be lying sick." "there be angels not yet in heaven, mistress lettice," softly answered the old servant. "and if you were to live to the age of methuselah, you'd never see a portrait of one nearer the angels than this. 'tis a picture that old squire--mistress joyce's father--would have taken, nigh sixty years since, of our angel, our mistress anstace, when she was none so many weeks off the golden gate. they set forth with her in a litter for london town, and what came back was her coffin, and that picture." "was she like that?" asked lettice, scarcely above her breath, for she felt as if she could not speak aloud, any more than in church. "she was, and she was not," said old rebecca. "them that knew her might be minded of her. she was like nothing in this world. but, my dear heart, i hear mrs edith calling for you. here be the stairs, and the credence chamber, where supper is laid, is the first door on your left after you reach the foot." on the saturday evening, as they sat round the fire in the credence chamber, edith asked aunt joyce if old dr cox were still parson of minster lovel. "nay," said she; "i would he were. we have a new lord and new laws, the which do commonly go together." "what manner of lord?" inquired edith. "and what make of laws?" said temperance. "bad, the pair of them," said the old lady. "why, is he a gamester or drunkard?" asked lady louvaine. "or a dumb dog that cannot bark?" suggested temperance. "well, i'd fain have him a bit dumber," was aunt joyce's answer. "at least, i wish he'd dance a bit less." "dance!" cried edith. "well!" said aunt joyce, "what else can you call it, when a man measures his steps, goes two steps up and bows, then two steps down and bows, then up again one step, with a great courtesy, and holds up his hands as if he were astonished--when there's nothing in the world to astonish him except his own foolish antics?" "but where doth he this?" said lady louvaine: "here in the chamber, or out of door?" "dear heart! in the church." "but for why?" "prithee ask at him, for i can ne'er tell thee." "did you ne'er ask him, aunt?" said edith. "for sure did i, and gat no answer that i could make aught of: only some folly touching catholic practice, and the like. and, `master twinham,' said i, `i know not well what you would be at, but i can tell you, i lived through the days of queen mary, and, if that be what you mean by catholic practices, they are practices we don't want back again.' well, he mumbled somewhat about being true to the church, and such like: but if he be an honest man, my shoes be made of shrewsbury sweet bread. we tumbled all such practices out of the church, above forty years gone; and what's more, we'll not stand to have them brought in again, though there be some may try." "they will not bring any such folly in while the queen liveth, i guess," answered edith. "amen! but the queen, god bless her! is seventy this year." "would you have her live for ever, aunt joyce?" asked aubrey. "would she could!" she answered. "as to this fellow, i know not what he'll be at next. he told me to my face that a papist was better than a puritan. `well, mr twinham,' said i, `you may be a papist, but i am a puritan, and there i tarry till i find somewhat better.'" "why, joyce!" said lady louvaine, smiling, "thou wert not wont to call thyself a puritan, in the old days when thou and bess wolvercot used to pick a crow betwixt you over dr meade's surplice at keswick." "no, i wasn't," said she. "but i tell you, lettice, there be things human nature cannot bear. a clean white surplice and christ's gospel is one thing, and a purple vestment and an other gospel is another. and if i'm to swallow the purple vestment along with the white surplice, i'll have neither. as to old bess, dear blessed soul! she's in her right place, where she belongs; and if i may creep in at a corner of heaven's door and clean her golden sandals, i shall be thankful enough, the lord knows." "but, mrs morrell! sure you never mean to say that surplices be giving place to purple vestments down this road!" cried temperance in much horror. "children," said the old lady very solemnly, "we two, in god's mercy, shall not live to see what is coming, but very like you will. and i tell you, all is coming back which our fathers cast forth into the valley of hinnom, and afore you--temperance, faith, and edith--be old women, it will be set up in the court of the temple. ay, much if it creep not into the holy of holies ere those three young folks have a silver hair. the devil is coming, children: he's safe to be first; and in his train are the priests and the pope. they are all coming: and you'll have to turn them out again, as your grandfathers did. and don't you fancy that shall be an easy task. it'll be the hardest whereto you ever set your shoulders. god grant you win through it! there are two dangers afore you, and when i say that, i mean not the torture-chamber and the stake. nay, i am thinking of worser dangers than those--snares wherein feet are more easily trapped, a deal. list to me, for ere many years be over, you will find that i speak truth. the lesser danger is if the devil come to you in his black robes, and offer to buy you with that which he guesseth to be your price--and that shall not be the same for all: a golden necklace may tempt one, and a place at court another, and a barbary mare a third. but worse, far worse, is the danger when the devil comes in his robes of light; when he gilds his _lie_ with a cover of outside truth; when he quotes scripture for his purpose, twisting it so subtilely that if the spirit of god give you not the answer, you know not how to answer him. remember, all you young ones, and aubrey in especial, that no man can touch pitch and not be denied. `evil communications corrupt good manners:' and they corrupt them worst and quickest when you see not that they be evil. if you think the scales be falling from your eyes, make very sure that they are not growing on them. and you can do that only by keeping very close to god's footstool and to god's word. be sure of this: whatsoever leads you away from that book leads you wrong. i care not what it be--king or pope, priest or layman, blind faith or blind reason,--he that neglects and sets aside the word of god, for whatever cause, and whatever thing he would put in his place--children, his ways incline unto hell, and his paths unto the dead. go not after him, nor follow him. mark my words, and see, twenty and yet more forty years hence, if they come not true." aubrey whispered to lettice, "what made her pick out me in `especial,' trow? i'm not about to handle no pitch." but hans said, with his gravest face, "i thank you, madam," and seemed to be thinking hard about something all the rest of the evening. on the sunday morning, all went to church except the two old ladies, who could honestly plead infirmity. when they came out, lettice, who was burning to speak her mind, exclaimed,--"saw you ever a parson so use himself, aubrey? truly i know not how to specify it--turning, and twisting, and bowing, and casting up of his hands and eyes--it well-nigh made me for to laugh!" "like a merry andrew or a cheap jack," laughed aubrey. "i thought his sermon stranger yet," said hans, "nor could i see what it had to do with his text." "what was his text?" inquired heedless aubrey. "`thou shalt love the lord thy god,'" repeated hans. "ay, and all he did, the hour through," cried lettice, "was to bid us obey the church, and hear the church, and not run astray after no novelties in religion. and the church is not the lord our god, neither is religion, so far as i see." "i mind sir aubrey once saying," added hans, "that when a bride talked ever of herself, and nothing of her bridegroom, it was a very ill augury of the state of her heart." "but saw you those two great candlesticks on the holy table?--what for be they?" said lettice. "oh, they be but ornaments of the church," answered aubrey, carelessly. "but we have none such in keswick church: and what is the good of candlesticks without candles?" "the candles will come," quietly replied hans. "ah! you're thinking of what the old gentlewoman said last night-- confess, master sobersides!" said aubrey. "i have thought much on it," answered hans, who walked along, carrying the ladies' prayer-books; for the road being dirty, they had enough to do in holding up their gowns. "and i think she hath the right." "hans, i marvel how old thou wert when thou wert born!" said aubrey. "i think, very like, about as old as you were," said hans. "well, mr louvaine, you are a complete young gentleman!" cried his aunt temperance, looking back at him. "to suffer three elder gentlewomen to trudge in the mire, and never so much as offer to hand one of them! those were not good manners, my master, when i was a young maid--but seeing how things be changed now o' days, maybe that has gone along with them. come hither at once, thou vagrant, and give thine hand to thy mother, like a dutiful son as thou shouldest be, and art not." "oh, never mind me!" sighed faith. "i have given over expecting such a thing. i am only a poor widow." "madam," apologised hans, very red in the face, "i do truly feel ashamed that i have no better done my duty, and i entreat you not--" "i was not faulting thee, lad," said temperance. "we have already laden thee with books; and it were too much to look for thee to do thine own duty and other folks' too. it's this lazy lad i want. i dare be bound he loveth better to crack jests with his cousins than to be dutiful to his old mother and aunts." "temperance, i am only thirty-nine," said faith in an injured voice. "i am the youngest of us three." "oh deary me! i ask your pardon," cried temperance, with a queer set of her lips. "yes, madam, you are; edith is an old woman of forty, and i a decrepit creature of forty-five; but you are a giddy young thing of thirty-nine. i'll try to mind it, at least till your next birthday." lettice laughed, and aunt temperance did not look angry, though she pulled a face at her. edith smiled, and said pleasantly-- "come, aubrey, hand thy mother on my side; i will walk with lettice and hans." "aunt edith," said lettice, "pray you, why be those candlesticks on the holy table, with never a candle in them?" "i cannot tell, lettice," replied she; "i fear, if the parson dared, there would be candles in them, and belike will, ere long." "think you aunt joyce is right in what she said last night?" "i fear so, lettice," she answered very gravely. "we have not yet seen the last, i doubt, of satan and his roman legion." the same afternoon, lettice had a talk with old rebecca, which almost frightened her. she went up to the gallery for another look at the two pictures, and rebecca passing by, lettice begged that if she were not very busy, she would tell her something about them. in reply she heard a long story, which increased her reverential love for the dead grandfather, and made her think that "cousin anstace" must have been an angel indeed. rebecca had lived in the hill house for sixty years, and she well remembered her mistress's sister. "mind you queen mary's days, rebecca?" asked lettice. "eh, sweet heart!" said the old servant. "they could ne'er be forgot by any that lived in them." "saw you any of the dreadful burnings?" "ay, did i, mrs lettice," said she,--"even the head and chief of them all, of my lord's grace of canterbury. i saw him hold forth his right hand in the flame, that had signed his recantation: and after all was over, and the fire out, i drew nigh with the crowd, and beheld his heart entire, uncharred amongst the ashes. ah my mistress! if once you saw such a sight as that, you could never forget it, your whole life thereafter." "it must have been dreadful, rebecca!" said lettice. "well, it was, in one way," she answered: "and yet, in another, it was right strengthening. i never felt so strong in the faith as that hour, and for some while after. it was like as if heaven had been opened to me, and i had a glimpse of the pearly portals, and the golden street, and the white waving wings of the angels as he went in." "saw you the bishops burned, rebecca--dr ridley and dr latimer?" "i did not, mrs lettice; yet have i seen them both, prisoners, led through oxford streets. dr ridley was a man with a look so grave that it was well-nigh severe: but dr latimer could break a jest with any man, and did, yea, with his very judges." "were you ever in any danger, rebecca?--or mrs morrell?" "i never was, mrs lettice; but my good mistress was once well-nigh taken of the catchpoll [constable]. you ask her to tell you the story, how she came at him with the red-hot poker. and after that full quickly she packed her male, and away to selwick to sir aubrey and her ladyship, where she tarried hid until queen elizabeth came in." "think you there shall ever be such doings in england again?" "the lord knoweth," and old rebecca shook her white head. "there's not a bit of trust to be put in them snakes of priests and jesuits and such like: not a bit! let them get the upper hand again, and we shall have the like times. good lord, deliver us from them all!" lettice went down, intending to ask aunt joyce to tell her the story of the red-hot poker; but she never thought of it again, so absorbed was she with what the two old ladies were saying as she came in. they did not hear her enter: and the first word she heard made her so desirous of more, that she crept as softly as she could to a seat. curiosity was her besetting sin. "she used not to be thus," said lady louvaine. "truly, i know not what hath thus sorrowfully changed the poor child; but i would some means might be found to undo the same. even for some years after ned's death, i mind not this change; it came on right slowly and by degrees." lettice felt pretty sure that "she" was aunt faith. "'tis weakness, i suppose," said lady louvaine, in a questioning tone. "ay, we are all weak some whither," replied aunt joyce; "and faith's weakness is a sort to show. she is somewhat too ready to nurse her weaknesses, and make pets of them. 'tis bad enough for a woman to pet her own virtues; but when she pets her vices, 'tis a hard thing to better her. but, lettice, there is a strong soul among you--a rare soul, in good sooth; and there is one other, of whose weakness, and what are like to be its consequences, i am far more in fear than of faith's." "nay, who mean you?" asked lady louvaine in a perplexed voice. "i mean the two lads--hans and aubrey." "hans is a good lad, truly." "hans has more goodness in him than you have seen the end of, by many a mile. but aubrey!" "you reckon not aubrey an ill one, i hope?" "by which you mean, one that purposes ill? oh no, by no means. he is a far commoner character--one that hath no purpose, and so being, doth more real ill than he that sets forth to do it of malicious intent." "are you assured you wrong not the lad, joyce, in so saying?" "if i do, you shall full shortly know it. i trust it may be so. but he seems to me to have a deal more of walter in him than ned, and to be right the opposite of our aubrey in all main conditions." "ah," sighed the widow, in a very tender tone, "there can be no two of him!" then after a little pause, "and what sayest thou to lettice--my little lettice?" the concealed listener pricked up both her ears. aunt joyce gave a little laugh. "not so very unlike an other lettice that once i knew," said she. "something less like to fall in the same trap, methinks, and rather more like to fall in an other." "now, tell me what other?" "i mean, dear heart, less conceit of her favour [beauty], and more of her wisdom. a little over-curious and ready to meddle in matters that concern her not. a good temper, methinks, and more patience than either of her aunts on the father's side: as to humility--well, we have none of us too much of that." "joyce, wouldst thou like to have us leave lettice a while with thee? she could wait on thee and read to thee, and be like a daughter to thee. i will, if thou wouldst wish it." "nay, that would i not, lettice, for the child's own sake. it were far better for her to go with you. there is an offer thou couldst make me, of that fashion, that my self-denial were not equal to refuse. so see thou make it not." "what, now? not hans, trow?" "edith." "o joyce!" "ay, dear heart, i know. nay, fear not. i'll not take the last bud off the old tree. but, thyself saved, lettice, there is none left in all the world that i love as i love her. perchance she will find it out one day." "joyce, my dear sister--" "hold thy peace, lettice. i'll not have her, save now and again on a visit. and not that now. thou shouldst miss her sorely, in settling down in thy new home. where shall it be?" "in the king's street of westminster. my good lord oxford hath made earnest with a gentleman, a friend of his, that hath there an estate, to let us on long lease an house and garden he hath, that now be standing empty." "ay, that is a pleasant, airy place, nigh the fields. at what rent?" "twenty-four shillings the quarter. houses be dearer there than up in holborn, yet not so costly as in the city; and it shall not be far for aubrey, being during the day in the court with his lord." "lettice, you shall need to pray for that boy." "what shall i ask for him, joyce?" "`that he may both perceive and know what things he ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to fulfil the same.' don't let him rule you. he is very like to try it, the only man in a family of women--for he shall make little account of hans moriszoon, though there is more sense in hans's little finger than in all aubrey's brains. if i can see into the future, aubrey is not unlike to push you o'er, and hans to pick you up again. have a care, lettice. you remember when walter was in court, with my lord oxford?" "o joyce!" lettice wondered what they meant, for she had never heard of her uncle walter being with lord oxford. she had never much liked uncle walter. he was always rather stiff and stern, and he used to come down sharply on niece or nephew if they did any thing wrong, yet not like her grandfather murthwaite, who was slow and solemn, and seemed to mourn over their evil deeds; but uncle walter was quick and sharp, and he snapped at them. they were under the impression that he never could have done a naughty thing in the whole course of his life, because he always seemed so angry and astonished to see the children do so. lettice, therefore, was curious to hear about uncle walter. "well," said aunt joyce, "not exactly the same, yet too like. he'll take the colour of his company, like walter: and he shall be evenly free-handed with his money--" lettice stared, though there was nothing to stare at but aunt joyce's big grey cat, curled up in the window-seat uncle walter a spendthrift! she could not even imagine it. did she not remember her cousin jane's surprise when her father gave her a shilling for a birthday present? when lettice listened again, aunt joyce was saying-- "he's no standing-ground. whatso be the fantasy of the moment, after it he goes; and never stays him to think what is like to come thereof, far less what might come. but that which causes me fear more for him than walter, is the matter of friends. walter was not one to run after folks; he was frighted of lowering himself in the eyes of them he knew, but methinks he ran not after them as aubrey doth. hast ever watched a dog make friends of other dogs? for aubrey hath right the dog's way. after every dog he goes, and gives a sniff at him; and if the savour suit, he's hail, fellow, well met! with him the next minute. beware that aubrey makes no friend he bringeth not home, so far as you can: and yet, beware whom he bringeth, for lettice' sake. 'tis hard matter: `good for the head is evil for the neck and shoulders.' to govern that lad shall ask no little wisdom; and if thou have it not, thou knowest where to ask. i would his mother had more, or that his father had lived. well! that's evil wishing; god wist better than i. but the lad 'll be a sore care to thee, and an heavy." "i fear so much, indeed," said lady louvaine, and she sighed. then edith came in, and exclaimed, "what, all in the dark?" and aunt joyce bade her call rebecca to bring light. so the naughty lettice slipped out, and in five minutes more came boldly in, and no one knew what she had heard. as they sat round the fire that evening, aunt joyce asked suddenly, "tell me, you three young folks, what be your ambitions? what desire you most of all things to be, do, or have?--lettice?" "why, aunt, i can scarce tell," said lettice, "for i never thought thereupon." "she should choose to be beautiful, of course," suggested aubrey. "all women do." "marry come up, my young master!" cried his aunt temperance. "oh, let him be, temperance," answered aunt joyce. "he knows a deal more about women than thou and i; 'tis so much shorter a time since he was one." temperance laughed merrily, and aubrey looked disconcerted. "i think i care not much to be beautiful, aunt, nor rich," said lettice: "only sufficient to be not uncomely nor tried of poverty. but so far as i myself can tell what i do most desire is to know things--all things that ever there be to know. i would like that, i think, above all." "to know god and all good things were a very good and wise wish, lettice," was aunt joyce's answer; "but to know evil things, this was the very blunder that our mother eve made in eden. prithee, repeat it not. now, aubrey, what is thy wish?" "i would like to be a rich king," said he. "were i a fairy queen, aubrey, i would not give thee thy wish: for thou couldst scarce make a worser. `they that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare,' and they that seek power be little behind them. `godliness is great riches,' lad, `if a man be content with that he hath.'" "methinks, aunt, that is one of your favourite texts," remarked edith. "ay," said she, "it is. `enough is as good as a feast.' hans, 'tis thy turn." hans had sat gravely looking into the fire while the others talked. now he looked up, and answered-- "madam, i am ambitious more than a little. i desire to do god's will, and to be content therewith." "angels could win no further," answered aunt joyce, with much feeling in her voice. "ay, lad; thou hast flown at highest game of all." "why, aunt!" said aubrey, "never heard i a meaner wish. any man could do that." "prithee do it, then," replied aunt joyce, "and i for one shall be full fain to see thee." "no man ever yet fulfilled that wish," added edith, "save only christ our lord." lady louvaine sighed somewhat heavily; and joyce asked, "what is it, dear heart?" "ah!" said she, "thy question, joyce, and the children's answers, send me back a weary way, nigh sixty years gone, to the time when i dwelt bowerwoman with my lady of surrey, when one even the lady of richmond willed us all to tell our desires after this manner. i mind not well all the answers, but i know one would see a coronation, and an other fair sights in strange lands: and i, being then young and very foolish, wished for a set of diamond, and my lady of richmond herself to be a queen. but my aubrey's wish was something like hans's, for he said he desired to be an angel. ah me! nigh sixty years!" "he hath his wish," responded aunt joyce softly. "and methinks hans is like to have his also, so far as mortal man may compass it. there be some wishes, children, that fulfil themselves: and aspirations after god be of that sort. `he meeteth them that remember him.' lettice, i trust thou mayest have thy wish to a reasonable length, so far as is good for thee: and, aubrey, i can but desire the disappointment of thine, for it were very evil for thee. but thou, hans floriszoon, `go in peace; and the god of israel grant thee thy petition that thou hast asked of him.'" it was hard work for those two old friends to part, each knowing that it was almost certain they would never again meet until they clasped hands in the paradise of god. when it came to the farewell, lady louvaine knelt down, though with difficulty--for joyce could not raise herself-- and the adopted sisters exchanged one long fervent embrace. "o joyce, my friend, my sister! my one treasure left to me from long ago! we shall never kiss again till--" lettice louvaine's voice was lost in sobs. "maybe, dear heart--maybe not. neither thou nor i can know the purposes of god. if so, farewell till the golden city!--and if thou win in afore me at the pearly portals, give them all my true love, and say i shall soon be at home." "farewell, love! there is none to call me lettice but thee, left now." "nay, sweet heart, not so. `i have called thee by thy name.' there will be one left to call thee `lettice,' until he summon thee by that familiar name to enter the holy city." so they journeyed on towards london. it was on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth of march that they sighted the metropolis at last from the summit of notting hill. they drove down the oxford road, bounded on either side by green hedges, with here and there a house--the busy oxford street of our day--turned down the hay market to charing cross, and passed by essex gate and its companion portal, the court gate, through "the court," now known as whitehall, emerging upon "the king's street." there was no parliament street in those days. as they turned into king street, it struck the elders of the party that there seemed to be an unusual stir of some kind. the streets were more crowded than usual, men stood in little knots to converse, and the talk was manifestly of a serious kind. lady louvaine bade edith look out and call aubrey, whom she desired to inquire of some responsible person the meaning of this apparent commotion. aubrey reined in his horse accordingly, as he passed a gentleman in clerical attire, which at that date implied a cassock, bands, and black stockings. had aubrey known it, the narrowness of the bands, the tall hat, the pointed shoes, and the short garters, also indicated that the clergyman in question was a puritan. "pray you, sir, is there news of import come?" inquired the youth: "or what means this ado?" the clergyman stopped suddenly, and looked up at his questioner. "what means it?" he said sadly. "friend, the great bell of paul's was rung this morrow." "i cry you mercy, sir. being a countryman, i take not your meaning." "the great bell of paul's," explained the stranger, "tolls never but for one thing, and hath been silent for over forty years." "good lack! not the plague, i trust?" cried aubrey. "would it were no worse! nay, this means that we are sheep without a shepherd--that she who hath led us for three-and-forty years, who under god saved us from pope and spaniard, can lead us no more for ever. lad, no worser news could come to englishmen than this. queen elizabeth hath passed away." so, under the shadow of that dread sorrow, and that perilous uncertain future, they entered their new home. chapter three. how it first began. "o conspiracy! sham'st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, when evils are most free? oh, then, by day, where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough to mask thy monstrous visage?" _shakespeare_. the new home was the midmost of three contiguous houses, standing on the western side of king street, and nearly opposite to what is now the entrance to new palace yard. they were a little larger and more pretentious than most of the houses in this street, and a goodsized garden ran backwards from each towards saint james's park. as every house had then its name and a signboard to exhibit it--numbers being not yet applied to houses--these were no exception to the rule. that one of the trio nearest to the abbey displayed a golden fish upon its signboard; the middle one hung out a white bear; while from the northernmost swung a panel representing an extremely stiff and angular creature apparently intended to suggest an angel. the young people made merry over their sign, aubrey insisting that hans was the white bear, and lettice retorting that it was aubrey himself. hans and aubrey sprang from their horses at the door; and while the latter rang the bell, the former busied himself in helping the ladies to alight. whether any one would be inside the house was a problem requiring solution; and they thought it worth while to ascertain this before going further. in a moment, quick steps were heard approaching, and the door was opened by a woman who hardly showed herself behind it. lady louvaine came in first, leaning on hans. "good evening," she said to the portress. "it was good of my lord oxford to provide--nay! charity!" "ay, madam, it's me," said the familiar voice of the old servant, whom her mistress believed she had left behind in cumberland. "why, old friend! when earnest thou hither?" "you'd best sit you down afore you hear folks their catechisms," said charity, coolly, leading the way to a pleasant parlour hung and upholstered in green, where a fire was burning on the hearth, and a large cushioned chair stood beside it. "when did i come? well, let's see?--it was o' tuesday last." "but how?" queried her mistress, in a tone which was a mixture of astonishment and perplexity. "same how as i get to most places, madam--on my feet." "you walked to london, charity?" "ay, i did. i'm good for fifteen miles at a stretch." "and whence gat you the money for your lodging?" charity laughed. "i never paid a halfpenny for lodging nobut [note ] once, and that was th' last night afore i got here. some nights i lay in a barn upo' th' hay: but most on 'em i got took in at a farm-house, and did an hour or two's work for 'em i' th' morn to pay for my lodging and breakfast. but some on 'em gave it me right out for nought--just for company like. i bought my victuals, of course: but i should ha' wanted them wherever i'd been." "and what led you to wish for life in london, charity?" "eh! bless you, i want none to live i' london. it's a great, smoky, dirty place." "then what did you want?" "i wanted yo'," said charity, with a nod at her mistress. "lady lettice, yo'll not turn me away? if things is so bad you cannot afford to keep me, you shalln't: i can earn enough by my spinning half th' day, and serve you i' t' other half. but yo'll want two: i'm sure rachel can ne'er do all th' work, and you'd best have me, for nob'ry else 'll put so much heart into 't as i shall. do let me stop, for i cannot abear to leave you." it was a moment before lady louvaine could speak. then she held out her hand to charity. "my faithful charity, i will not turn thee away! so long as i have two loaves of bread, thou mayest be sure of one." "thank god, that's all right!" said charity with a sigh of evident relief. "we's [we shall] get on famous, rachel and me, and nother on us 'll feel as if we'd been cast away of a desert island, as i've been feeling afore yo' come. eh, but it is a town, is this!" "charity, i wonder how you won in the house," said edith. "my lord oxford--" "i've got a bit more gumption, mrs edith, than you credit me with. i brought a letter to my lord, or i should ne'er ha' looked to get in else." "a letter!--from whom?" "fro' mrs joyce morrell, to tell him who i were, and a bit more, i reckon." "i asked my lord oxford of his goodness to speak to some upholder [upholsterer] to send in a little necessary furnishing," said lady louvaine, looking round, "such as were strictly needful, and should last us till we could turn us about: but methinks he hath done somewhat more than that." "you'll turn you round middling easy, madam," answered charity. "th' upholder were bidden to put th' house to rights all through, and send the bill to mistress joyce. she gave me lodging fro' setterday to monday, and bade me see to 't that yo' had all things comfortable. `don't split sixpences,' she saith; `the bigger the charges the better, so long as they be for true comfort and not for gimcracks.' so, madam, i hope we've hit your ladyship's liking, for me and mrs joyce, we tried hard--me at choosing, and she at paying. so that's how it were." and dropping a quick courtesy, charity departed with too much alacrity for thanks. lady louvaine's eyes followed her. "the lines are fallen unto us in pleasant places," quoted edith, softly. "ay," answered her mother. "and the pillar of the cloud hath gone before." charity found rachel in the kitchen, carrying a carpet-bag and a great bundle, and gazing round her with a bewildered air. "well, lass, what's ta'en thee?" was her greeting. "eh, charity ashworth, is that thee? where art thou fro'?" "where are we both come to? that's more to th' purpose." "i'm banished my country, that's all i know," said rachel, blankly. "i'm glad to see thee, schuzheaw." [note .] "dost thou mean to carry yon for th' rest o' thy life?" demanded charity, laying hands on the carpet-bag. "come, wake up, lass, and look sharp, for there'll be some supper wanted." a very expressive shake of rachel's head was the response. but she set down the bundle, and began to unfasten her sleeves for work. sleeves were not then stitched to the gown, but merely hooked or buttoned in, and were therefore easily laid aside when needful. "what's the price o' eggs this road on?" asked she. "nought. we 'n getten th' hens to lay 'em. down i' th' market they're four a penny." "eggs--four a penny!" ejaculated the horrified cook. "ay--they're a bonnie price, aren't they? ten to a dozen the penny at keswick. chickens be twopence and threepence apiece." rachel turned and faced her colleague with a solemn air. "charity ashworth, wilt thou tell me what we've come here for?" "`to do our duty in that state of life to which it shall please god to call us,'" said charity, sturdily. "there's twenty hens i' yon yard at th' end o' th' garden, and two cows i' th' shippen, and three black pigs i' th' sty,--mistress joyce ordered 'em--and two pairs o' hands, and two brains, and two hearts, and the grace o' god: and if thou wants aught more, thou'lt have to ask him for it. so now let's be sharp and see to th' supper." as they sat at breakfast the next morning, which was lady day and sunday, lady louvaine said-- "i would fain know what manner of neighbours we shall have here, whether pleasant or displeasant; for some of our comfort shall hang thereon." "oh, there's a capital fellow at the golden fish," cried aubrey. "his name is tom rookwood, and his sister dorothy is the prettiest girl i have seen this month. i know nought of the angel." "ah!" said hans, and shook his head, "i have seen the angel." "and is he angelic?" responded aubrey. "there be angels good and ill," hans made answer. "madam, i were best forewarn you--there's a tongue dwelleth there." "what manner of tongue, hans?" said lady louvaine, smiling. "one that goes like a beggar's clap-dish," said he; "leastwise, it did all the while i was in the garden this morning. she greeted me o'er the wall, and would know who we were, and every one of our names, and what kin we were one to the other, and whence we came, and wherefore, and how long we looked to tarry--she should have asked me what we had to our breakfast, if i had not come in." "and how much toldest her?" inquired temperance. "not a word that i could help," answered hans. "indeed, that is the only comfort of her--that she asks questions so fast you can scarce slide in an answer. she was free enough with her information as well-- told me her name, and how many children she had, and that she paid three-and-fourpence the yard for her perpetuance gown." "and what is her name?" asked faith. "silence abbott," said he. "she scarce answers to it, seemingly," replied temperance. "where made you acquaintance with your tom rookwood, aubrey?" said his grandmother. "at the door," said he. "his father is a gentleman of suffolk, a younger son of rookwood of coldham hall. he has three sisters,--i saw not the other two; but i say, that dorothy's a beauty!" "well!" replied temperance. "folks say, `as mute as a fish'; but it seems to me the golden fish is well-nigh as talkative as the angel. mind thy ways, aubrey, and get not thyself into no tanglements with no dorothys. it shall be time enough for thee to wed ten years hence." "and have a care that mr rookwood be himself an upright and god-fearing man," added his aunt edith. "oh, he's all right!" answered aubrey, letting dorothy go by. "he saith he can hit a swallow flying at eighty paces." "more shame for him!" cried edith. "what for should he hit a swallow?" "he has promised to show me all sorts of things," added aubrey. "have a care," said lady louvaine, "that he lead thee not into the briars, my boy, and there leave thee." the monday morning brought a visitor--mrs abbott, from the angel, after whose stay edith declared that a day's hard work would have fatigued her less of the two inflictions. this lady's freedom in asking questions, without the remotest sense of delicacy, was only to be paralleled by her readiness to impart information. the party at the white bear knew before she went home, that she had recently had her parlour newly hung with arras, representing the twelve labours of hercules: that she intended to have roast veal to supper: that her worsted under-stockings had cost her four-and-sixpence the pair: that her husband was a very trying man, and her eldest son the cleverest youth in westminster. "worsted stockings four-and-sixpence!" cried temperance. "what a sinful price to pay! and i declare if they ask not three shillings and fourpence for a quarter of veal! why, i mind the time when in keswick it was but sixteen pence. truly, if things wax higher in price than now they are, it shall be an hard matter to live. this very morrow was i asked a shilling for a calf's head of the butcher, and eightpence for a lemon of the costard-monger, whereat i promise you i fumed a bit; but when it came to threepence apiece for chickens,--lancaster and derby! it shall cost us here ever so much more to live." "it shall not," said hans. "there be five acres of garden, and save for foreign fruits and spices, you shall ask little of the costard-monger shortly." "but who is to dig and dress it?" moaned faith. "aubrey cannot, all the day with his lord, even if he were not away o' nights: and charity shall have too much to do." "i have two hands, madam," answered hans, "and will very quickly have a spade in them: and ere i do aught else will i set the garden a-going, that rachel and charity can keep it in good order, with a little overlooking from you." "me!" cried faith, with a gasp of horror. "right good for you!" said her sister. "i'll not help at that work; i shall leave it for you. as to foreign fruits and spices, we'll have none of them, save now and then a lemon for the lady lettice--she loves the flavour, and we'll not have her go short of comforts--but for all else, i make no 'count of your foreign spice. rosemary, thyme, mint, savoury, fennel, and carraway be spice enough for any man, and a deal better than all your far-fetched maces, and nutmegs, and peppers, that be fetched over here but to fetch the money out of folks' pockets: and wormwood and currant wine are every bit as good, and a deal wholesomer, than all your sherris-sack and portingale rubbish. hans, lad, let's have a currant-bush or two in that garden; i can make currant wine with any, though i say it, and gooseberry too. i make no count of your foreign frumps and fiddlements. what's all your champagne but just gooseberry with a french name to it? and how can that make it any sweeter? i'll be bounden half of it is made of gooseberries, if folks might but know. and as to your rhenish and claret, and such stuff, i would not give a penny for the lot--i'd as soon have a quart of alegar. nay, nay! we are honest english men and women, and let us live like it." "but, temperance, my dear," suggested lady louvaine, with a smile, "if no foreign fruits had ever been brought to england, nor planted here, our table should be somewhat scanty. in truth, we should have but little, i believe, save acorns and beech-nuts." "nay, come!" responded temperance; "wouldn't you let us have a bit of parsley, or a barberry or twain?" "parsley!" said lady louvaine, smiling again. "why, temperance, that came first into england from italy the year anstace was born--the second of king edward." [note .] "dear heart, did it so?" quoth she. "and must not we have so much as a cabbage or a sprig of sweet marjoram?" "sweet marjoram came in when thou wert a babe, temperance; and i have heard my mother say that cabbages were brought hither from flanders the year my sister edith was born. she was five years elder than i, and died in the cradle." "well!" concluded temperance, "then i'll hold my peace and munch my acorns. but i reckon i may have a little salt to them." "ay, that mayest thou, and honey too." the next day, the golden fish swam in at the door; and it came in the form of mistress rookwood and her daughter gertrude, who seemed pleasanter people than mrs abbott. a few days afterwards came the rector, mr marshall, with his wife and daughter; and though--or perhaps because--agnes marshall was very quiet, they liked her best of any woman they had yet seen. before they had stayed long, the rector asked if lady louvaine had made acquaintance with any of her neighbours. she answered, only with two houses, the one on either side. mr marshall smiled. "well, mistress abbott means no ill, methinks, though her tongue goeth too fast to say she doth none. yet is her talk the worst thing about her. tell her no secrets, i pray you. but i would warn you somewhat to have a care of the rookwoods." "pray you, sir, after what fashion?" asked lady louvaine. "if i know from what quarter the arrow is like to come, it shall be easier to hold up the shield against it." "well," said he, "they come to church, and communicate, and pay all their dues; they may be honest folks: but this can i tell you, mr rookwood is brother to a papist, and is hand in glove with divers popish perverts. wherefore, my lady louvaine, i would not have you suffer your young folks to be too intimate with theire; for though these rookwoods may be safe and true--i trust they are--yet have they near kinsmen which assuredly are not, who should very like be met at their house. so let me advise you to have a care." "that will i, most surely," said she: "and i thank you, sir, for putting me on my guard." in may the king arrived from scotland, and in june the queen, with the prince, prince charles, and the lady elizabeth. "princess" at this time indicated the princess of wales alone, and the first of our king's daughters to whom the term was applied, except as heiress of england, were the daughters of charles the first. henry prince of wales was a boy of nine years old, his sister a child of seven, and the little charles only three. the youthful princess was placed in the charge of lord harrington, at combe abbey, near coventry--a fact to which there will be occasion to refer again. the princes remained with their parents, to the great satisfaction of the queen, who had struggled as ceaselessly as vainly against the rigid scottish custom of educating the heir-apparent away from court queen anne of denmark was a graceful, elegant woman, with extremely fair complexion and abundant fair hair. the king was plain even to ungainliness--a strange thing for the son of one of the most beautiful women that ever lived. the wisdom of james the first has been by different writers highly extolled and contemptuously derided. it seems to me to have partaken, like everything else, of the uncertainty of its author. he did give utterance to some apothegms of unquestionable wisdom, and also to some speeches of egregious folly. his subjects did not err far when they nicknamed their scottish master and their "dear dead queen," his predecessor, "king elizabeth and queen james." yet justice requires the admission that the chief root of james's many failings was his intense, unreasoning, constitutional timidity, which would have been ludicrous if it had been less pitiful. he could not see a drawn sword without shuddering, even if drawn for his own defence; and when knighting a man, it was necessary for the lord chamberlain to come to his majesty's help, and guide the blade, lest the recipient of the honour should be wounded by the unsteadiness of the king's hand under the strong shuddering which seized him. so afraid was he of possible assassins that he always wore a thickly-padded cotton garment under his clothes, to turn aside bullet or dagger. lord oxford came to town in may, and aubrey at once began his duties as a squire in his household. during june and july, he ran into the white bear some half-dozen times in an evening, he said, to assure them that he was still alive. in august and september he was more remiss: and after october had set in, they scarcely saw him once a month. it was noticeable, when he did come, that the young gentleman was becoming more fashionable and courtly than of old. lettice asked him once if he had bidden the tailor to make his garments of snips, since the brown suit which had been his sunday best was breaking out all over into slashes whence puffs of pink were visible. aubrey drew himself up with a laugh, and told his cousin that she knew nothing of the fashions. lettice fancied she caught the gleam of a gold chain beneath his doublet, but it was carefully buttoned inside so as not to show. meanwhile, hans--whose brown suit did not break out like aubrey's--was very busy in the garden, which he diligently dug and stocked. when this was done, he applied to a neighbouring notary, and brought home bundles of copying, at which he worked industriously in an evening. in the afternoon he was generally from home; what he did with himself on these occasions he did not say, and he was so commonly and thoroughly trusted that no one thought it necessary to ask him. edith and temperance, coming in together one evening, were informed that mrs rookwood had called during their absence, bringing with her dorothy, aubrey's beauty. "and didst thou think her beauteous, lettice?" asked her aunt edith, with an amused smile. "truly, aunt edith, i marvel what aubrey would be at. his fancies must be very diverse from mine. i would liever a deal have our rachel." temperance laughed, for rachel had few claims of this nature. "what like is she, lettice?" "she hath jet-black hair, aunt, and thick black brows, with great shining eyes--black likewise; and a big nose-end, and pouting big red lips." "humph! i reckon folks see beauty with differing eyes," said temperance. the coronation did not take place before july. it was followed by severe pestilence, supposed to arise from the numbers who crowded into town to witness the ceremony. temperance kept fires of sweet herbs burning in the garden, and insisted on every body swallowing liberal doses of brick and wormwood, fasting, in the morning--her sovereign remedy against infection. mrs abbott said that her doctor ordered her powder of bezoar stone for the same purpose, while the rookwoods held firmly by a mixture of unicorn's horn and salt of gold. in consequence or in spite of these invaluable applications, no one suffered in the three houses in king street. his majesty was terribly afraid of the pestilence; all officials not on duty were ordered home, and all suitors--namely, petitioners--were commanded to avoid the court till winter. a solemn fast for this visitation was held in august; the statutes against vagabonds and "masterless men" were confirmed, whereat temperance greatly rejoiced; and "dangerous rogues" were to be banished. this last item was variously understood, some supposing it aimed at the jesuits, and some at the puritans. it was popularly reported that the king "loved no puritans," as it was now usual to term those churchmen who declined to walk in the ritualistic ways of the high church party. to restrict the term puritan to nonconformists is a modern mistake. when, therefore, james began his reign by large remittances of fines to his romish subjects, issued a declaration against toleration, revived the star chamber, and appointed lord henry howard, a roman catholic, to the privy council, the papists were encouraged, and the puritans took alarm. the latter prepared to emigrate on a large scale to the american plantations, where no man could control them in religious matters; the former raised their heads and ventured on greater liberties than they had dared to take during the reign of the dead queen. the french ambassador, however, curled his lip contemptuously, and informed his master that james was a hypocrite. the position of the english roman catholics at this time was peculiar and not agreeable. but in order to understand it, we must go back for thirty-five years--to the close of that halcyon period, the earliest ten years of elizabeth, when the few romanists then left in england generally came to church like other good citizens, and if they chose to practise the rites of their own faith in private, no notice was taken of it. it was not the protestant government, but the papal see, which was responsible for the violent ending of this satisfactory state of things, when it was perceived at rome that the reformation was so thoroughly settled, and the nation so completely severed from latin control, that (in the words of one of those who attempted the queen's life) "unless mistress elizabeth were suddenly taken away, all the devils in hell should not be able to shake it." in , therefore, pope pius the fifth put forth a bull which excommunicated queen elizabeth, deposed her, absolved her subjects from their allegiance, and solemnly cursed them if they continued to obey her. to her protestant subjects, of course, this act of usurpation was mere waste paper--the private spleen of an italian priest who had no jurisdiction in this realm of england. but to the romanists it was the solemn decree of christ by his appointed vicar, to be obeyed at the peril of their salvation. the first visible effect of the bull was that they all "did forthwith refrain the church," and joined no more with their fellow-subjects in public prayer. the queen contented herself in answer with forbidding the bringing in of bulls--which was no more than edward the first had done before her. had the pope and the jesuits been then content to let matters rest, no difficulty might have arisen: but they would not. first mayne, then campion, the first jesuit who entered england, were sent to "move sedition," and to "make a party in execution of the former bull." to this followed an influx of treasonable books. it had now become evident that the papal bull was to be no mere _brutum fulmen_ which might be safely left alone to die out, but a deliberate attempt to stir up rebellion against the queen. for the government to have kept silence would have been practically to throw their influence into the scale against the reign and the life of their sovereign lady. it is now fashionable with a certain section to stigmatise elizabeth as a persecutor, and to represent the penal laws against the papists enacted in her reign as cruel oppressions of innocent and harmless persons, enforced simply because they believed certain religious doctrines. those who will carefully follow the facts can hardly avoid seeing that the disloyalty preceded the coercion, and that if the romanists were maddened into plotting against the government by oppressive laws, those laws were not due to groundless fear or malice, but were simply the just reward of their own deeds. during the five years of queen mary, three hundred men, women, and children, were put to death for their religious opinions only. during the forty-four years of queen elizabeth, less than thirty priests, and five harbourers of priests, were executed, not for their opinions nor their religion, but for distinctly treasonable practices. [note .] when matters had come to this pass, in , the first penal laws were issued, against recusancy and seditious publications. the penalty for recusancy--by which was meant a legal conviction for absence from public worship on religious grounds--"was not loss of life or limb, or whole estate, but only a pecuniary mulct and penalty; and that also only until they would submit and conform themselves and again come to church, as they had done for ten years before the pope's bull." twenty pounds per lunar month was the fine imposed; but this referred only to adult males, "not being let by sickness." compared with the laws of queen mary, and even of her predecessors, this penalty was gentleness itself; and those modern writers who see in it cruelty and rigour must have little knowledge of comparative history. yet so far was this from stopping the flow of treason, that a jesuit mission entered england with the special purpose of teaching the people that under the bull of pope pius the queen stood excommunicated, and that it was a positive sin to obey her. their success was only too manifest. men of all sorts and conditions, from peers to peasants, were "reconciled" in numbers by their teaching. if this were to go on, not only would elizabeth's life be the forfeit, but the reformation settlement would be uprooted and undone, and the blood of the marian martyrs would have been shed for nought. the laws were now made more stringent. by the act of it had been provided that every priest saying mass should be liable to a fine of two hundred marks ( pounds), with half that sum for every hearer, and both to imprisonment for a year, or in the priest's case until the fine was paid. now, all jesuits and priests ordained since the queen's accession were banished the kingdom, being allowed forty days after the close of the session; and none were to enter it, on penalty of death. all persons receiving or assisting such priests were held guilty of felony. recusants were to be imprisoned until they should conform, and if they remained obstinate for three months, they must be banished. these penal laws, however, were rarely enforced. they were kept as a sword of damocles, suspended over the heads of the unhappy romanists, and capable of being brought down on them at any moment. in the hands of an unscrupulous minister of the crown they might be made an agency of considerable vexation: yet no reasonable remonstrance could be offered to the reminder that these penalties were inflicted by law, and it was only of the queen's clemency that they had not been earlier exacted. it must also be admitted that the penal laws bore in reality much harder on the romanists than they seem to do in protestant eyes. to deprive a protestant of the services of a clergyman is at most to incommode him; to deprive a papist of his priest is equivalent in his eyes to depriving him of his salvation. to them, therefore, it was a matter of life and death. and yet, it must not be forgotten, they had brought it on themselves. with the death of elizabeth came a serious change. revile her as they might, under her the romanists had been on the whole gently and justly used. but it was in reality, though they could not see it, after her the deluge. who was to be elizabeth's successor had been for years at once a serious and an unsettled question. there were three persons living when she died, each of whom could have put forward a claim to the crown on various grounds. humanly speaking, the decision was made by two groups of persons--the careys and cecils, and the romanists of england--both of whom were determined that james of scotland should succeed. the latter had been working for some time past, and had secured promises from james that he would extend special toleration to them. he was expected to look kindly on the party which had adhered to his mother--it would be difficult to say why, since in scotland his adherents had always been at war with hers--and it was remembered that he had been born and baptised in the church of rome. the roman party, therefore, wrought earnestly in his favour. sir thomas tresham proclaimed him at northampton, at considerable personal risk; his sons and lord monteagle assisted the earl of southampton to hold the tower for james. the pope, clement the eighth, was entirely on james's side, of whose conversion he entertained the warmest hopes. to the french ambassador, monsieur de beaumont, james asserted that "he was no heretic, that is, refusing to recognise the truth; neither was he a puritan, nor separated from the church: he held episcopacy as necessary, and the pope as the chief bishop, namely, the president and moderator of councils, but not the head nor superior." we in this nineteenth century, accustomed to ideas of complete and perpetual toleration, and alas! also to gallio-like apathy and indifference, can scarcely form a conception of what was at that time the popular estimate of a papist. a fair view of it is given by the following sarcastic description, written on the fly-leaf of a volume of manuscript sermons of this date. "the blazon of a papist [`priest' is erased] contrived prettily by som herault of armes in ye compasse of armoury. "first. there is papist rampant, a furious beast: 'tis written that the diuell goes about like a roaring lion, but the diuell himselfe is not more fierce and rigorous then is papist where [he] is of force and ability to shew his tyranny: wittnes ye murthers, ye massacres, ye slaughters, ye poysoning, ye stabbing, ye burning, ye broyling, ye torturing, ye tormenting, ye persecuting, with other their bloody executions, euery [sic] fresh in example, infinite to be told, and horrible to be rememberd. "second. a papist passant: he's an instrument of sedition, of insurrection, of treason, of rebellion, a priest, a jesuite, a seminary, and such other as find so many friends in england and ireland both to receaue and harbour them, that it is to be feard we shall smart for it one day. "third. a papist volant; of all the rest, these i take to do the least harme: yet they will say they fly for their consciences, when its apparently known they both practice and conspire. "fourth. a papist regardant; he obserus times, occasions, places, and persons, and though he be one of the popes intelligencers, yet he walks with such circumspection and heed, that he is not known but to his own faction. "fifth. a papist dormant: he's a sly companion, subtill as a fox: he sleeps with open eyes, yet somtymes seeming to winke, he looks and pries into opportunity, still feeding himselfe with those hopes that i am in hope shall never do him good. "sixth. a papist couchant: this is a daungerous fellow, and much to be feard; he creeps into the bosom of ye state, and will not stick to look into ye court, nay, if he can, into court counsells: he will shew himselfe tractable to ye co[mm]on wealthe prescriptions, and with this shew of obedience to law, he doth ye pope more service then others that are more resisting. "seventh. a papist pendant: indeed a papist pendant is in his prime p'fection: a papist pendant is so fitting a piece of armoury for ye time present, as all herauds in england are not able better to display him: a papist is then in chiefe when he is a pendant, and he neuer comes to so high p'ferment, but by ye popes especiall blessing." [note .] james's first act, when his succession was peaceably ensured, was to remit the fines for recusancy. for the first and second years of his reign, they were not enforced at all. the sum paid into the exchequer on this account, in the last year of elizabeth, was , pounds; in the first and second years of james it was about and pounds respectively. but in his third year, the fines were suddenly revived, and the romanists took alarm. the king was evidently playing them false. he had been heard to say that "the pope was the true antichrist," that "he would lose his crown and his life before he would alter religion;" that "he never had any thought of granting toleration to the catholics, and that if he thought that his son would condescend to any such course, he would wish the kingdom translated to his daughter;" and lastly, that "he had given them a year of probation, to conform themselves, which, seeing it had not wrought that effect, he had fortified all the laws against them, and commanded them to be put in execution to the uttermost." early in , all jesuits and seminary priests were banished; the recusancy fines and arrears were soon after stringently exacted, and many roman catholic families almost reduced to beggary. sudden domiciliary visits were made in search of concealed priests, usually in the dead of night: empty beds were examined, walls struck with mallets, rapiers thrust into the chinks of wainscots. the jesuit missionaries were in especial danger; they went about disguised, hid themselves under secular callings and travelled from one house to another, using a different name at each, to avoid discovery. one priest, named moatford, passed as the footman of lord sandys' daughter, wore his livery, and said mass in secret when it seemed safe to do so. serious difficulties were thrown in the way of educating children; if they were sent abroad, the parents were subject to a fine of pounds; if taught at home by a recusant tutor, both he and his employer were mulcted in forty shillings per day. it was in these circumstances that the gunpowder plot originated,--not from some sudden ebullition of groundless malice: and it was due, not to the romanists at large, but to that section of them only which constituted the jesuit party. it is not generally understood that the roman church, which boasts so loudly of her perfect unity, is really divided in two parties, one siding with, and the other against, that powerful and mysterious body calling itself the society of jesus. it is with this body, "the power behind the pope,"--which popes have ere this striven to put down, and have only fallen a sacrifice themselves--that political plots have most commonly originated, and the gunpowder plot was no exception to the general rule. it was entirely got up by the jesuit faction, the ordinary roman catholics not merely having nothing to do with it, but placing themselves, when interrogated, in positive opposition to it. there are certain peculiarities concerning the conspirators which distinguish this enterprise from others of its class. they were mostly young men; they _were_ nearly all connected by ties of blood or marriage; two-thirds of them, if not more, were perverts from protestantism; and so far from being the vulgar, brutal miscreants usually supposed, they were--with one exception--gentlemen of name and family, and some of good fortune; educated and accomplished men, who honestly believed themselves to be doing god service. it is instructive to read their profound conviction that they were saving their country's honour, furthering their own salvation, and promoting the glory of god. the slaughter of the innocents which necessarily attended their project was lamentable indeed, but inevitable, and gave rise to as little real compunction as the eating of beef and mutton. these men were by no means heartless; they were only blind from ignorance of scripture, and excess of zeal in a false cause. the original propounder of the plot was unquestionably robert catesby, of ashby saint ledgers, a northamptonshire gentleman of ancient ancestry and fair estate. he first whispered it in secret to john wright, a lincolnshire squire, and soon afterwards to thomas winter, a younger brother of the owner of huddington hall in worcestershire, and a distant cousin of an old friend of some of my readers--edward underhill, the "hot gospeller." thomas winter communicated it in flanders to guy fawkes, a young officer of yorkshire birth, and these four met with a fifth, thomas percy, cousin and steward of the earl of northumberland. the object of the meeting was to consider the condition of the roman catholics, with a view to taking action for its relief. there was also a priest in the company, but who he was did not transpire, though it is almost certain to have been one of the three jesuits chiefly concerned in the plot--john gerard, oswald greenway, or henry garnet. percy, usually fertile in imagination and eager in action, was ready with a proposition at once. he said-- "the only way left for us is to kill the king; and that will i undertake to do. from him we looked for bread, and have received nought save stones. let him be prayed to visit my lord mordaunt at turvey, where a masque may be had for him; and he once there, in the house of one of us (though my lord be not known so to be), he is at our mercy. how say you, gentlemen?" "nay, my son," replied the priest. "there is a better course in hand-- even to cut up the very roots, and remove all impediments whatsoever." "that were to run great risk and accomplish little," added catesby. "no, tom: thou shalt not adventure thyself to so small purpose. if thou wilt be a traitor, i have in mine head a much further design than that,--to greater advantage, and that can never be discovered." every body wished to know his meaning. "i have bethought me," continued catesby, "of a way at one instant to deliver us from all our bonds, and without any foreign help to replant again the catholic religion. in a word, it is to blow up the parliament house with gunpowder, for in that place have they done us all the mischief, and perchance god hath designed that place for their punishment." "truly, a strange proposal!" said thomas winter. "the scandal would be so great that the catholic religion might sustain thereby." "the nature of the disease requires so sharp a remedy," was catesby's reply. "but were it lawful?" objected john wright. "ask your ghostly father," said catesby, who was pretty sure of the answer in that case. "but remember," said winter, "there are many of our friends and catholic brethren amongst the lords: shall we destroy them with the rest?" catesby's answer was in principle that of caiaphas. "ay: 'tis expedient the few die for the good of the many." the next step was to obtain a house convenient for their operations,-- namely, so close to the houses of parliament that they could carry a mine from its cellar right under the house. percy was deputed to attend to this matter, as his circumstances offered an excuse for his seeking such a house. he was one of the band of gentlemen pensioners, whose duty it was to be in daily attendance on the king; a position into which he had been smuggled by his cousin lord northumberland, without having taken the oath requisite for _it_. this oath percy could not conscientiously have taken, since by it he renounced the authority of the pope. a little study of the topography induced him to fix on two contiguous houses, which stood close to the house of lords. on investigation, it was found that these two houses belonged to the parliament, and were held by mr wyniard, keeper of the king's wardrobe, "an ancient and honest servant of queen elizabeth." both, however, had been sub-let by him--the nearer to mr henry ferris; the further to gideon gibbons, a public porter, subsequently utilised by the plotters, to his danger and discomfort. percy, therefore, in march, , "began to labour earnestly" with mr wyniard and his wife to obtain these houses. mrs wyniard seems chiefly to have attended to this business; her husband was not improbably incapacitated by age or ill-health. percy's efforts proved successful. he was accepted as tenant by the wyniards at a rent of pounds per annum, mr ferris being bought out with pounds for his good-will and pounds more "in consideration of the charges of the house." the agreement was signed on the th of may. the next united act of these five exemplary gentlemen was to meet at a house "in the fields behind saint clement's church, near the arch, near the well called saint clement's well." this seems to have been the residence of the jesuit priest gerard; but it is uncertain whether it was identical with that of percy, or with that of mrs herbert, where fawkes had apartments, both which are also described as "beyond saint clement's." gerard, who was in the company, was with delicate consideration left in an upper room, where he was provided with all necessaries for the celebration of mass, while the conspirators proceeded to business alone in the lower apartment. taking a primer in his hand, catesby administered to his four accomplices this oath, which he also took himself:-- "you swear by the blessed trinity, and by the sacrament which you now propose to receive, never to disclose directly or indirectly, by word or circumstance, the matter that shall be proposed to you to keep secret, nor desist from the execution thereof till the rest shall give you leave." then they passed into the upper room, where gerard stood ready robed, and received the host from his hands--with what "intention" being unknown to him, if the assertion of the conspirators may be believed. i have gone rather too far, chronologically speaking, in order to tell this part of the story straight through; and now we must go back a little. about four months before this oath was taken, in january, , was held the famous conference of bishops at hampton court. the king, who, though baptised a roman catholic, had been educated as a presbyterian, propounded various queries to the hierarchy concerning practices which puzzled him in the church of england, of which he was now the supreme head upon earth. in the first place, he desired to know the meaning of the rite of confirmation: "if they held the sacrament of baptism invalidous without it, then was it in his judgment blasphemous; yet if it were only that children might themselves profess and be blessed, then very good." the absolution of the church he had heard compared to the pope's pardons. private baptism, he would have administered only by a lawful minister; and concerning excommunications he had also something to say. on all these points the bishops fully satisfied his majesty, "whose exquisite expositions did breed wonder and astonishment in that learned and noble audience." modern readers of the proceedings have been much less inclined to astonishment, except indeed that the bishops should have been so easily astonished. on the second day, a deputation was received from the puritan ministers, who petitioned for four points--which had they gained, the nineteenth century would have found its burdens considerably lightened. they requested that the doctrine of the church might be preserved pure, according to god's word; that good pastors might be planted in all churches, to preach in the same; that the book of common prayer might be fitted to more increase of piety; and that church government might be sincerely ministered according to god's word. king james made the deputation explain themselves; and after a day's debate, he angrily told them that they were aiming at a scottish presbytery, which agreed with monarchy as well as god and the devil. "no bishop, no king!" added his majesty. some few members of the conference maintained that the puritans had been crushed and insulted; but chancellor egerton said he had never seen king and priest so fully united in one person as in that of his sacred majesty, and bancroft (afterwards archbishop) fell upon his knees, unctuously exclaiming that his heart melted for joy to think that england was blessed with such a ruler. the bishops and privy-councillors then conferred alone, altered a few expressions in the liturgy, and summoned the puritans to hear their decision. dr raynolds, the puritan spokesman, entreated that the use of the surplice and the sign of the cross in baptism might be laid aside, or at least not made compulsory, but the king sternly told him that they preferred the credit of a few private men to the peace of the church; that he would have none of this arguing; "wherefore let them conform, and quickly too, or they shall hear of it." by this short-sighted policy, the opportunity for really securing peace to the church was lost for sixty years, and many of the troubles of the next reign were sown. the next step was to arrest ten of the puritan leaders; and then to eject from their benefices three hundred clergy of that school. among these was mr marshall, the pastor of our friends. lady louvaine was sorely troubled. she said they were now as sheep without a shepherd, and were but too likely to have a shepherd set over them who would fleece and devour the sheep. of these clergy some joined the presbyterians, some the brownists--whom people now began to call independents: others remained in the church, ceasing to minister, and following such callings as they deemed not unbecoming the position of a christian minister--chiefly tutorship and literature. mr marshall was in the last class. he said better times might come, and he could not see his way to desert the church, though her ways to him at this present were somewhat step-motherly. "but how, mr marshall, if the church cast you forth?" asked temperance. "then must i needs go," he answered with a smile. "but that, look you, were not my deed, nor should i be responsible for it before god. so long as i break not her laws, she hath no right to eject me; and so long as she abideth in the truth, i have no right to desert her." "but the bishops abide not in the truth, as i take it." "the bishops be not the church," replied he. "let the articles and homilies be changed, with evil tendency, and then that is to change the church. i go forth of her then at once; for she should be no longer the church of my faith, to which i sware obedience, and she hath not that right over me to require me to change with her. but so long as these are left unaltered, what matter though bishops change? they are not immortal: and very sure am i they are not infallible." "what think you, mother?" said edith. "children," replied lady louvaine, laying down her knitting in her lap, "i can get no further at this present than one line of saint john: `he himself knew what he would do.' i do not know what he will do. it may be, as it then was, something that none of all his disciples can guess. one step at a time is all he allows us to see, and all he bids us take. `he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out'; but also, `he goeth before them.' at times he leads them, i think, outside the fold; and if he is outside, and we hear his voice, we must needs go to him. yet is this rare, and we should make very sure that it is from without we hear the familiar voice, and not rush forth in haste when he may be calling from within. let us know that he is on the road before us, and then we need have no fear to run fast, no doubt whither the road will lead. there be some sheep in such haste to run that they must needs go past the shepherd; and then have they no longer a leader, and are very like to miss the right way." "you have the right, lady louvaine," said mr marshall. "`he that believeth shall not make haste.' yet there be sheep--to follow your imagery, or truly that of our lord--that will lag behind, and never keep pace with the shepherd." "ay," she answered: "and i know not if that be not the commoner fault of the twain. he calls, and calls, and they come not; and such sheep find many a sharp tap from the rod ere they will walk, never say run. our shepherd is human, therefore he can feel for us; he is divine, therefore can he have patience with us. let us thank god for both." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . except, only. this, now a northern provincialism, is an archaism at least as old as the fourteenth century. note . nevertheless. this strictly lancastrian provincialism is supposed to be a corruption of "choose how." its exact pronunciation can hardly be put into english letters. note . this was a revival; for "persille" is found on the rolls of edward ii. note . this is the computation of sir edward coke in his opening speech at the trial of the gunpowder conspirators. note . the little manuscript volume wherein this is inscribed, which is in my own possession, consists of sermons--not very legible, and mostly very dry by the rev. thomas stone, their dates ranging from to , with a few occasional memoranda interspersed. chapter four. we get into bad company. "will you walk into my parlour?" said the spider to the fly: "'tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy." one afternoon during that winter, as lettice was coming down-stairs, her sense of smell was all at once saluted by a strange odour, which did not strike her as having any probable connection with araby the blest, mixed with slight curls of smoke suggestive of the idea that something was on fire. but before she had done more than wonder what might be the matter, a sound reached her from below, arguing equal astonishment and disapproval on the part of aunt temperance. "northumberland, cumberland, westmoreland, and durham!" was the ejaculation of that lady. "lad, art thou afire, or what ails thee?" the answering laugh was in aubrey's voice. "why, aunt!" said he, "is this the first time you did ever see a man to drink uppowoc?" "`drink up a work!'" exclaimed she. "what on earth--" "picielt," said he. "lettice, is that thou?" inquired aunt temperance. "call charity quickly, and bid her run for the apothecary: this boy's gone mad." a ringing peal of laughter from aubrey was the answer. lettice had come far enough to see him now, and there he stood in the hall (his coat more slashed and puffed than ever), and in his hand a long narrow tube of silver, with a little bowl at the end, in which was something that sent forth a great smoke and smell. "come, aunt temperance!" cried he. "every gentleman in the land, well-nigh, doth now drink the indian weed. 'tis called uppovoc, picielt, petum [whence comes petunia], or tobago, and is sold for its weight in silver; men pick out their biggest shillings to lay against it, and 'tis held a favour for a gentlewoman to fill the pipe for her servant [suitor]. i have heard say some will spend three or four hundred a year after this manner, drinking it even at the table; and they that refuse be thought peevish and ill company." "and whither must we flee to get quit of it?" quoth she grimly. "that cannot i say, aunt. in france they have it, calling it nicotine, from one nicot, that did first fetch it thither; 'twas one ralph lane that brought it to england. why, what think you? there are over six thousand shops in and about london, where they deal in it now." "six thousand shops for that stinking stuff!" "oh, not for this alone. the apothecaries, grocers, and chandlers have it, and in every tavern you shall find the pipe handed round, even where, as in the meaner sort, it be made but of a walnut shell and a straw. why, aunt, 'tis wondrous wholesome and healing for divers diseases." "let's hear which of them." "well--migraines [headaches], colics, toothache, ague, colds, obstructions through wind, and fits of the mother [hysterics]; gout, epilepsy, and hydropsy [dropsy]. the brain, look you, being naturally cold and wet, all hot and dry things must be good for it." "i'd as soon have any of those divers distempers as _that_," solemnly announced aunt temperance. "`brain cold and wet!' when didst thou handle thy brains, that thou shouldst know whether they be cold or not?" "i do ensure you, aunt, thus saith dr barclay, one of the first physicians in london town, which useth this tobago for all these diseases. he only saith 'tis not to be touched with food, or after it, but must be took fasting. moreover, it helps the digestion." "it'll not help mine. and prithee, mr aubrey louvaine, which of all this list of disorders hast thou?" "i, aunt? oh, i'm well enough." "dear heart! when i am well enough, i warrant you, i take no physic." "oh, but, aunt, 'tis not physic only. 'tis rare comforting and soothing." aunt temperance's face was a sight to see. she looked aubrey over from the crown of his head to his boots, till his face flushed red, though he tried to laugh it away. "soothing!" said she in a long-drawn indescribable tone. "lettice, prithee tell me what year we be now in?" "in the year of our lord , aunt," said lettice, trying not to laugh. "nay," answered she, "that cannot be: for my nephew, aubrey louvaine, was born in the year of our lord , and he is yet, poor babe, in the cradle, and needs rocking and hushing a-by-bye. s-o-o-t-h-i-n-g!" and aunt temperance drew out the word in a long cry, for all the world like a whining baby. "lad, if you desire not the finest thrashing ever you had yet, cast down that drivelling folly of a silver toy, and turn up your sleeves and go to work like a man! when you lie abed ill of the smallpox you may say you want soothing, and no sooner: and if i hear such another word out of your mouth, i'll leather you while i can stand over you." aunt temperance marched to the parlour door, and flung it wide open. "madam," said she, "give me leave to introduce to your ladyship the king of fools. i go forth to buy a cradle for him, and edith, prithee run to the kitchen and dress him some pap. he lacks soothing, madam; and having been brought so low as to seek it, poor fool, at the hands of the evillest-smelling weed ever was plucked off a dunghill, i am moved to crave your ladyship's kindliness for him. here's his rattle,"--and aunt temperance held forth the silver pipe,--"which lacks but the bells to be as rare a fool's staff as i have seen of a summer day.--get thee in, thou poor dizard dolt! [note ] to think that i should have to call such a patch my cousin!" lady louvaine sat, looking first at aubrey and then at temperance, as though she marvelled what it all meant. edith said, laughingly-- "why, aubrey, what hast thou done, my boy, so to vex thine aunt?" and faith, throwing down her work, rose and came to aubrey. "my darling! my poor little boy!" she cried, as a nurse might to a child; but faith's blandishment was real, while temperance's was mockery. all aunt temperance's mocking, nevertheless, provoked aubrey less than his mother's reality. he flushed red again, and looked ready to weep, had it been less unmanly. temperance took care not to lose her chance. "ay, poor little boy!" said she. "prithee, faith, take him on thy lap and cuddle him, and dandle him well, and sing him a song o' sixpence. oh, my little rogue, my pretty bird! well, then, it shall have a new coral, it shall--now, madam, pray you look on this piece of wastry! (dear heart, but a fool and his money be soon parted!) what think you 'tis like?" "truly, my dear, that cannot i say," replied lady louvaine, looking at the pipe as temperance held it out: "but either that or somewhat else, it strikes me, hath a marvellous ill savour." "ill savour, madam!" cried temperance. "would you even such mean scents as roses and lilies to this celestial odour? truly, this must it be the angels put in their pouncet-boxes. i am informed of my lord of tobago here that all the gentlemen of the court do use to perfume their velvets with it." "well, i can tell you of two which so do," said aubrey in a nettled fashion--"my lord of northumberland and sir walter raleigh: and you'll not call them fools, aunt temperance." "i'll give you a bit of advice, mr louvaine: and that is, not to lay your week's wages out in wagers what i shall do. i call any man fool that is given to folly: and as to this filthy business, i should scarce stick at the king's majesty himself." "nay, the king is clean contrary thereto," saith aubrey, with a rather unwilling air: "i hear of my lord that he saith it soils the inward parts of men with oily soot, and is loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, counted effeminate among the indians themselves, and by the spanish slaves called sauce for lutheran curs." "well, on my word!" cried aunt temperance. "and knowing this, thou lutheran cur, thou wilt yet soil thine inward parts with this oily soot?" "oh, aunt, every one so doth." lady louvaine and edith exchanged sorrowful looks, and the former said-- "aubrey, my boy, no true man accounts that a worthy reason for his deeds. it was true of the israelites when they fell to worship the golden calf, and of the scribes and priests when they cried, `crucify him!' hadst thou been in that crowd before pontius pilate, wouldst thou have joined that cry?" edith went up to her mother, and said in a low voice, "may i tell him?" evidently it cost lady louvaine some pain to say "yes," yet she said it. edith went back to her seat. "aubrey," she said, "four-and-twenty years gone, thine uncle, my brother walter, was what thou art now, in the very same office and household. his wages were then sixteen pound by the year--" "but mine are thirty-five, aunt," responded aubrey quickly, as though he guessed what she was about to say. "in order to be like every one else, aubrey, and not come in bad odour with his fellows, he spent well-nigh four hundred pound by the year, and--" "uncle walter!" cried aubrey in amazement, and lettice could have been his echo. "ay!" said edith, sadly. "and for over ten years thereafter was my father so crippled with his debts, that i mind it being a fine treat when i and my sisters had a new gown apiece, though of the commonest serge, and all but bare necessaries were cut off from our board. walter laid it so to heart that of a spendthrift he became a miser. i would not have thee so to do, but i bid thee mind that we have very little to live on, owing all we yet have, and have brought withal, to the goodness of my dear aunt joyce; and if thou fall in such ways, aubrey--" "dear heart, aunt! think you i have no wit?" "thou hast not an ill wit, my lad," said aunt temperance, "if a wise man had the keeping of it." "temperance, you are so unfeeling!" exclaimed faith. "must i needs stand up for my fatherless boy?" "you'd ruin any lad you were mother to," answered her sister. hans now coming in, she set on him. "look here, hans floriszoon! didst ever see any thing like this?" hans smiled. "oh ay, mistress murthwaite, i have seen men to use them." "hast one of these fiddle-faddles thyself? or dost thou desire to have one?" "neither, in good sooth," was his reply. "there, mr louvaine! hearken, prithee." "hans is only a boy; i am a man," said aubrey, loftily: though hans was but a year younger than himself. "lancaster and derby! and are you then content, my lord man, that a contemptible boy should have better wit than your magnifical self? truly, i think hans was a man before thou hadst ended sucking of thy thumb." just then charity brought in the rector. "see you here, mr marshall!" cried temperance, brandishing her pipe. "be you wont to solace your studies with this trumpery?" mr marshall smiled. "truly, nay, mistress murthwaite; 'tis accounted scandalous for divines to use that tobago, not to name the high cost thereof." "pray you, how many pence by the ounce hath any man the face to ask for this stinking stuff?" "three shillings or more, and that the poorest sort." "mercy me! and can you tell me how folks use it that account it physical?" "ay, i have heard tell that the manner of using it as physic is to fill the patient's mouth with a ball of the leaves, when he must incline the face downward, and keep his mouth open, not moving his tongue: then doth it draw a flood of water from all parts of the body. some physicians will not use it, saying it causeth over-quick digestion, and fills the stomach full of crudities. for a cold or headache the fumes of the pipe only are taken. his majesty greatly loathes this new fashion, saying that the smoke thereof resembles nothing so much as the stygian fume of the bottomless pit, and likewise that 'tis a branch of drunkenness, which he terms the root of all sins." aubrey laughed rather significantly. "why," asked his mother, "is the king's majesty somewhat given that way?" "well, i have heard it said that when the king of denmark was here, their two majesties went not to bed sober every night of the week: marry, 'tis whispered all the court ladies kept not so steady feet as they might have done." "alack the day! not the queen, i hope?" "nay, i heard no word touching her." "ah, friends!" said mr marshall with a sigh, "let me ensure you that england's mourning is not yet over for queen elizabeth, and we may live to lament our loss of her far sorer than now we do. folks say she was something stingy with money, loving not to part with it sooner than she saw good reason: but some folks will fling their money right and left with no reason at all. the present court much affecteth masques, plays, and such like, so that now there be twenty where her late majesty would see one." "mr marshall," asked edith, "is it true, as i have heard say, that king james is somewhat papistically given?" "ay and no," said he. "he is not at all thus, in the signification of obeying the pope, or suffering himself to be ridden of priests: in no wise. but he hates a puritan worse than a papist. mind you not that in his speech when he opened his first parliament, he said that he did acknowledge the roman church to be our mother church, though defiled with some infirmities and corruptions?" "yet he said also, if i err not, that he sucked in god's truth with his nurse's milk." "ay. but what one calls god's truth is not what an other doth. all the papistry in the world is not in the roman church; and assuredly she is in no sense our mother." "truly, i thought saint austin brought the gospel hither from rome." "saint austin brought a deal from rome beside the gospel, and he was not the first to bring that. the gallican church had before him brought it to kent; and long ere that time had the ancient british church been evangelised from no sister church at all, but right from the holy land itself, and as her own unchanging voice did assert, by the beloved apostle saint john." "that heard i never afore," said lady louvaine, who seemed greatly interested. "pray you, mr marshall, is this true?" "i do ensure you it is," replied he; "that is, so far as the wit of man at this distance of time may discern the same." "was the french church, then, lesser corrupted than that of rome?" queried edith. "certainly so," he said: "and it hath resisted the pope's usurpations nigh as much as our own church of england. i mean not in respect of the reformation, but rather the time before the reformation, when our kings were ever striving with the pope concerning his right to appoint unto dignities and livings. yet the reformation itself began first in france, and had they in authority been willing to aid it as in england, france had been a protestant country at this day." that evening, as they sat round the fire, hans astonished them all. "lady lettice," said he, "were you willing that i should embark in trade?" "hans, my dear boy!" was the astonished response. "i will not do it without your good-will thereto," said he; "nor would i at all have done it, could i have seen any better way. but i feel that i ought to be a-work on some matter, and not tarry a burden on your hands: and all this time have i been essaying two matters--to look out for a service, and to make a little money for you. the second i have in some sense accomplished, though not to the extent i did desire, and here be the proceeds,"--and rising from his seat, hans opened his purse, and poured several gold pieces into his friend's lap. "the former, howbeit, is not--" he was interrupted by a little cry from lady louvaine. "hans! thou surely thinkest not, dear lad, that i shall strip thee of thy first earnings, won by hard work?" "you will, lady lettice, without you mean to disappoint and dishearten me very sore," he answered. "but all this!" she exclaimed. "'tis much less than i would have had it; and it hath taken me three-quarters of a year to scrape so much together. but--nay, lady lettice, forgive me, but never a penny will i take back. you sure forget that i owe all unto you. what should have come of me but for you and sir aubrey? but i was about to say, i have essayed in every direction to take service with a gentleman, and cannot compass it in any wise. so i see no other way but to go into trade." "but, hans, thou art a gentleman's son!" "i am a king's son, madam," said hans with feeling: "and if i tarnish not the escocheon of my heavenly birth by honest craft, then shall i have no fear for that of mine earthly father." "yet if so were, dear lad--though i should be verily sorry to see thee come down so low--yet bethink thee, thine apprenticeship may not be compassed without a good payment in money." "your pardon, madam. there is one craftsman in london that is willing to receive me without a penny. truly, i did nothing to demerit it, since i did but catch up his little maid of two years, that could scarce toddle, from being run over by an horse that had brake loose from the rein. howbeit, it pleaseth him to think him under an obligation to me, and his good wife likewise. and having made inquiries diligently, i find him to be a man of good repute, one that feareth god and dealeth justly and kindly by men: also of his wife the neighbours speak well. seeing, then, all doors shut upon me save this one, whereat i may freely enter, it seems to me, under your ladyship's leave, that this is the way which god hath prepared for me to walk in: yet if you refuse permission, then i shall know that i have erred therein." "hans, i would give my best rebate aubrey had one half thy wit and goodness!" cried temperance. "i thank you for the compliment, mistress murthwaite," said hans, laughingly. "but truly, as for my wit, i should be very ill-set to spare half of it; and as for my goodness, i wish him far more of his own." "where dwells this friend of thine, hans?" inquired lady louvaine. "what is his name? and what craft doth he follow?" "he dwells near, madam, in broad saint giles'; his name, andrew leigh, and is a silkman." "we shall miss thee, my boy," said edith. "mrs edith, that was the only one point that made me to doubt if i should take master leigh's offer or no. if my personal service be of more value to you than my maintenance is a burden, i pray you tell it me: but if not--" "we never yet reckoned thy maintenance a burden, my dear," answered lady louvaine, lovingly. "and indeed we shall miss thee more than a little. nevertheless, hans, i think thou hast wisely judged. there is thine own future to look to: and though, in very deed, i am sorry that life offer thee no fairer opening, yet the lord wot best that which shall be best for thee. ay, hans: thou wilt do well to take the offer." but there were tears in her eyes as she spoke. the old feudal estimate was still strong in men's minds, by which the most honourable of all callings was held to be domestic service; then, trade and handicraft; and, lowest and meanest of all, those occupations by which men were not fed, clothed, nor instructed, but merely amused. musicians, painters, poetasters, and above all, actors, were looked on as the very dregs of mankind. the views of the old lollards, who held that art, not having existed in paradise, was a product of the serpent, had descended to the puritans in a modified form. was it surprising, when on every side they saw the serpent pressing the arts and sciences into his service? it was only in the general chaos of the restoration that this estimate was reversed. the view of the world at present is exactly opposite: and the view taken by the church is too often that of the world. surely the dignity of labour is lost when men labour to produce folly, and call it work. there can be no greater waste either of time, money, or toil, than to expend them on that which satisfieth not. when hans came home, a day or two afterwards, he went straight to lady louvaine and kissed her hand. "madam," said he, in a low voice of much satisfaction, "i bring good news. i have covenanted with mr leigh, who has most nobly granted me, at my request, a rare favour unto a 'prentice--leave to come home when the shop is closed, and to lie here, so long as i am every morrow at my work by six of the clock. i can yet do many little things that may save you pain and toil, and i shall hear every even of your welfare." "my dear lad, god bless thee!" replied lady louvaine, and laid her hand upon his head. somewhat later in the evening came aubrey, to whom all this concerning hans was news. "master floriszoon, silkman, at the black boy in holborn!" cried he, laughingly. "pray you, my worthy master, how much is the best velvet by the yard? and is green stamyn now in fashion? whereto cometh galowne lace the ounce? let us hear thee cry, `what do you lack?' that we, may see if thou hast the true tone. hans floriszoon, i thought thou hadst more of the feeling of a gentleman in thee." the blood flushed to hans' forehead, yet he answered quietly enough. "can a gentleman not measure velvet? and what harm shall it work him to know the cost of it?" "that is a quibble," answered aubrey, loftily. "for any gentleman to soil his fingers with craft is a blot on his escocheon, and that you know as well as i." "for any man, gentle or simple, to soil his fingers with sin, or his tongue with falsehood, is a foul blot on his escocheon," replied hans, looking aubrey in the face. once more the blood mounted to aubrey's brow, and he answered with some warmth, "what mean you?" "i did but respond to your words. be mine other than truth?" "be not scurrilous, boy!" said aubrey, angrily. "hans, i am astonished at you!" said faith. "i know not how it is, but since we came to london, you are for ever picking quarrels with aubrey, and seeking occasion against him. are you envious of his better fortune, or what is it moves you?" it was a minute before hans answered, and when he did so, his voice was very quiet and low. "i am sorry to have vexed you, mrs louvaine. if i know myself, i do not envy aubrey at all; and indeed i desire to pick no quarrel with any man, and him least of any." then, turning to aubrey, he held out his hand. "forgive me, if i said aught i should not." aubrey took the offered hand, much in the manner of an insulted monarch to a penitent rebel. lettice glanced just then at her aunt edith, and saw her gazing from one to the other of the two, with a perplexed and possibly displeased look on her face, but whether it were with aubrey or with hans, lettice could not tell. what made aubrey so angry did not appear. lettice's eyes went to her grandmother. on her face was a very sorrowful look, as if she perceived and recognised some miserable possibility which she had known in the past, and now saw advancing with distress. but she did not speak either to hans or aubrey. the full moon of a spring evening, almost as mild as summer, lighted up the strand, throwing into bold relief the figure of a young man, fashionably dressed, who stood at the private door of a tailor's shop, the signboard of which exhibited a very wild-looking object of human species, clad in a loose frock, with bare legs and streaming hair, known to the initiated as the sign of the irish boy. fashionably dressed meant a good deal at that date. it implied a doublet of velvet or satin, puffed and slashed exceedingly, and often covered with costly embroidery or gold lace; trunk hose, padded to an enormous width, matching the doublet in cost, and often in pattern; light-coloured silk stockings, broad-toed shoes, with extremely high heels, and silver buckles, or gold-edged shoe-strings; garters of broad silk ribbons, often spangled with gold, and almost thick enough for sashes; a low hat with a feather and silk hatband, the latter sometimes studded with precious stones; a suspicion of stays in the region of the waist, but too likely to be justified by fact; fringed and perfumed gloves of thick white spanish leather; lace ruffs about the neck and wrists, the open ones of immense size, the small ones closer than in the previous reign; ear-rings and love-locks: and over all, a gaudy cloak, or rather cape, reaching little below the elbow. in the youth's hand was an article of the first necessity in the estimation of a gentleman of fashion,--namely, a tobacco-box, in this instance of chased silver, with a mirror in the lid, whereby its owner might assure himself that his ruff sat correctly, and that his love-locks were not out of curl. a long slender cane was in the other hand, which the youth twirled with busy idleness, as he carelessly hummed a song. "let's cast away care, and merrily sing, for there's a time for every thing: he that plays at his work, and works at his play, doth neither keep working nor holy day." a second youth came down the street westwards, walking not with an air of haste, but of one whose time was too valuable to be thrown away. he was rather shorter and younger than the first, and was very differently attired. he wore a fustian doublet, without either lace or embroidery; a pair of unstuffed cloth hose, dark worsted stockings, shoes with narrow toes and plain shoe-strings of black ribbon; a flat cap; cloth gloves, unadorned and unscented, and a cloak of black cloth, of a more rational length than the other. as he came to the tailor's shop he halted suddenly. "aubrey!" the tone was one of surprise and pain. "spy!" was the angry response. "i am no spy, and you know it. but i would ask what you do here and now?" "are you my gaoler, that i must needs give account to you?" "i am your brother, aubrey; and i, as well as you, am my brother's keeper in so far as concerns his welfare. it is over a month since you visited us, and your mother and lady lettice believe you to be with your lord in essex. how come you hither, so late at night, and at another door than your own?" "no business of yours! may a man not call to see his tailor?" "men do not commonly go to their tailors after shops be shut." "oh, of course, you wot all touching shop matters. be off to your grograne and cambric! i'm not your apprentice." "my master's shop is shut with the rest. aubrey, i saw you last night-- though till now i tried to persuade myself it was not you--in holborn, leaving the door of the green dragon. what do you there?" the answer came blazing with wrath. "you saw--you mean, sneaking, blackguardly traitor of a dutch shopkeeper! i'll have no rascal spies dogging my steps, and--" "aubrey," said the quiet voice that made reply, "you know me better than that. i never played the spy on you yet, and i trust you will never give me cause. yet what am i to think when as i pass along the street i behold you standing at the door of a pa--" "hold your tongue!" the closing word was cut sharply in two by that fierce response. it might be a pavior, a pear-monger, or a papist. hans was silent until aubrey had again spoken, which he did in a hard, constrained tone. "i shall go where i please, without asking your leave or any body's else! i am of age, and i have been tied quite long enough to the apron-strings of a parcel of women: but i mean not to cut myself loose from them, only to pass under guidance of a silly lad that hath never a spark of spirit in him, and would make an old woman of me if i gave him leave." then, in a voice more like his own, he added, "get you in to your knitting, old mistress floriszoon, and tie your cap well o'er your ears, lest the cold wind give you a rheum." "i will go in when you come with me," said hans calmly. "i will not." "to-night, aubrey--only just to-night!" "and what for to-night, prithee? i have other business afloat. to-morrow i will maybe look in." perhaps aubrey was growing a little ashamed of his warmth, for his voice had cooled down. "we can never do right either to-morrow or yesterday," answered hans. "to-night is all we have at this present." "i tell you i will not!" the anger mounted again. "i will not be at the beck and call of a beggarly tradesfellow!" "you love better to be at satan's?" "take that for your impudence!" there was the sound of a sharp, heavy blow--so heavy that the recipient almost staggered under it. then came an instant's dead silence: and then a voice, very low, very sorrowful, yet with no anger in it-- "good-night, aubrey. i hope you will come to-morrow." and hans's steps died away in the distance. left to himself, aubrey's feelings were far from enviable. he was compelled to recognise the folly of his conduct, as more calculated to fan than deter suspicion; and it sorely nettled him also to perceive that hans, shopkeeper though he might be, had shown himself much the truer gentleman of the two. but little time was left him to indulge in these unpleasant reflections, for the door behind him was opened by a girl. "mr catesby at home?" "ay, sir, and mr winter is here. pray you, walk up." aubrey did as he was requested, adding an unnecessary compliment on the good looks of the portress, to which she responded by a simper of gratified vanity--thereby showing that neither belonged to the wisest class of mankind--and he was ushered upstairs, into a small but pleasant parlour, where three gentlemen sat conversing. a decanter stood on the table, half full of wine, and each gentleman was furnished with a glass. the long silver pipe was passing round from one to another, and its smoker looked up as aubrey was announced. "ah! welcome, mr louvaine. mr winter, you know this gentleman. sir, this is my very good friend mr darcy,"--indicating the third person by a motion of the hand. "mr darcy, suffer me to make you acquainted with mr louvaine, my good lord oxford's gentleman and a right pleasant companion.--pray you, help yourself to rhenish, and take a pipe." aubrey accepted the double invitation, and was soon puffing at the pipe which catesby handed to him. he had not taken much notice of the stranger, and none at all of a gesture on the part of mr catesby as he introduced him--a momentary stroking upwards of his forehead, intended as a sign not to aubrey, but to the other. the stranger, however, perfectly understood it. to him it said, "here is a simpleton: mind what you say." mr catesby, the occupant of the furnished apartments, was a man of unusually lofty height, being over six feet, and of slender build, though well-proportioned; he had a handsome and expressive face, and, while not eloquent, was possessed of the most fascinating and attractive manners by which man ever dragged his fellow-man to evil. mr winter, on the other hand, was as short as his friend was tall. his rather handsome features were of the grecian type, and he had the power of infusing into them at will a look of the most touching child-like innocence. he spoke five, languages, and was a well-read man for his time. the stranger, to whom aubrey had been introduced as mr darcy, was an older man than either of the others. mr catesby was aged thirty-two, and mr winter about thirty-five; but mr darcy was at least fifty. he was a well-proportioned man, and dressed with studied plainness. a long, narrow face, with very large, heavy eyelids, and a long but not hooked nose, were relieved by a moustache, and a beard square and slightly forked in the midst. this moustache hid a mouth which was the characteristic feature of the face. no physiognomist would have placed the slightest confidence in the owner of that mouth. it was at once sanctimonious and unstable. the manners of its possessor might be suave or severe; his reputation might be excellent or execrable; but with that mouth, a pharisee and a hypocrite at heart he must be. this gentleman found it convenient not to be too invariably known by a single name, and that whereby he had been introduced to aubrey was one of five aliases-- his real one making a sixth. different persons, in various parts of the country, were acquainted with him as mr mease, mr phillips, mr farmer, and--his best-known alias--mr walley. but his real name was henry garnet, and he was a jesuit priest. to do justice to aubrey louvaine, who, though weak and foolish, being mainly led astray by his own self-sufficiency, was far from being deliberately wicked, it must be added that he entertained not the least idea of the real characters of his new friends. at the house of mr thomas rookwood, whither he was attracted by the fair dorothy--who, had he but known it, regarded him with cleverly concealed contempt--he had made the acquaintance of mr ambrose rookwood, the elder of the brothers, and the owner of coldham hall. this gentleman, to aubrey's taste, was not attractive; but by him he was introduced to mr percy, and later, to mr thomas winter, in whose society the foolish youth took great pleasure. for mr catesby he did not so much care; the fact being that he was too clever to suit aubrey's fancy. neither had aubrey any conception of the use which was being made of him by his new friends. he was very useful; he had just brains enough, and not too much, to serve their purpose. it delighted aubrey to air his familiarity with the court and nobility, and it was convenient to them to know some one whom they could pump without his ever suspecting that he was being pumped. they often required information concerning the movements and present whereabouts of various eminent persons; and nothing was easier than to obtain it from aubrey as they sat and smoked. a few glasses of rhenish wine, and a few ounces of tobacco, were well worth expending for the purpose. aubrey's anger with hans, therefore, was not based on any fear of discovery, arising from suspicion of his associates. he was only aiming at independence, combined with a little secret unwillingness to acknowledge his close connection with mr leigh's apprentice. of the real end of the road on which he was journeying, he had not the least idea. satan held out to him with a smile a fruit pleasant to the eyes and good for food, saying, "thou shalt be as a god," and aubrey liked the prospect, and accepted the apple. having enjoyed himself for about an hour in this manner, and--quite unconsciously on his part--given some valuable information to his associates, he bade them good evening, and returned to lord oxford's mansion, in a state of the most delicately-balanced uncertainty whether to appear or not at the white bear on the following evening. if only he could know how much hans would tell the ladies! in the room which he had left, he formed for some minutes the subject of conversation. "where picked you up that jewel?" asked garnet of winter. "he lives--or rather his friends do--next door to tom rookwood," answered winter. "a pigeon worth plucking?" was the next question. "as poor as a church-mouse, but he knows things we need to know, and in point of wits he is a very pigeon. he no more guesseth what time of day it is with us than my lord secretary doth." the trio laughed complacently, but a rather doubtful expression succeeded that of amusement in garnet's face. "now, good gentlemen, be quiet," said he, piously. was there a faint twinkle in his eyes? "god will do all for the best. we must get it by prayer at god's hands, in whose hands are the hearts of princes." "you pray, by all means, and we'll work," said catesby, removing the pipe from his lips for an instant. at that moment the door opened, and a fourth gentleman made his appearance. he was as tall and as handsome as catesby; but the considerable amount of white in his dark hair, and more slightly in his broad beard, made him look older than his real age, which was forty-six. he stooped a little in the shoulders. his manners were usually gentle and grave; but a pair of large and very lively eyes and an occasional impulsive eagerness of speech, wherein he was ready and fluent at all times, showed that there was more fire and life in his character than appeared on the surface. those who knew him well were aware that his temper was impetuous and precipitate, and on given occasions might be termed quarrelsome without calumny. "shall we always talk, gentlemen, and never do anything?" demanded the newcomer, without previous greeting. "come in, mr percy, and with a right good welcome! the talk is well-nigh at an end, and the doing beginneth." "our lady be thanked!" was percy's response. "we have dallied and delayed long enough. this morning have i been with mr fawkes over the house; and i tell you, the mining through that wall shall be no child's play." winter lifted his eyebrows and pursed his lips. catesby only remarked, "we must buy strong pickaxes, then," and resumed his puffing in the calmest manner. "the seventh of february, is it not, parliament meets?" "ay. i trust the bulls will come from rome before that." "they will be here in time," said garnet, rising. "well, i wish you good-night, gentlemen. 'tis time i was on my way to wandsworth. i lie to-night at mrs anne's, whither she looks for her cousin tresham to come." "my commendations to my cousins," said catesby. "good-night. we meet at white webbs on tuesday." "_pax vobiscum_," said garnet softly, as he left the room. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . all these are old terms signifying a fool or idiot. patch was the favourite jester of henry the eighth, whose name was used as synonymous with fool. chapter five. begins with temperance, and ends with treachery. "whate'er we do, we all are doing this-- reaping the harvest of our yesterdays, sowing for our to-morrows." s.v. partridge. on the following evening, aubrey put in an appearance at the white bear. as soon as he entered, he gave a quick, troubled look round the parlour, before he went up to kiss his grandmother's hand. his aunt temperance greeted him with, "give you good even, my lord chamberlain! lancaster and derby! do but look on him! blue feather in his hat--lace ruff and ruffles--doublet of white satin with gold aglets--trunk hose o' blue velvet, paned with silver taffeta--garters of blue and white silk-- and i vow, a pair o' white silken hose, and shoes o' spanish leather. pray you, my lord, is your allowance from the king's majesty five hundred pounds or a thousand by the year?" "now, aunt, you know," said aubrey, laughing. "that thou art a spendthrift?" answered she. "ay, i do: and if thou run not into debt this side o' christmas, my name is not temperance murthwaite." "i'm not in debt a penny," retorted he. "then somebody must have given thee thy pantofles," replied she. "be they a cast-off pair of his majesty's, or did my lord oxford so much alms to thee?" aubrey laughed again, as merrily as if he had not a care nor a fault in the world. "they cost not so much as you reckon," he said. "four yards of velvet," calculated aunt temperance--"you'll not do it under, stuffed that wise of bombast, nor buy that quality, neither, under eighteen shillings the yard--let's see,--that is three pounds twelve shillings: silver taffeta, a yard and an half, twenty-two and sixpence--that's four pounds fourteen and six; then the lining, dowlas, i suppose, at fourteen pence--" "they are lined with perpetuana, aunt," answered aubrey, who seemed greatly amused by this reckoning. "perpetuana--_lining_? thou reckless knave! three-and-fourpence the yard at the least--well, we'll say ten shillings--five pounds four and six: and the lace, at four shillings by the ounce, and there'll be two ounces there, good: five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence, as i'm a living woman! 'tis sinful waste, lad: that's what it is. your father never wore such babylonian raiment, nor your grandfather neither, and there was ten times the wisdom and manliness in either of them that there'll ever be in you, except you mean to turn your coat ere you are a month elder." as aubrey turned to reply, his eyes fell on hans, coming home from the mercer's. his face changed in a minute: but hans came forward with his hand held out as cordially as usual, and a look of real pleasure in his eyes. "good even, aubrey; i am glad to see you," said he. "ay, see him, do!" cried temperance, before aubrey could answer; and he only gave his hand in silence. "look at him, hans! didst ever behold such a pair of pantofles? five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence! how much cost thine?" "mine be not so brave as these," replied hans, smiling. "my lord oxford's squire must needs wear better raiment than a silkman's apprentice, mrs murthwaite." "five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence!" persisted she. "come, now, aunt temperance! they cost not the half," said aubrey. "who didst thou cheat out of them, then?" asked she. "i bought them," he answered, laughing, "of a young noble that had borne them but twice, and was ill content with the cut and colour of them." "he'll come to no good," sternly pronounced aunt temperance. "you made a good bargain," said hans. "that velvet cost full a pound the yard, i should say." "aubrey," inquired temperance, "i do marvel, and i would fain know, what thou dost all the day long? doth thy lord keep thee standing by his chair, first o' one leg, and then o' tother, while he hath an errand for thee?" "why, no, aunt! i am not an errand-lad," said aubrey, and laughed more merrily than ever. "of late is his lordship greatly incommoded, and hath kept his chamber during many days of this last month; but when he hath his health, i will specify unto you what i do." "prithee specify, and i shall be fain to hearken." "well, of a morning i aid his lordship at his _lever_, and after breakfast i commonly ride with him, if it be my turn: then will he read an hour or twain in the law, without the parliament be sitting, when he is much busied, being not only a morning man, but at committees also; in the afternoon he is often at court, or practising of music--just now he exerciseth himself in broken music [the use of stringed instruments] and brachigraphy [shorthand]: then in the evening we join my lady and her gentlewomen in the withdrawing chamber, and divers gestes and conceits be used--such as singing, making of anagrams, guessing of riddles, and so forth. there is my day." "forsooth, and a useless one it is," commented she. "the law-books and the parliament business seem the only decent things in it." "ah, 'tis full little changed," remarked lady louvaine, "these sixty years since i dwelt at surrey place." and she sighed. "temperance, i am astonished at you," interposed faith. "you do nought save fault-find poor aubrey." "poor aubrey! ay, that he is," returned his aunt, "and like to be a sight poorer, for all that i can see. if you'll fault-find him a bit more, faith, there'll not be so much left for me to do." "what is the matter?" asked edith, coming softly in. "there's a pair of velvet pantofles and an other of silken hose the matter, my dear," answered temperance, "and a beaver hat with a brave blue feather in it. i trust you admire them as they deserve, and him likewise that weareth them." "they are brave, indeed," said edith, in her quiet voice. "i would fain hope it is as fair within as without, my boy." she looked up in his face as she spoke with yearning love in her eyes; and as aubrey bent his head to kiss her, he said, in the softest tone which he had yet employed since his entrance, "i am afraid not, aunt edith." and edith answered, in that low, tender voice-- "`thy beauty was perfect through my comeliness which i had put upon thee.' dear aubrey, let us seek that." aubrey made no answer beyond a smile, and quickly turned the conversation, on his mother asking if he brought any news. "but little," said he. "there be new laws against witchcraft, which is grown greater and more used than of old, and the king is mightily set against it--folks say he is afraid of it. none should think, i ensure you, how easily frightened is his majesty, and of matters that should never fright any save a child." "but that is not news, aubrey," said his mother plaintively. "i want to hear something new." "there isn't an artichoke in the market this morrow," suddenly remarked her sister. "temperance, what do you mean?" "why, that's news, isn't it? i am sure you did not know it, till i told you." mrs louvaine closed her eyes with an air of deeply-tried forbearance. "come, lad, out with thy news," added temperance. "wherewith hath my lady guarded her new spring gowns? that shall serve, i reckon." aubrey laughed. "i have not seen them yet, aunt. but i heard say of one of the young gentlewomen that silk is now for the first to be woven in england, so 'tis like to be cheaper than of old." "there's a comfort!" said mrs louvaine, rather less languidly than usual. "i heard tell likewise of a fresh colewort, from cyprus in the east-- they call it broccoli or kale-flower. methinks there is nought else, without you would hear of a new fashion of building of churches, late come up--but his lordship saith 'tis a right ancient fashion, wherein the old greeks were wont to build their houses and temples." "methinks it scarce meet to go to the heathen for the pattern of a church," said lady louvaine; "are not our old churches fair enough, and suitable for their purpose?" "in this new fashion he no chancels," said aubrey. "well, and i should hold with that," cried temperance: "they give rise to vain superstitions. if there be no mass, what lack we of a chancel?" "if men list, my dear, to bring in the superstitions," quietly remarked lady louvaine, "they shall scarce stick at the want of a chancel." "true, madam: yet would i fain make it as hard to bring them as ever i could." aubrey left his friends about six o'clock, and hans followed him to the door. on the steps there was a short, low-toned conversation. "hans, after all, thou art a good lad. did i hurt thee?" "'tis all o'er now, aubrey: no matter." "then i did. well, i am sorry. shall i give thee a silver chain to make up, old comrade?" "all is made up. prithee, give me nothing--save--my brother aubrey." aubrey's tone was glib and light, though with a slight sub-accent of regret. hans's voice was more hesitating and husky. it cost hans much to allow any one a glimpse into his heart; it cost aubrey nothing. but, as is often the case, the guarded chamber contained rare treasure, while in the open one there was nothing to guard. "thou art a good lad!" said aubrey again, in a slightly ashamed tone, as he took the offered hand. "truly, hans, i was after none ill, only-- well, i hate to be watched and dogged, or aught like thereto." "who does not?" replied hans. "and in truth likewise, i was but coming home, and spake my astonishment at seeing you." "we are friends, then?" "god forbid we should ever be any thing else! good-night, and god keep you in his way!" not many days afterwards, an event happened, of some consequence to our friends at the white bear. their one powerful friend, edward de vere, earl of oxford, died in june, . a strange study for a student of human nature is this earl of oxford--a curious compound, like his late royal lady, of greatness and littleness. he began life as a youthful exquisite. his costumes were more extravagant, his perfumes more choice, his italian more pure and fluent, than those of the other dilettante nobles of his time. he was a minor poet of some note in his day, and was esteemed to be the first writer of comedy then living--though shakespeare was living too. in middle life he blossomed out into a military patriot. he ended his days as a hard, cold, morose old man. his life-lamp was used up: it had been made so to flare in early youth, that there was no oil left to light him at the end, when light and warmth were most needed. having quarrelled with his father-in-law, the great earl of burleigh, he registered a savage and senseless vow to "ruin his daughter," which he could do only by ruining himself. in pursuance of this insane resolution, he spent right and left, until his estate was wrecked, and the innocent countess anne was hunted into her grave. the son who succeeded to his father's title, and to the few acres which this mad folly had not flung away, was a mere boy of twelve years old. it became a serious question in lady louvaine's mind whether aubrey should remain in the household after the decease of the old earl. she found, however, that the widowed countess elizabeth kept a very orderly house, and a strict hand over her son and his youthful companions, so that lady louvaine, who saw no other door open, thought it best to leave aubrey where he was. the countess, who had been maid of honour to queen elizabeth, had been well drilled by that redoubtable lady into proper and submissive behaviour; and she now required similar good conduct from her dependants, with excellent reasons for absence or dereliction from duty. that she was never deceived would be too much to say. meanwhile, matters progressed busily in the house by the river-side. the conspirators took in a sixth accomplice--christopher wright, the younger brother of john--and the six began their mine, about the eleventh of december, . the wall of the house of lords was three yards in thickness; the cellar of percy's house was extremely damp, being close to the river, and the water continually oozed through into the mine. finding their task more difficult than they had anticipated, a seventh was now taken into the number--a pervert, robert keyes, the son of a protestant clergyman in derbyshire. a second house was hired at lambeth, of which keyes was placed in charge, while to fawkes was committed the chief business of laying in the combustibles, first in the lambeth house, and afterwards of removing them to that at westminster. fawkes went cautiously about his business, purchasing his materials in various parts of the city, so as not to excite suspicion. he provided in all, three thousand billets of wood, five hundred faggots, thirty-six barrels of gunpowder, with stones and bars of iron, in order that the explosion might be more destructive. from the bankside, or south bank of the thames, where it lay in hampers, twenty barrels of the powder was first brought in boats, by night, to the house at westminster, where it was stored in the cellar to await the finishing of the mine. by christmas they had penetrated the wall of percy's house, and had reached that of the house of lords. they thought it desirable now to rest for the christmas holidays; keyes was left in charge of the house at lambeth, and the others departed in various directions. "well, upon my word! prithee, good my master, who's your tailor?" the speaker was temperance murthwaite, who was clad in the plainest of brownish drab serges, without an unnecessary tag or scrap of fringe, and carried on her arm an unmistakable market-basket, from which protruded the legs of a couple of chickens and sundry fish-tails, notwithstanding the clean cloth which should have hidden such ignoble articles from public view. the person addressed was mr aubrey louvaine, and his costume was a marvel of art and a feast of colour. "my tailor is adrian sewell, aunt, in thieving lane--" "like enough!" was the response. "well, gentleman?" "shall i--" the words died on aubrey's lips. his aunt, who read his thoughts exactly, stood wickedly enjoying the situation. "shall you carry the basket? by all means, if it please your highness. have a care, though, lest the tails of those whitings sully yon brave crimson velvet, and see the fowls thrust not their talons into that spanish lace. methinks, master aubrey, considering your bravery of array, you were best pocket your civility this morrow. it'll be lesser like to harm the lace and velvet than the chicks' legs and the fish-tails. you may keep me company an' you will, if i be good enough to trudge alongside so fine a whitsuntide show as you are. that's two of 'em." "of what, aunt?" said aubrey, feeling about as unhappy as a mixture of humiliation and apprehension could make him. if they were to meet one of lord oxford's gentlemen, or one of his wealthy acquaintances, he felt as though he should want the earth to open and swallow him. "suits, gentleman," was the reply. "blue and white the first; crimson and silver the second. haven't seen the green and gold yet, nor the yellow, nor purple. suppose they're in the wardrobe. rather early times, to be thus bedizened, or seems so to working folks--the abbey clock went eight but a few minutes since. but quality is donned early, i know." as mistress temperance emitted this tingling small-shot of words, she was marching with some rapidity up old palace yard and the abbey close, her magnificent nephew keeping pace with her, right sore against his will. at last aubrey could bear no longer. the windows of the golden fish were in sight, and his soul was perturbed by a vision of the fair dorothy, who might be looking out, and whose eyes might light on the jewel of himself in this extremely incongruous setting of aunt temperance and the fish-tails. "aunt temperance, couldn't--" aubrey's words did not come so readily as usual, that morning. "couldn't i walk slower?" suggested the aggravating person who was the cause of his misery. "well, belike i could.--there's mrs gertrude up at the window yonder--without 'tis mrs dorothy.--there's no hurry in especial, only i hate to waste time." and suiting the action to the word, aunt temperance checked her steps, so as to give the young lady, whether it were gertrude or dorothy, a more leisurely view of the fish-tails. "couldn't rachel go marketing instead of you?" sputtered out aubrey. "rachel has her own work; and so has charity. and so have i, mr louvaine. i suppose you haven't, as you seem to be gallivanting about westminster in crimson and silver at eight o'clock of a morning. now then--" "aunt, 'tis not my turn this morrow to wait on my lord's _lever_. i shall be at his _coucher_ this even." "you may open the door, my master, if it demean not so fine a gentleman.--good maid! take my basket, rachel. the fish for dinner, and the chicken for to-morrow." "there's nobut four whitings here, mistress: shouldn't there be five?" "hush thee, good maid. they're twopence apiece." "eh, yo' never sen [say] so!" "ay, but i do. let be; i'll have a bit of green stuff, or something." and as rachel, looking but half satisfied, went off with the basket, temperance threw open the parlour door. "madam, suffer me to announce the duke of damask, the prince of plush, the viscount of velvet, and the baron of bombast. pray you, look not for four nobles; there is but one." "aubrey!" was the response, in diverse tones, from the three ladies. the object of this attention did not look happy; but he walked in and offered due greeting to his relatives. temperance sat down, untied her plain black hood, and laid it aside. "and whither might your lordship be going when i captivated you?" asked she. "not to this house, for you had passed it by." "in good sooth, aunt, i did not--i meant, indeed--i should maybe have looked in," stammered the young man. "tell no lies, my lad, for thou dost it very ill," was aunt temperance's most inconsiderate reply. "you might come to see us oftener, i'm sure, aubrey, if you would," said his mother in a plaintive voice. "it is hard, when i have only one child, that he should never care to come. i wish you had been a girl like lettice, and then we could have had some comfort out of you." "my dear," said aunt temperance, "he is devoutly thankful he's not. he doesn't want to be tied at the aprons of a parcel of women, trust me. have you had your pipe of open-work, or what you are pleased to call it, gentleman, this morrow? only think of hanging that filthy stench about those velvet fal-lals! with whom spent you last even, lad?" the question came so suddenly that aubrey was startled into truth. "with some friends of mine in the strand, aunt." the next instant he was sorry. "let's have their names," said aunt temperance. "well, tom rookwood was one." "folks generally put the best atop. hope _he_ wasn't the best. who else?" "some gentlemen to whom rookwood introduced me." "i want their names," said the female examiner. "well--one of them is a mr winter." aubrey spoke with great reluctance, as his aunt saw well. he selected winter's name as being least uncommon of the group. but he soon found that destiny, in the person of aunt temperance, did not mean to let him off so lightly as this. "what sort of an icicle is he?" "he isn't an icicle at all, aunt, but a very good fellow and right pleasant company." "prithee bring him to see us. where lodgeth he?--is he a london man?" "he is a worcestershire gentleman, on a visit hither." "pass him. who else?" "well--a man named darcy." "a man, and _not_ a gentleman? whence comes he?" "i don't know. scarcely a gentleman, seeing he deals in horses." "horses are good fellows enough, mostly: but folks who deal in horses are apt to be worser,--why, can i never tell. is the horse-dealer pleasant company belike?" "not so much to my liking as mr winter." "i'm fain to hear it. who else?" "there is a mr percy, kin to my lord northumberland." aunt temperance drew in her breath with an inverted whistle. "lo, you now, we are in select society!" but edith turned suddenly round. "aubrey, is he a true protestant?" she knew that lord northumberland was reckoned "the head of the recusants." "i really don't know, aunt," replied aubrey, to whom the idea had never before occurred. "i never heard him say aught whence i could guess it. he is a very agreeable man." "the more agreeable, maybe, the more dangerous. my boy, do have a care! `he that is not with me is against me.'" "oh, he's all right, i am sure," said aubrey, carelessly. "you seem sure on small grounds," said aunt temperance. "well, have we made an end?--is he the last?" "no, there is one other--mr catesby." aubrey had deliberately left catesby to the last, yet he could not have explained for what reason. lady louvaine spoke for the first time. "catesby?--a catesby of ashby ledgers?" "i have not heard, further than that his home is in northamptonshire, and his mother the lady anne catesby." "i think it is. they are a popish family, or were, not many years ago. aubrey, come here." the young man obeyed, in some surprise. his gentle grandmother was not wont to speak in tones of such stern determination as these. "my boy!" she said, "i charge thee on my benison, and by the dear memory of him from whom thou hast thy name, that thou endeavour thyself to thine utmost to discover whether these men be papists or no. ask not of themselves--they may deceive thee; and a papist oft counts deceit no wrong when it is done in the interests of his church. make my compliments to my cousin, my lady oxford, and give her the names of these gentlemen, and where they lodge; saying also that i do most earnestly beseech that she will make inquiry by her chaplain, and give me to know, how they stand concerned in this matter. aubrey, you know not the danger of such friendship: i do. obey me, at your peril." never in his life had aubrey heard such words from the usually soft, sweet lips of the lady lettice. he was thoroughly frightened, all the more because the dangers to be feared were so vague and unknown. a few minutes before, he had been feeling vexed with his aunt temperance for catechising him so strictly about his friends. now, this sensation had quite given way before astonishment and vague apprehension. "yes, madam, i will," he answered gravely. and he meant it. but-- what a number of excellent people, and what a multiplicity of good deeds, there would be in this naughty world, if only that little conjunction could be left out! aubrey quitted the white bear with the full intention of carrying out his grandmother's behest. but not just now. he must do it, of course, before he saw her again. lady oxford might take it into her head to pay a visit to lady louvaine, in which case it would surely be discovered if the question had not been passed on. of course it must be done: only, not just now. he might surely spend a few more pleasant evenings at winter's lodgings, before he set on foot those disagreeable inquiries which might end in his being deprived of the pleasure. lady oxford, therefore, was not troubled that evening,--nor the next, nor indeed for a goodly number to follow. but within a week of his visit to the white bear, when the sharp edge of his grandmother's words had been a little blunted by time, and the cares of other things had entered in, aubrey again made his way to the lodgings occupied by winter at the sign of the duck, in the strand, "hard by temple bar." there were various reasons for this action. in the first place, aubrey was entirely convinced that the judgment of a man of twenty-one was to be preferred before that of a woman of seventy-seven. secondly, he enjoyed winter's society. thirdly, he liked winter's tobacco. fourthly, he admired betty, who usually let him in, and who, being even more foolish than himself, was not at all averse to a few empty compliments and a little frothy banter, which he was very ready to bestow. for aubrey was not of that sterling metal of which his grandfather had been made, "who loved one only and who clave to her," and to whom it would have been a moral impossibility to flirt with one woman while he was making serious love to another. lastly, the society of his friends had acquired an added zest by the probability of its being a dangerous luxury. he loved dearly to poise himself on the edge of peril, though of course, like all who do so, he had not the slightest intention of falling in. on the evening in question, betty made no appearance, and aubrey was let in by her mistress, a plain-featured middle-aged woman, on whom he had no temptation to waste his perfumes. he made his way up the stairs to winter's door, and his hand was on the latch when he heard percy's voice. "through by the seventh of february! you'll be nothing of the sort." "i cry you mercy. i think we shall," answered catesby. aubrey lifted the latch, and entered. four gentlemen sat round the fire--winter and catesby; percy, whom aubrey knew, and in whose hand was the pipe; and a fourth, a tall, dark, and rather fine-looking man, with brown hair, auburn beard, and a moustache the ends of which curled upwards. "ha! mr louvaine? you are right welcome," said winter, rising to greet his young friend, while percy took his pipe from his lips, and offered it to the latter. nobody introduced the stranger, and aubrey took but little notice of him, especially as thenceforth he sat in silence. he might have paid more if he could have known that after three hundred years had rolled by, and the names of all then known as eminent men should have faded from common knowledge, the name of that man should be fresh in the memory of every englishman, and deeply interesting to every english boy. he was in the company of guy fawkes. to appear as a nameless stranger, and indeed to appear at all as little as possible, was fawkes's policy at this moment. he was just about to present himself on the stage as john johnson, "mr percy's man," and for any persons in london to know him by his own name would be a serious drawback, for it was to a great extent because he was unknown in town that he had been selected to play this part. yet matters were not quite ready for the assumption of his new character. he therefore sat silent, and was not introduced. they smoked, sipped rhenish wine, and chatted on indifferent subjects, for an hour or more; discussed the "sleeping preacher," richard haydock, then just rising into notoriety--who professed to deliver his sermons in his sleep, and was afterwards discovered to be an imposter; the last benefaction in the parish church, for two poor irish gentlewomen on their journey home, recommended by letters from the council; the last new ballad. "but have you beheld," asked winter, when these topics were exhausted, "the king's new caroche of the german fashion, with a roof to fall asunder at his majesty's pleasure?" "i have," said catesby; "and methinks it shall take with many, gentlewomen more in especial." "wherefore, now?" inquired percy, laughing. "think you gentlewomen lack air rather than gentlemen, or that they shall think better to show their dainty array and their fair faces?" "a little of both," was the answer. "there is truly great increase in coaches of late years," remarked winter. "why, the saddlers are crying out they are like to be ruined," said percy; "the roads are cloyed and pestered, and the horses lamed." "ay, and that is not the worst of it," added catesby. "evil-disposed persons, who dare not show themselves openly for fear of correction, shadow and securely convey themselves in coaches, and so are not to be distinguished from persons of honour." the whole company agreed that this was extremely shocking, and piously denounced all evil-disposed persons in a style which aubrey thought most edifying. as he walked back later, he meditated whether he should make those inquiries of lady oxford that night, and decided not to do so. no real papist or traitor, thought the innocent youth, would be likely to denounce evil-disposed persons! the airs they had been singing, before parting, recurred to his mind, and he hummed fragments of them as he went along. "row well, ye mariners", "all in a garden green", "phillida flouts me," and the catch of "whoop, barnaby!" finishing up with "greensleeves" and one or two madrigals--these had been their evening entertainment: but madrigals were becoming unfashionable, and were not heard now so often as formerly. the music of elizabeth's day, which was mainly harmony with little melody, containing "scarcely any tune that the uncultivated ear could carry away," was giving way to a less learned but more melodious style. along with this, there was a rapid increase in the cultivation of instrumental music, while vocal music continued to be exceedingly popular. it was usual enough for tradesmen and artisans to take part in autiphons, glees, and part-songs of all kinds, while ballads were in such general favour that ballad-mongers could earn twenty shillings a day. a bass viol generally hung in a drawing-room for the visitors to play; but the few ladies who used this instrument were thought masculine. the education of girls at this time admitted of scarcely any accomplishment but music: they were taught to read, write, sew, and cook, to play the virginals, lute, and cithern, and to read prick-song at sight,--namely, to sing from the score, without accompaniment. those who were acquainted with any language beside their own were the few and highly-cultured; and a girl who knew french or italian was still more certain to have learned latin, if not greek. german and spanish were scarcely ever taught; indeed, the former was regarded as quite outside the list of learnable tongues. it was a sore trouble to aubrey that the white bear and the golden fish were next door to each other. had he had the ordering of their topography, they would have been so situated that he could have dropped into the latter, to sun himself in the eyes of the fair dorothy, without the least fear of being seen from the former. he stood in wholesome fear of his aunt temperance's sharp speeches, and had a less wholesome, because more selfish, dislike of his mother's ceaseless complaints. moreover, aunt edith was wont to disturb his equanimity by a few quiet occasional words which would ring in his ears for days afterwards, and make him very uncomfortable. her speeches were never long, but they were often weighty, and were adapted to make their hearers consider their ways, and think what they would do in the end thereof--a style of consideration always unwelcome to aubrey, and especially so since his view of the world had been enlarged by coming to london. he was just now in an awkward position, and the centre and knot of the awkwardness was dorothy rookwood. he was making no way with dorothy. her brother he met frequently at winter's rooms, but if he wished to see her, he must go to her home. if he went there, he must call at the white bear. if he did that, he must first deliver his grandmother's message to lady oxford. and only suppose that lady oxford's inquiries should lead to discoveries which would end in a rupture between the golden fish and the white bear--in aubrey's receiving an order to drop all acquaintance with the rookwoods! for aubrey's training, while very kindly conducted, had been one of decided piety; and unchanged as was his heart, the habits and tone of eighteen years were not readily shaken off. he could not feel easy in doing many things that he saw others do; he could not take upon his lips with impunity words which he heard freely used around him. his conscience was unseared as yet, and it tormented him sorely. the result of these reflections was that aubrey turned into oxford house, without visiting king street at all, and sought his bed without making any attempt to convey the message. before the conspirators resumed their work after the christmas holidays, they took two more into their number. these were robert winter of huddington, the elder brother of thomas, and john grant of norbrook, who had married dorothy, sister of the wrights. catesby and thomas winter went down to the catherine wheel at oxford, whence they sent for their friends to come to them, and having first pledged them to secrecy, they were then initiated into the plot. it was about this christmas that catesby also took into his confidence the only one of the conspirators who was not a gentleman--his own servant, thomas bates, partly because he had "great opinion of him for his long-tried fidelity," and partly also because, having been employed in carrying messages, he suspected that he had some inkling of the secret, and wished that, like the rest, he should be bound to keep it by oath. bates is described as a yeoman, and "a man of mean station, who had been much persecuted on account of religion." having been desired to confirm his oath by receiving the sacrament "with intention," and as a pre-requisite of this was confession, bates went to greenway, whom he acquainted with the particulars, "which he was not desirous to hear," and asked if he might lawfully join in such work. greenway directed him to keep the secret, "because it was for a good cause," and forbade him to name the subject to any other priest. this is bates's account; greenway asserts that bates never named the subject to him, either in or out of confession; but the jesuit code of morality required his denial, if he had heard it in confession only. poor bates was the most innocent of the conspirators, and the most truly penitent: he was rather a tool and a victim than a miscreant. he lost his life through neglect of a much-forgotten precept--"if sinners entice thee, consent thou not." the conspirators now set to work again on their mine, and wrought till candlemas day, by which time they were half through the wall of the house. fawkes was on all occasions the sentinel. they had provided themselves with "baktmeats," pasties, and hard-boiled eggs, sufficient for twenty days, in order to avoid exciting the suspicions of their neighbours by constantly bringing fresh provisions to a house supposed to be occupied by one person alone. the labour was very severe, especially to catesby and percy, on account of their unusual height. the oozing in of the water was a perpetual annoyance. but one day, something terrible occurred. as the amateur miners plied their picks with diligence, the toll of a bell was suddenly heard. john wright, who was furthest in the mine, stopped with uplifted tool. "blessed saints! what can that be?" work was unanimously suspended. "it comes from the very midst of the wall!" said catesby, growing a shade paler. "_refugium peccatorum, ora pro nobis_!" piously entreated percy, crossing himself. "call mr fawkes," suggested christopher. mr fawkes was summoned, by his official name of johnson; and coming down into the cellar, declared that he also distinctly heard the uncanny sound. "'tis the devil that seeketh to make stay of our work," pronounced percy--a most improbable suggestion, for satan surely had no cause to interfere with his servants when engaged in his own business. "have we here any holy water?" asked catesby. "ay, there is in the bedchamber," said fawkes. "pray you, fetch it quickly." the holy water was at once brought, and the wall was sprinkled with it. at that moment the tolling ceased. "blessed be our lady! the holy water hath stayed it," said percy. after a few minutes' pause, the work was recommenced: but it had gone on for barely an hour when again the unearthly bell began its work. once more the benitier was brought, and the wall sprinkled; whereupon the diabolical noise stopped at once. for several days these processes were repeated, the bell invariably being silenced by the sprinkling of the blessed element. at least, so said the conspirators. about the second of february, there was another scare. a strange rushing noise was heard on the other side of the wall, from what cause was unknown; and catesby, as usual the chief director, whispered to fawkes to go out and ascertain what it was. fawkes accordingly went upstairs, and out into the street. a waggon stood before the door of the house of lords, and men were busy carrying sacks and tubs from the cellar to the waggon. charcoal only was then sold by the sack; sea-coal being disposed of in tubs. "good-morrow, master," said roger neck, the servant who was superintending the transaction, as fawkes paused a moment, apparently to look on, after the fashion of an idle man. roger had seen him more than once, passing in and out of percy's house; but he was the only one of the plotters ever visible in the daytime. "good-morrow, friend. selling your coals off?" "ay, we're doing a middling stroke of business this morrow." "how much a load? we shall want some ere long." "charcoal, fourteen shillings; cannel, sixpence to ninepence, according to quality." fawkes walked down the street, to avoid suspicion, into king street, where he turned into the first shop to which he came. it happened to be a cutler's, and he bought the first thing he saw--a dozen knives of sheffield make. had they been london-made, they would have cost four times as much as the modest shilling demanded for them. he then returned to percy's house, carrying the knives in his hand. fawkes had now fully blossomed out in his new role of "mr percy's man," and was clad in blue camlet accordingly, blue being then the usual wear of servants out of livery. "what is it, johnson?" asked percy, addressing fawkes by his assumed name, when he came down into the cellar. "it is a dozen of sheffield knives, master," replied fawkes a little drily: "and by the same token, our next neighbour is selling his coals, and looks not unlike to clear out his cellar." "is that all?" "that is all." two of the conspirators looked at each other. "if you could hire the cellar--" suggested catesby. "done!" said percy. "it should save us a peck of trouble." "who owns it?--or who hath it?" asked catesby. "why, for who owns it, i guess the parliament house," answered fawkes; "but for who hath it, that must we discover." "pray you, make haste and discover it, then." fawkes went out again to make inquiries. he found without difficulty that the cellar, like the houses adjoining, was held by the wyniards, and it was agreed that percy should call on them and endeavour to obtain it. he accordingly went to see his landlady, to whom he represented that he wished to bring his wife up to live with him in london--she was in the country at present, and he missed her sorely--but if that were done, he must have more stowage for wood and coals. mrs wyniard's interest was aroused at once in a man who cared for his wife, and felt a want of her society. "well, now, i am sorry!" said she. "you see, we've let that vault to mrs skinner--leastwise, mrs bright, she is now--o' king street, to store her coals. her new husband's a coal-seller, see you. you should have had it, as sure as can be, if i hadn't." "it were very much to my commodity," said percy, truthfully this time, "if i could hire that cellar, and,"--the second half of the sentence was a falsehood--"i have already been to mrs skinner, and hold her consent." "well, now, but that's a bit mean o' skinner's wife," said mrs wyniard in a vexed tone; "she shouldn't ha' done that and ne'er ha' let me know. i wouldn't ha' thought that of ellen skinner--no, i wouldn't." "but," suggested percy, insinuatingly, "if i gave you twenty shillings over for your good-will, and prayed you to say nought to mrs skinner, and i will likewise content her?" "well, you know how to drive a bargain, forsooth," answered mrs wyniard, laughing. "come, i'll let widow skinner be--mistress bright, i mean. you shall have the vault for four pounds a quarter, if so be she's content." percy's next visit was to the coal-seller and his bride. mr bright was not at home, but mrs bright was; and though she could not write her name [note ], she could use her tongue to some purpose. "to be sure we hold the cellar. sixteen pound by the year, and that's plenty. takes a many loads of coals to make that, i warrant you." "i wondered," said percy in a careless manner, as though he did not much care whether he got it or not, "whether you might let me the cellar for the same purpose? i think to lay in wood and coals for the winter, and my own cellar is scarce large enough, for i am a northern man, and love a good fire. this cellar of yours, being so close by, should be greatly to my convenience, if you were willing." "well, to be sure, and it would so!" assented innocent mrs bright. "you see, i can't speak certain till my master comes in, but i'm sure you may take it as good: he mostly does as i bid him. so we'll say, if mrs wyniard be content to accept the rent from you, you shall have it at four pound by the quarter, and give me forty shillings in my hand." [note .] "done," said percy, "if your husband consent." "i'll see to it he doth," she answered with a capable nod. the bargain was struck: andrew bright did as he was told, and percy was to become the occupant of the cellar without delay. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . she signed her deposition by a mark, while her servant roger neck, wrote his name. note . examination of ellen bright, gunpowder plot book, article . chapter six. wait a month. "alas, long-suffering and most patient god! thou needst be surelier god to bear with us than even to have made us." elizabeth barrett browning. the conspirators had just concluded their bargain, and decided that the cellar must be stored with materials in all haste, to be ready for the meeting of parliament on the seventh of february, when like a bomb-shell in their midst fell a royal proclamation, proroguing parliament again until the third of october. to go on now, especially in haste, was plainly a useless proceeding. a short consultation was held, which ended in the decision that they should part and scatter themselves in different places. fawkes particularly was enjoined to keep out of the way, since he was wanted to appear as a stranger when the moment arrived for action; he therefore determined to go abroad. the rest dispersed in various directions: percy was left alone at the house in westminster, where he beguiled his leisure by having a door made through the wall, where the mine had been, so as to give him easier access to the vault under the house, and better opportunities of carrying in the combustibles unseen. they agreed to meet again, ready for work, on the second of september; and before parting, one other was admitted to their fellowship, to whom was confided the task of aiding fawkes to accumulate the store of powder. this was mr ambrose rookwood, of coldham hall, suffolk. before fawkes left england, he accomplished one important piece of business, by carrying into the vault beneath the house all the wood and coals hitherto stored in percy's cellar. among it was carefully hidden the gunpowder also in waiting, billets of wood being heaped upon the barrels. the door was then locked, and fawkes took the key, marking the door on the inside in such a manner that its having been opened could be detected thereafter. the wife of the porter, gideon gibbons, the next door neighbour, was placed in charge of percy's house, in which no tell-tale combustibles had now been left. keyes was made again custodian of the house at lambeth. these arrangements being complete, percy went to see his wife, whom he had left in the country, and fawkes, embarking at dover, took his journey to brussels, where he resumed his own name. when aubrey applied next at the door of winter's lodgings, he was informed that the gentlemen were gone into the country. he turned back disappointed--after a little frothy banter with betty, which it would be a sad waste of paper and ink to detail--and began to consider what he should do next. a sensation of extreme relief came to his mind, as the idea occurred to him that there could be no need at all to make any inquiries during the absence of his friends. he might visit the fair dorothy, and even venture into the jaws of the white bear, without fear of any thing unpleasant. merely to say that his friends had left town, and he was not now cultivating their society, would surely satisfy his grandmother: and as for any thing else,--why, let fate take care of the future. being usually the creature of impulse, no sooner was this said, or rather thought, than it was done. aubrey turned away from the duck, and retraced his steps to charing cross, left whitehall behind him, and came out into king street. now came the tug of war. would he meet aunt temperance? or would that formidable and irresistible individual pounce upon him from the door? but all was still, and he reached the golden fish without any mishap. another disappointment! he was shown into the parlour, where gertrude rose to meet him, and mrs rookwood came in a few minutes later. tom was spending the evening with friends, and anne was with him. aubrey cared nothing about anne, whom he mentally dubbed a stupid idiot; for tom's absence he was more sorry. but what was dorothy doing that she did not shine on her worshipper? "had you honoured us with a visit last tuesday, mr louvaine," said gertrude, glancing at him, as she was wont to do, out of the corners of her dark eyes, "we had enjoyed the happiness of bringing you acquainted with our uncle rookwood of coldham hall. he left us, o' wednesday in the morning, for his place in suffolk." "doll is gone with him," placidly added mrs rookwood. the bright colours of gertrude's embroidery took a sudden tarnish in the eyes of the visitor. "ay, for a month or two," said gertrude, lightly. "she shall find a merry house at coldham, you may be sure. our cousins, and all the burgesses, and the collinsons--ever so many young gentlemen and gentlewomen--and," with a slight, significant laugh, "mr roland burgess in particular." aubrey felt as if he should exceedingly have enjoyed despatching mr roland burgess to the caucasus, or cochin-china, or any other inconceivably remote locality. he did not stay long after that. there was nothing to keep him. bows and courtesies were exchanged, and aubrey, feeling as if life were flat and unsatisfying, turned into the white bear. it was nearly dusk, and he could not see whom he met by the parlour door. "is that your lordship?" greeted him, in the voice of aunt temperance. "blue or yellow this even? truly, we scarce looked for so much honour as two visits in the twelvemonth. why, without i err, 'tis not yet three months since we had leave to see your lordship's crimson and silver. pray you, walk in--you are as welcome as flowers in may, as wise as waltom's calf, and as safe to mend as sour ale in summer." "you are full of compliments, aunt temperance," said aubrey, half vexed and half laughing. "i'm like, with strangers, gentleman." aubrey went past her into the parlour, to receive a warmer and less sarcastic welcome from the rest of his relatives--his mother excepted, who reminded him, in her usual plaintive tones, that she was a poor widow, and it was very hard if she might never see her only child. "well, i am here, mother." "ay, but you scarce ever come. 'tis ever so long that we have not seen you. 'tis cruel of my lord oxford thus to keep you away from your poor mother." "my lord oxford has less to do with it, my dear, than mr aubrey louvaine," said her sister. "young men don't commonly reckon their mothers' company the sweetest. they never know on which side their bread's buttered." "no butter will stick on my bread, aunt," said aubrey, answering one proverb by another. instead of replying, aunt temperance lighted a candle and calmly looked her nephew over. "well!" said she, as the result of her inspection, "if i were donned in grass-green velvet, guarded o' black, with silver tags, and a silver-bossed girdle, and gloves o' spanish leather, i should fancy i'd got a bit o' butter on my bread. maybe your honour likes it thick? promotes effusing of bile, that doth. pray you, how fare your papistical friends this even?" lady louvaine looked up and listened for the answer. "you set it down they be papistical somewhat too soon, aunt," said aubrey a little irritably. "mr winter and his friends, if they be whom you hit at, be gone away into the country, and i have not seen them this some time." the next question put to him was the one that aubrey was expecting, with an expectation which caused his irritability. "what said my lady oxford to the matter, aubrey?" "truly, madam, i have not yet made the inquiration. my lady is at this time full of business, and seeing my friends were away, i thought you should not require haste." aubrey's conscience stirred a little uneasily, and he said to it, "be quiet! i have not told any falsehood." "i would not have you to chafe your lady, if she have no time to listen," said lady louvaine, with a disappointed look: "but indeed, aubrey, the matter must be seen to, and not done by halves, moreover." a rap at the door preceded charity, who came to announce mrs abbott--a ceremony always used at the white bear, but entirely unnecessary in the eyes of the lady of the angel. "well, what think you?" she began, before her greetings were well over; for mistress abbott was a genuine athenian, who spent all her leisure hours, and some hours when she should not have been at leisure, in first gathering information, and then retailing it, not having any special care to ascertain its accuracy. "well, what think you? here be three of our neighbours to be presented by the street wardens--lewce, the baker, for that they cannot keep his pigs out of the king's street; joan cotton the silkwoman as a sower of strife amongst her neighbours; and adrian sewell for unlawfully following the trade of a tailor." "why, that is thy tailor, aubrey!" exclaimed aunt temperance. "i trust thou art not deep in his books?" "never a whit, aunt; i owe him ne'er a penny," said aubrey, flushing, and not adding that mr william patrick's books were separate volumes, nor that those of nathan cohen, in knightriders' street, were not entirely guiltless of his name. "ay, that's the way," said mrs abbott, nodding her head. "pay as you go, and keep from small scores. truly i would, mr louvaine, our stephen were as wise as you. such a bill as came in this week past from a silkman in paternoster row! white satin collars at eight and ten shillings the piece, and a doublet of the same at two pound; curled feathers, and velvet doublets, and perfumed gloves at twenty pence or more. his father's in a heavy taking, i can tell you, and saith he shall be ruined. look you, we've four lads, and here's stephen a-going this path--and if seth and caleb and ben just go along after stephen, it'll be a fine kettle o' fish, i can tell you. oh dear, but you've a deal to be thankful for, and only one to trouble you! the bicker those lads do make!" "we have all something wherefore we may be thankful, friend," said lady louvaine gently, when mrs abbott stopped to breathe. "well, then, there's the maids--mall, and silence, and prissy, and dorcas, and hester--and i can promise you, they make such a racket amongst 'em, i'm very nigh worn to a shadow." aubrey and lettice were giving funny glances at each other, and doing their utmost not to disgrace the family by laughing. if mrs abbott were worn to a shadow, shadows were very portly and substantial articles. "i declare, that prissy! she's such a rattle as never you saw! no getting a word in for her. i tell her many a time, i wonder her tongue does not ache, such a chatterbox as she is. i'm no talker, you see; nobody can say such a thing of me, but as to her--" a curious sound in aubrey's direction was rapidly followed by a cough. "eh now, don't you say you've a spring cough!" ejaculated mrs abbott, turning her artillery on that young gentleman. "horehound, and mallow, and coltsfoot, they're the best herbs; and put honey to 'em, and take it fasting of a morrow. there be that saith this new stuff of late come up--tobago, or what they call it--my husband says he never heard of aught with so many names. talking o' names, have you seen that young maid, daughter of the baker new set up at back here? whatever on earth possessed him to call her penelope? dear heart, but they say there's a jolly brunt betwixt my lord rich and his lady--she that was my lady penelope devereux, you know. my lord he is a great puritan, and a favourer of that way; and my lady, she likes a pretty gown and a gay dance as well as e'er a one; so the wars have fallen out betwixt 'em--" "if it like you, mistress abbott," said charity, opening the door immediately after a knock, "here's your ben, that says your master wants you." "ay," shouted ben from the door in no dulcet tones, "and he said if you didn't come, he'd fetch you. you were safe to be gossiping somewhere, he said, and says he--" "take that for your imperence, sir!" was his mother's answer, hurrying to the door, with a gesture suited to the words. "well, i do vow, if ever i come forth to have half a word with a neighbour, that man o' mine's sure for to call it gossiping.--get away wi' thee! i'm coming in a wink.--well, but you do look cheery and peaceful! i would i could ha' tarried a bit. mrs lettice, my dear, you take warning by me, and don't you marry a man as gives you no liberty. stand up for your rights, my dear, and get 'em--that's what i say. good even! there's no end to the imperence of lads, and no more to the masterfulness of men. don't you have nought to do with 'em! good-night." "i could not have stood it another minute!" said aubrey as soon as she was out of hearing, while he and lettice made the walls echo. on a calm june evening, three men met at a house in thames street, where garnet lodged. they were robert catesby, the reverend oswald greenway, and the reverend henry garnet. they met to consult and decide on the last uncertainties, and as it were to finish off the scheme of the plot. the conclusions ended, garnet let out his friends, who with hats drawn low down, and faces muffled in their cloaks, glided softly and darkly away. as the month of august ran out, the conspirators gradually returned to london, with some exceptions, who joined their ghostly father, garnet, in a pious pilgrimage to saint winifred's well, better known as holywell, in flintshire. the party numbered about thirty, and comprised lady digby, two daughters of lord vaux, rookwood, and his wife. thomas winter wrote to grant that "friends" would reach norbrook on the second or third of september, begging him to "void his house of morgan and his she-mate," as otherwise it "would hardly bear all the company." the route taken was from goathurst, the home and inheritance of lady digby, by daventry, norbrook, the residence of grant, huddington, the house of robert winter, and shrewsbury, to holt, in flintshire. in some uneasy nightmare during that pilgrimage, did a faint prescience of that which was to come ever flit before the eyes of ambrose rookwood, as to the circumstances wherein he should journey that road again? from holt the ladies walked barefoot to the "holy well," which, according to tradition, had sprung up on the place where saint winifred's head had rolled on being cut off: they remained at the well for the night. they returned the same way, mass being said by garnet at huddington and norbrook. it is difficult to believe that those who went on this pilgrimage could be wholly innocent of "intention" respecting the plot so soon to be executed. fawkes arrived from abroad on the first of september, staying the first night at an inn outside aldgate. the next day, he went down to the tower wharf, hailed a boat, and was ferried to westminster, where, under his alias of john johnson, and percy's servant, he relieved mrs gibbons of her charge, took possession of his master's house, and of the cellar where was stored his master's stock of winter fuel. a careful examination of the door of the vault showed that it had not been tampered with during the absence of the conspirators. winter now returned to london, taking up his abode in his old quarters at the duck, where keyes, rookwood, and christopher wright, had apartments also. catesby and percy did not return till later. the latter had gone to bath, where he found lord monteagle; and the two sent to catesby, entreating "the dear robin" to join them. catesby obeyed, and came. the bath, as it was then usual to call the ancient city of hot springs, was a very different town from that which we now know. like all of roman origin, its design was cruciform, with four gates, and as usual a church at every gate. the only one of these churches now standing--and that has been rebuilt--is saint james's, at south gate. the modern fashionable part of bath, including milsom street, the circus, and the crescent, lies outside the walls of the ancient aqua solis. mr catesby found his friends in cheap street, which ran from stawles church, in the midst of the city, to east gate, here he vegetated for a week, resting after his toil, and applying himself to the business which had apparently brought him, by diligent attendance at the king's bath, on the site of the present pump-room. here, at this time, ladies and gentlemen, in elaborate costumes and adorned by wonderful hair-dressing, bathed together under the eyes of the public, which contributed its quota of amusement and interest by pelting the bathers with dead dogs, cats, and pigs--a state of things not considered disgusting, but laughable. on the morning after the arrival of catesby, he and percy went down to the east gate, hailed a boat, which ferried them across the avon, where laura place now stands, and leaving bathwick mill on the left hand, they began to ascend the hill on whose summit once stood the yet older british city of caer badon. "mr percy," said catesby, as they walked slowly upwards, "since i have tarried here, i have had some time for thought; and i can tell you, i am nigh beat out of heart touching our matter." "you, mr catesby! truly, i never thought to see you struck into your dumps. but what now, i beseech you?" gentlemen did not, at that time, speak to each other without the respectful prefix of "mister," though they might now and then speak of an acquaintance without it. when intimacy was so great as to warrant laying it aside, the christian name took its place. "well, look you here," said catesby. "we are all men of birth, but not one of us is a man of money. you, 'tis true, have my lord northumberland behind you, but how long time may he tarry? were he to die, or to take pepper in the nose, where then are we? all is naught with us at once, being all but mean men of estate." "my cousin of northumberland is not like to play that prank, or i err," answered percy, who well knew that lord northumberland was not in all cases cognisant of the use made of his name by this very worthy cousin: "as to death, of course that may hap,--we are all prone to be tumbled out of the world at short notice. but what then is your project? for without you have some motion in your mind, good mr catesby, i read you not aright." "to be sure i have," said catesby with a smile. "but first--if i remember rightly, your friend young louvaine is not he that can aid us in this juncture?" "hasn't a penny to bless himself with," replied percy, "save his wage from my lord oxford, and that were but a drop in the sea for us. his old grandmother can do but little for him--so much have i picked out of his prattle. but, surely, mr catesby, you would not think to take into our number a green lad such as he, and a simpleton, and a protestant to boot?" "take into our number!" cried catesby. "good mr percy, you miss the cushion [make a mistake]. a good tale, well tinkered, should serve that companion, and draw silver from his pockets any day. what we lack is two or three men of good estate, and of fit conditions and discreet years, that may safely be sworn--and i think i know where to find them." "i'll lay my crown to pawn you do!" exclaimed percy admiringly. "pray you, who be they?" "sir everard digby, of tilton, in rutland; and my cousin, frank tresham of rushton." "good men and true? both are strange to me." "ay; digby is a staunch catholic, but may lack some persuasion to join us. tresham--well, i count he may be trusted. his money-bags be heavy, though his character is but light. i will make certain that he will not blab nor tattle--that is the thing most to be feared. know you not frank tresham?--my cousin, and my lord monteagle's wife's brother." "oh ay! i have met him," said percy. "i wist not it was he you meant." "i had hope once that mr fawkes should bring grist to our mill," said gatesby, thoughtfully: "but i see that is but a will-o'-the-wisp." "mr fawkes? oh no! his father was but a younger son--mr edward fawkes of farnley, a notary at york, and registrar of the consistory court there. he left him but a farm of some thirty pound by the year, and guy ran through it like a herring through the water. the only hope by his means would be the borrowing of money from his step-father, mr foster, and methinks he hath a larger heart than purse." they walked on for a few minutes in silence, when percy said, "how will you get hold of these men?" "send tom winter to sir everard, and i will tackle tresham. then, when i return, will we go forth with the mine." "done!" said percy. and the pair of conspirators came down the hill. instead of returning direct to london, catesby went to visit robert winter at huddington, percy going to his own house at the upper end of holborn. catesby remained for three days with robert winter, whom he induced to send for stephen littleton of holbeach and his cousin humphrey littleton. these gentlemen were not, however, initiated into the plot, but only desired to lend their assistance to "a matter of weight, and for the especial good of all catholics." the christmas holidays being over, the mining was resumed, the conspirators having now added to their number francis tresham and sir everard digby. it was not done without some difficulty. the oath was administered to both; but when they learned to what they had bound themselves, they recoiled in horror. sir everard was disposed of with comparative ease. his own good sense led him to demur, but no sooner was he told that three priests had approved of the scheme than, as in duty bound, the poor weak creature laid his good sense aside, told his conscience to be quiet, and united cordially and thoroughly in the project, finding horses, arms, and money, to the amount of pounds. if the church approved, "the prerogative of the laity was to listen and to obey." francis tresham proved less pliable. he at once inquired if the roman catholic peers were to be warned, so as to keep away from parliament on the doomed day. "generally, only," said catesby. "we have let them understand that strict laws are to be passed against the catholics, which they cannot prevent, and therefore they had best tarry away." "my lord arundel, though he be not of age, is very desirous to be present," said percy. "my lord montague, on the contrary part, would fain be thence," returned catesby, "and i have told him he can do no good there." "i asked my lord mordaunt if he meant to come," said winter, laughing, "and quoth he, `nay, for i was too much disgusted at the former session, being forced to sit there with my robes on, all the time the king was in church.'" [note .] "but surely," cried tresham, looking from one to another, "you will take some further means to save our brethren than only these? mr percy, you never will suffer your cousin the earl of northumberland to perish?" "indeed, mr tresham, i should be loth so to do, because i am bounden to him." "gentlemen," said the voice of fawkes, who had hitherto been silent in the conclave, "what we must principally respect is our own safety, and we will pray for the catholic lords." "and how shall we set ourselves right with the catholic commons?" demanded keyes. "oh, we will satisfy the catholics at large that the act is done for the restitution of religion," answered catesby; "and the heretics, that it was to prevent the union sought to be established at this parliament." "sirs, i cannot brook this!" tresham broke in eagerly. "my lords monteagle and stourton, as you know, have wedded my sisters. i implore you to warn them: at the least, i do beseech you, save my lord monteagle!" "what, to tell him what shall hap?" cried catesby. "never!" "impossible, mr tresham!" replied percy. "i regret it as much as you." "they _shall_ be warned!" cried tresham vehemently. "remember your oath!" answered catesby sternly. "i shall not forget it. but something must be done to save my lord monteagle. i am beholden to him, and i love him dear." "well, well!" suggested winter, making an endeavour to cast oil upon the troubled waters, "can you not be earnest with him to do something on that day, which shall carry him out of the way?" "i am afraid not!" said tresham, shaking his head. "he will reckon it his duty to be there, or i err." "time enough betwixt now and october," said fawkes. "ay, time enough, indeed," echoed winter. "my lord monteagle may be abroad, or what not, when the parliament opens. pray you, mr tresham, trouble not yourself. i doubt not all shall go well." tresham murmured something to the effect that things left to drift as they would did not invariably drift into the right harbour: but he dropped the topic for the moment. hitherto the secret meetings of the conspirators had been in the house beyond clement's inn: but it was now deemed necessary to have a more secluded and secure retreat. in the forest depths of enfield chase was an old hunting-lodge, named white webbs, never used except occasionally by sportsmen. this was selected as a non-suspicious place of meeting. the conspirators were now nearly ready: a few days would make them quite so. satan was also ready, and probably required no time for preparation. and god was ready too. they met at white webbs on the st of september, just a fortnight before the day appointed for the meeting of parliament: catesby, the winters, the wrights, digby, keyes, grant, and bates. tresham was not there; he had ceased to attend the meetings, and said, if lord monteagle at least might not be saved he would neither find the money he had promised, nor assist any further with the plot. they had not sat many minutes, when percy and fawkes joined them, the former impetuous person being in an evident state of suppressed excitement, while the latter very cool individual showed no trace of emotion. "now, what think you?" cried percy. "the parliament is prorogued yet again." "sure, they have never wind of our project?" suggested one of the brothers wright. "till when?" demanded catesby, knitting his brows. "for another month--till the fifth of november." catesby pondered for a moment in silence. "is there any stir thereabouts?--any search made of the house or the vault?" "no--no semblance thereof." "then i think they have not got wind of it. but if so--mr fawkes, is all the powder now in the cellar?" "no, mr catesby; there are five or six barrels to come, which i meant to move thither on monday night next." "wait a little. you had best make sure that all is safe. tarry for another fortnight, and move them then. is this not your minds, gentlemen?" the rest of the group, as usual, deferred to their leader. there was now another point requiring discussion, and it was introduced by catesby. "'tis time, methinks, gentlemen, that we took thought on a question whereof we have not yet spoken. after the thing you wot of is done, what then shall follow? if not the king alone be present there, but the queen also, and maybe the prince--" "if they be, we will not save them," interjected fawkes. "we need not," coolly responded catesby: "but if all be gone, who then shall be published or elected king?" "why, we have never entered into that consideration," said grant, dubiously. "had we not best enter into it? our plans must be ready at once, when the time comes, not all hanging betwixt the eyelids." [i.e. in uncertainty.] "the queen and prince are safe to be there," said percy. "and in any case, the prince were best away; for if all be true that is said, or the half thereof, he were like to do us more mischief than his father. he is not of the king's humour, but more like old bess--hath a will of his own, and was bred up strictly protestant." "bad, that!" said catesby. "then the prince must go." "'tis pity, though," observed robert winter. "a bright little lad." catesby laughed scornfully. "come now, robin, no sensibility [susceptibility, sentimentality], i beg! we cannot afford to be punctual [particular] in this affair. there are bright lads by the dozen everywhere, as cheap as blackberries. now, what of the little duke?" the man who spoke thus was himself the father of two boys. "he'll not be much of aught at five years old," said winter. "mr percy, you were the most like of any of us to win him into your hands." percy, as one of the band of gentleman pensioners, whose duty it was to wait on the king, had opportunities of access to the little prince, beyond any of his accomplices. "i will undertake that," said percy eagerly. "do we concur, then, to elect him king?" asked catesby. "hold, good gentlemen! by your leave, we go something too fast," said fawkes. "how if mr percy be unable--as may be--to win duke charles into his hands?" "why, then comes the lady elizabeth," said winter. "what say you to the only english-born of the royal issue--the lady mary? she, at least, is uninfect with heresy." there was a laugh at this suggestion: for the princess mary was not quite five months old. "very well, if we could win her," answered catesby: "but she would be hard to come by. no--the one easiest had, and as likely as any to serve our turn, is the young lady at combe. let the memory of elizabeth the heretic, so dear to the hearts of englishmen, be extinguished in the brighter glories of elizabeth the catholic. bring her up in the catholic faith, and wed her to a catholic prince, and i will lay mine head to pawn that she shall make a right royal queen, and the star of england's glory shall suffer no tarnish in her hands. i have seen the little maid, and a bright, brave, bonnie lass she is." "how old?" asked robert winter. "nine years. just the right age. old enough to queen it, and take a pleasure therein; and not old enough to have drunk in much heresy--no more than fathers garnet and gerard can soon distil out again." "nay! too old, mr catesby," said thomas winter. "at five years, the little duke might be so: but not his sister at nine. she'll have learned heresy enough by then; and women are more perverse than men. they ever hold error tighter, and truth likewise." "well, have the little duke, if you can win him," replied catesby. "i doubt thereof." "trust me for that," cried percy. "i'll trust you to break your neck in the attempt," said catesby with a grim smile. "but how look you to secure the lady elizabeth? my lord harrington's an old fox, and none so easy to beguile. he shall smell a rat, be sure, before you have half your words out, and then you may whistle for the rest of your hopes--and are like enough to do it in the fleet or newgate." "kit wright," said percy, addressing the last speaker, who was his wife's brother, "all the wit in the world is sure not in thine head. thinkest we shall march up to the door at combe, and sweetly demand of my lord harrington that he give us up the lady elizabeth? why, man, we must compass the matter that he shall wit nought till all be done." "you might make a hunting-party," suggested fawkes. "say you so, mr fawkes? you have eyes in your head. we'll send sir everard digby down to see to that business." "how went your business, mr catesby?" asked grant. "why, right well, mr grant. i gathered together a goodly number of friends to assist the archduke albert in flanders: bought horses, and laid in powder. all shall be ready when the archduke hath need of them." the laugh went round. "that was a jolly fantasy of yours, to levy troops for the archduke," said robert winter. "truly, these heretics are easy to beguile. not one, methinks, hath the least suspicion." "it were soon up with us if they had," added his brother. "look out for yourself, tom, and smoke not too many pipes with externs," responded robert. "that young louvaine that you affect--i scarce trust him." "that affects me, you mean. trust him! i never do. he's only a simpleton at best." "have you never heard of simpletons carrying tidings?" said fawkes. "mind you drop not any chance words, mr winter, that might do mischief." "let me alone for that," was the answer. "gentlemen," said catesby, who had been in a brown study for some minutes, "methinks mr fawkes's proposal to seize the lady elizabeth under cover of a hunting-party is good. sir everard, will you undertake this?" "willingly. where must they be gathered?" "gather them at dunchurch," said catesby, "for a hunt on dunsmoor heath, and for the day of the parliament's meeting: you shall have notice of the blow struck, as quick as a horseman can reach you. as soon as you hear it, then away to combe, and carry off the young lady to my mother's at ashby. proclaim her queen, and bring her next day to london, proclaiming her in all the towns on your way." "may there not be some awkwardness in the matter, if her brothers be alive?" suggested the most cautious of the party, robert winter. "pooh!" ejaculated the impetuous percy. "`nothing venture, nothing have.'" "`faint heart never won fair lady' were more pertinent to the occasion," said thomas winter, raising a general laugh. "we must see to that," grimly responded catesby. the conspirators then separated. sir everard digby set out for warwickshire, percy went to see lord northumberland at syon, keyes returned to lambeth, and fawkes resumed his duties at the house on the riverbank. mr marshall, on his way to call at the white bear little guessed that the apparently respectable, busy man-servant in blue camlet, who met him as he went down king street, was engaged in an evil work which would hand down his name to everlasting infamy. mrs abbott was standing at her door as he went past. "well to be sure! so 'tis you, parson? how's mrs agnes this even? i reckoned i saw her t'other day, a-passing through the strand, but she saw not me--in a green perpetuance gown, and a black camlet hood. i trust it'll wear better than mine, for if ever a camlet was no worth, 'tis that dear heart, the roguery of wool-drapers, and mercers beside! i do hope master floriszoon 'll not learn none of their tricks. if i see my lady lettice this next day or twain, i'll drop a word to her. don't you think she's looking a bit pale and poorly this last week or so? but mayhap you have not seen her, not of late." "i have not, but i am now on my way," answered mr marshall, turning into the white bear, in the hope of escaping silence's tongue. it was the first word he had been able to cast into the stream she poured forth. "well, maybe you'll drop a word to her touching master floriszoon? dear heart, what queer names them foreign folks do get! i never could abide no foreigners, and if i--bless us, the man's off--there's no having a word with him. i say, charity, i don't believe them eggs you had of that--" "you'll excuse me, mistress abbott, but i've no time to waste i' talk. `the talk of the lips tendeth only to penury,'--and if you'll go in and look for that i' th' good book, it'll happen do you a bit o' good--more than talking. good even." and charity shut the door uncompromisingly. mr marshall was too much at home in the white bear to need announcement. he tapped softly at the parlour door, and opened it. "mrs gertrude, i don't care who saith it! it's a wicked heresy!" were the first words he heard, in the blunt tones of temperance murthwaite. "and it's not true to say we puritans teach any such thing. it's a calumny and a heresy both.--mr marshall, i'm fain to see you. do, pray you, tell this young gentlewoman we hold not that if a man but believe in the merits of christ, he may live as he list, and look for heaven in the end. 'tis a calumny, i say--a wicked calumny!" "a calumny as old as the apostle james, mrs murthwaite," answered mr marshall, as he turned from greeting lady louvaine. "some in those days had, it should seem, been abusing paul's doctrine of justification by faith, and said that a man need but believe, and not live according thereto." "why, mr marshall, i have heard you to say a man may believe and be saved!" cried gertrude, who sat on a velvet-covered stool beside lady louvaine, having run in from the next door without hood or scarf. "that i doubt not, mrs gertrude, and yet may, since you have heard paul, and john, and the lord himself, to say it in the word. but, believe what? believe that a man once lived whose name was jesus, and who was marvellous good, and wrought many great works? that faith shall not save you,--no more than believing in king james's majesty should. it is a living faith you must have, and that is a dead." "mr marshall, i thought puritans made much of the doctrine of imputed righteousness?" "you thought truth, mrs gertrude." "well, but what is that save believing that christ hath wrought all goodness for me, and i need not work any goodness for mine own salvation? look you, there is no need, if all be done." "no need of what? no need that you should attempt to do what you never can do, or no need that you should show your love to him that did it for you at the cost of his own life?" "well!" said gertrude in a slow, deprecating tone, "but--" "mrs gertrude, you mix up two things which be utterly separate, and which cannot mix, no more than oil and water. the man whom christ hath saved, it is most true, hath no need to save himself. but hath he no need to save others? hath he no need to honour christ? hath he no need to show forth to angels and to men his unity with christ, the oneness of his will with his, the love wherewith christ's love constraineth him? you mix up justification and sanctification, as though they were but one. justification is the washing of the soul from sin; sanctification is the dressing of the soul for heaven. sanctification is not a thing you do for god; 'tis a thing god doth in you. there is need for it, not that it should justify you before his tribunal, but that it should make you meet for his presence-chamber. it were not fit that you should enter the king's presence, though cleansed, yet dressed in your old soiled clothes. but you make a third minglement of things separate, when you bring in imputed righteousness. the righteousness of christ imputed unto us justifieth us before the bar of god. it payeth our debt, it washeth our stains, it unlocketh our fetters. but this is not sanctification. justification was wrought by christ for us; sanctification is wrought by the holy ghost in us. justification was completed on calvary; sanctification is not finished so long as we be in this life, justification is quick and lively; the moment my faith toucheth the work of christ for me, that moment am i fully justified, and for ever. sanctification is slow, and groweth like a plant. i am as entirely justified as i ever shall be, but i am not as sanctified as i ever shall be. i look to be more and more sanctified--`to grow up unto him in all things,' to be like him, to be purified even as he is pure. i pray you make no mingle-mangle of things that do so differ in themselves, though 'tis true they come all of one source--the union and the unity of christ and the believer." gertrude was yawning behind her hand before the clergyman was half through his explanation. "i thank you, mr marshall," said temperance, who had listened attentively. "methinks i had some apprehension of the difference in myself, but i could not have expounded it thus clearly." "to know it in yourself, my sister, is a far greater thing, and a better, than being able to expound it.--and how is it with you, lady lettice?" "well, mr marshall," she said with her soft smile. "at times i think that a few more pins of the tabernacle are taken down, and then the passing wind causeth the curtains to shake. but at worst it shall be only the moving of the pillar of cloud--the `come up higher' into the very presence of the king." "and in the interim `the lord sitteth between the cherubim, be the people never so unquiet.' and how is it, dear sister, with your two young men?" lady louvaine paused to accept gertrude's offered hand and bid her good-night. that young woman did not enjoy mr marshall's conversation, and suddenly discovered that it was time for her return home. "hans is all i could desire," said the old lady, returning to the subject: "he is a dear, good, sober-minded lad as need be. but i will not disguise from you, mr marshall, that i am in some disease of mind touching aubrey." "may i ask wherefore?" "you may ask, indeed, yet can i scarce tell. that is no wise-sounding thing to say: yet one may have cause for fear where he hath no evidence for demonstration." "he may so, indeed. then you reckon there is good cause for fear?" "mr marshall, you told us some time back that our neighbour mr rookwood was brother to a papist. know you aught of a friend of his, one mr winter, that is in london at times, and hath his lodging in the strand?" "a friend of this mr rookwood, your neighbour?" "i reckon so. at least, a friend of his son." "sons do at times make friends apart from their fathers," said mr marshall with a smile. "i cannot say, lady lettice, that the name is quite unknown to me; yet cannot i, like you, lay a finger on any special thing i may have heard thereabout." "what were the other names, edith? i cannot call them to mind." "mr catesby, mother, and mr percy, and mr darcy: those, i think, were what aubrey told us." "mr percy!--what percy is he?" "i know not: some kin to my lord northumberland." "where dwells he?" "that know i not." "at the green dragon in upper holborn, in saint giles's parish," said another voice. "ha!" echoed mr marshall, turning to his new informant. "a recusant, madam, and a dangerous fellow. and if this mr catesby you name be mr robert catesby of ashby ledgers, he also is a recusant, and if i know him, a worser man than the other." "hans, art thou sure of this mr percy?--that he whom aubrey wist is the same man of whom mr marshall speaks?" "i have seen aubrey leave his house, madam." lady louvaine looked very uneasy. "and mr darcy?" said edith. "him i know not," answered mr marshall: which was not surprising, since he knew him only as mr walley. "hans, how much dost thou know?" hans knelt down by the large cushioned chair, and kissed the thin, blue-veined hand. "dear lady lettice, i know very little: and aubrey would account me a sneak and a spy, were i to tell you what i do know. but i would not care for that if it might save him." "i do hope mr louvaine is not drawn in among them," said mr marshall, thoughtfully. "they have been away of late," replied hans, "and he hath not been there so often." "are they away now?" "no, lately returned." "i would i could win aubrey for a talk," said edith. "shall i call at my lord oxford's and leave a message that you would have him call here?" "truly, mr marshall, you should do me a great kindness." "then i so will. good-night." aubrey was playing billiards with his young master and several of the younger gentlemen of his household, when he was told that mr marshall requested a word with him. the information alarmed him, for he thought it meant bad news. having obtained the young earl's leave to go and ascertain why he was wanted, aubrey ran hastily down the stairs, and found mr marshall awaiting him in the hall. "good even, mr louvaine," said he, rising: "i had the honour this evening to wait on my lady your grandmother, and was desired to drop a word to you as i went home, to the effect that your friends have a mind to speak with you on some matter of import. her ladyship bids you, the first opportunity you can make, to visit the white bear." "i will do so," said aubrey, recovering from his alarm. "i cry you mercy for my short greeting, but truly i was afraid, not knowing if you had ill news for me." "that i have not at this time, god be thanked! yet if i may, i would fain ask you, mr louvaine, whether some time hath not run since you saw your friends in king street?" "oh no! not very long--at least not more than common--only about--" aubrey hesitated and flushed, as he realised that it was now the middle of october, and his last visit had been paid early in june. "you see, sir, i am close tied by my duties here," he added in haste. "so close tied that you may not even be away for an hour? well, you know your own duty; do it, and all shall be well. but i would beseech you not to neglect this call any longer than till your earliest opportunity shall give leave." mr marshall bowed, and with an official "may god bless you!" passed out of the hall door. aubrey returned to his urgent duties in the billiard-room. "who is your visitor, louvaine?" asked the youthful earl. "if it please your lordship, 'tis but a messenger from my grandmother." "what would the ancient dame?" inquired one of the irreverent young gentlemen-in-waiting. "she would have me go and wait on her: what else i know not. i shall find out, i reckon, when i go." "when saw you her ladyship, mr louvaine?" said an unexpected voice behind him, and aubrey turned to meet the countess. "madam, in june last, under your ladyship's pleasure." "it scarcely is to my pleasure. son henry, cannot you allow this young gentlemen to visit his friends more often?" "under your leave, madam, he can visit them every day if he will. i tarry him not." "then how comes it, mr louvaine, that you have not waited on my lady lettice for four months?" aubrey mentally wished mr marshall in america, and himself anywhere but in oxford house. there was no escape. the wise countess added no unnecessary words to help him out, but having put her question in plain terms, quietly awaited his reply. he muttered something not very intelligible, in which "business" was the chiefly audible word. "methinks your duty to your mother and lady lettice should be your first business after god," said the countess gravely. "i pray you, mr louvaine, that you wait on her ladyship to-morrow even. the earl will give you leave." aubrey bowed, and as the countess took her departure, for she had merely paused in passing through the room, gave a vicious blow to the nearest billiard ball. "you are in for it now, louvaine!" said his next neighbour. "poor lad! will his gra'mmer beat him?" suggested another in mock compassion. "he's been stealing apples, and the parson has told of him," added a third. "will you hold your stupid tongues?" said aubrey, stung beyond endurance. "take a pinch of sneezing tobago," said one of his companions, holding out his snuff-box. "never mind it, lad! put on a bold face, and use ruffling language, and you'll get over this brunt." aubrey flung down his cue and escaped, pursued by his companions' laughter. "we were somewhere near the truth," said the young earl. "he looks for a scolding, take my word for it." very like it aubrey felt, as he went down king street on the following evening. he, too, met a man, not in blue camlet, but in a porter's frock, trundling a truck with two or three barrels on it, in whom he did not in the least recognise the dark, tall stranger to whom he had not been introduced in catesby's rooms. he received a warm welcome at the white bear. "aubrey, hast thou of late seen thine acquaintance mr percy?" "not since his return out of the country, madam." he had seen winter, but he did not think it necessary to mention it. "nor mr catesby?" "nay, save to meet him in the street, madam." "my son, should it give thee great compunction [grief, annoyance] if i bade thee have no more ado with either of these gentlemen?" "what mean you, madam?" "i mean not that if thou meet them in the street thou shalt not give them greeting; but no more to visit them in their lodgings. my boy, mr percy is a popish recusant, and there is much fear of mr catesby likewise." "not all recusants are bad men, i hope," answered aubrey evasively, as if he were unwilling to respond by a direct promise to that effect. "i hope likewise: but some are, as we know. and when innocent men be drawn in with bad men, 'tis often found that the bad slip forth unhurt, and leave the innocent to abide the hazard. promise me, aubrey, that thou wilt haunt [visit] these men's company no longer." "truly, madam, i know not what i should say to my friends. bethink you also, i pray, that i am of age." "of what age?" demanded his aunt temperance in her usual style. "not of the age of discretion, i being witness." "of the age at which a man commonly takes care of himself," answered aubrey, loftily. "`bate me an ace, quoth bolton.' at the age at which a man commonly takes no care of himself, nor of any other belike. nor you are not the wisest man of your age in this world, my master: don't go for to think it. you don't need to look at me in that way, my fine young gentleman: you'll not get sugar-plums from temperance murthwaite when you need rhubarb." "i know that, aunt temperance," said aubrey, trying to laugh. "and you may as well open your mouth and take your physic with a good grace. if not, there'll be another dose to follow." "what?" demanded aubrey with drawn brows, and a flash in his eyes. "`three can keep a secret if twain be away,'" was the enigmatical answer. "now then, answer lady lettice." "he has no mind to promise--that can i see," said lady louvaine, sorrowfully. "he shall, afore he go," was the cool reply of temperance. "aunt temperance, i am not a babe!" exclaimed aubrey rather angrily. "that you are, and in sore need of leading-strings." "aubrey here?" asked his mother, coming in. "well now, i do think one of you might have told me. but you never think of me. why, aubrey, it must be six months since we saw you!" "four, mother, under your pleasure." "i am sure 'tis six. why come you no oftener?" "i have my duties," said aubrey in a rather constrained voice. "closer than to thy mother, my boy?" asked edith softly. "prithee harry not him," retorted aunt temperance. "hast thou not heard, he hath his duties? to hold skeins of silk whilst my lady winds them, maybe, and to ride the great horse, and play tennis and shuttlecock with his lord, and to make up his mind to which of all his lady's damsels he'll make love o' the lightest make." "aubrey, i do hope you are ne'er thinking of marriage!" said his mother's querulous voice. "thou shouldst be put out of thine office, most like, and not a penny to keep her, and she saddled upon us that--" "that'll kick and throw her, as like as not," said aunt temperance by way of interjection. "i ensure you, mother, i have no expectations of the kind. 'tis but aunt temperance that--that--" "that sometimes hits the white, sir, if she do now and then shoot aside o' the mark. howbeit, hold thou there. and if thou want leave to carry on thine acquaintance with these gentlemen, bring them to see us. i'll lay mine head to an orange i see in ten minutes if they be true men or no." "what business have they?" asked edith. aubrey hesitated. he knew of none except garnet's pretended profession of horse-dealing. "is there any woman amongst them?" said temperance. "i never saw one." "not even at mr percy's house?" "i went there but once, to ask for him. i have heard that he hath a wife, but she lives very privately, and teaches children. he dwelleth not with her, but hath his lodging at my lord northumberland's. i never saw her." "that's an ill hearing. 'tis meet for men to come together by themselves for business: but to dwell in their own homes, and never a woman with them, wife, mother, sister, nor daughter,--that means mischief, lad. it means some business of an evil sort, that they don't want a woman to see through. if there had been one, i went about to say, take me with thee some even to visit her. i'd have known all about it under an hour, trust me." "you should have seen nought, aunt." "tell that to the cowcumbers. you see nought, very like." lady louvaine laid her hand on her grandson's. "aubrey, promise me at least this: that for a month to come thou wilt not visit any of these gentlemen." after an instant's pause, aubrey replied, "very well, madam; i am ready to promise that." "that's not much to promise," commented temperance. "it is enough," said lady louvaine, quietly. an hour later, when aubrey was gone, faith asked rather complainingly what had induced lady louvaine to limit the promise to a month. "i cannot tell thee, faith," was the answer. "something seemed to whisper within me that if the lad would promise that, he would be safe. it may be no more than an old woman's fantasy; and even so, no harm is done. or it might be that god spake to me--and if thus, let us obey his voice. he knows what he will do, and what men will do." "i've as great a mind as ever i had to eat--" "what to do, temperance?" "get to see those fellows, somehow." "wait the month, temperance," suggested edith, quietly. "wait! you're always for waiting. i want to work." "waiting is often the hardest work," said edith. the middle of the month was nearly come. the six last barrels of powder were in the vault; the whole thirty-six were covered with stones and iron bars: gideon gibbons, the porter, was delivering at the door three thousand billets and five hundred faggots of wood and another man in a porter's frock was stacking the wood in the vault. "there, that's the last lot!" said gibbons, throwing in a packet of tied-up billets. "count right, johnson?" "all right, gibbons." "your master likes a good fire, i should say," observed gibbons, with a grin of amusement, as he looked into the vault. "there's fuel there to last most folks a couple of winters." "ay, he doth so: he's a northern man, you see--comes from where sea-coal's cheaper than here, and they are wont to pile their fires big." "shouldn't ha' thought them billets wouldn't hardly ha' taken all that there room," said gibbons, looking into the vault, while he scratched his head with one hand, and hitched up his porter's frock to put the other in his pocket. "oh, i didn't stack 'em so tight," said mr percy's man, carelessly, tying up a bit of string which he picked from the floor. "ah! well, but tight or loose, shouldn't hardly ha' thought it. master coming soon, eh?" "haven't heard what day. afore long, very like." "has he e'er a wife that he'll bring?" "she's in the country," said the disguised man-servant, who knew that she was then at the green dragon, teaching sundry little girls the mysteries of felling and whipping cambric. "well, 'tis dry work. come and have a pint at the maid's head." "no, thank you, i don't care for it. there's a penny for yours." as this was the price of a quart of the best ale, mr gibbons pocketed the penny with satisfaction, and forbore to remark censoriously on what he deemed the very singular taste of mr percy's man. he shambled awkwardly off with his waggon, meaning first to put up his horses, and then go and expend his penny in the beverage wherein his soul delighted. his companion gave a low laugh as he turned the key in the door of the cellar. "no, thank you, gideon gibbons," said he to himself. "it may suit you to sit boozing at the maid's head, telling all you know and guessing much that you don't: here's wishing your early muddlement before you get on the subject of this wood! but it won't do for guy fawkes, my fine fellow!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . lord mordaunt was a trimmer, afraid of being known to be a papist, and, like most half-hearted people, a great sufferer from the struggle between the conscience and the flesh. chapter seven. an apple-cast and a letter. "better the blind faith of our youth than doubt, which all truth braves; better to die, god's children dear, than live, the devil's slaves." dinah mulock. "good-morrow, lady lettice! i am come to ask a favour." "ask it, i pray you, mrs rookwood." "will you suffer mrs lettice to come to our apple-cast on tuesday next? we shall have divers young folks of our neighbours--mrs abbott's mary, dorcas, and hester, mrs townsend's rebecca, my lady woodward's dulcibel and grissel, and such like; and our doll, i am in hopes, shall be back from suffolk, and maybe her cousin bessy with her. i have asked mr louvaine to come, and twain more of my lord oxford's gentlemen; and mr manners, mr stone, and our tom, shall be there. what say you?" lady louvaine looked with a smile at her granddaughter, who sat in the window with a book. she was not altogether satisfied with the rookwoods, yet less from anything they said or did than from what they omitted to say and do. they came regularly to church, they attended the sacrament, they asked the vicar to their dinner-parties, they were very affable and friendly to their neighbours. there was absolutely nothing on which it was possible to lay a reproving finger, and say, this is what i do not like. and yet, while she could no more give a reason for distrusting them than the schoolboy for objecting to the famous dr fell, she did instinctively distrust them. still, lettice was a good girl, on the whole a discreet girl; she had very few pleasures, especially such as took her outside her home, and gave her the companionship of girls of her own age. lettice had been taught, as all puritan maidens were, that "life is, to do the will of god," and that pleasure was not to be sought at all, and scarcely to be accepted except in its simplest forms, and as coming naturally along with the duties of life. an admirable lesson--a lesson which girls sadly need to learn now, if only for the lowest reason--that pleasures thus taken are infinitely more pleasing than when sought, and the taste for them is keener and more enduring. to the moral taste, no less than the physical, plain fare with a good appetite is incomparably more enjoyable than the finest dainties with none: and the moral appetite can cloy and pall at least as soon as the physical. lettice's healthy moral nature had been content with the plain fare, and had never cried out for dainties. but, like all young folks, she liked a pleasant change, and her grandmother, who had thought her looking pale and somewhat languid with the summer heat in town, was glad that she should have the enjoyment. she knew she might trust her. not even to herself did lady louvaine confess her deepest reason for allowing lettice to go to the apple-cast--an assembly resembling in its nature the american "bee," and having an apple-gathering and storing for its object. it was derived from the fact that aubrey had been invited. it occurred to her that something might transpire in lettice's free and innocent narrative of her enjoyment, which would be of service in the difficult business of dealing with aubrey at this juncture. lettice, as beseemed a maiden of her years, was silent, though her eyes said, "please!" in very distinct language. "i thank you, mrs rookwood; lettice may go." lettice's eyes lighted up. "then, mrs lettice, will you step in about nine o'clock? my maids'll be fain to see you. and if any of you gentlewomen should have a liking to look in--" "nay, the girls should count us spoil-sports," said edith, laughingly. "now come, mrs edith! 'tis not so long since you were a young maid." "twelve good years, mrs rookwood: as long, pretty nigh, as hester abbott has been in the world." "eh, but years don't go for much, not with some folks." "not with them that keep the dew of their youth," said lady louvaine with a smile. "but to do that, friend, a woman should dwell very near to him who only hath immortality." it was something so unusual for one of this sober household to go out to a party, that a flutter arose, when mrs rookwood had departed, concerning lettice's costume. "she had best go in a washing gown," was the decision of her practical aunt temperance. "if she's to be any good with the apples, she must not wear her sunday best." lettice's sunday best was not of an extravagant character, being a dark green perpetuana gown, trimmed with silver lace, a mantle of plum-coloured cloth, and a plum-coloured hood lined with dark green. "but a washing gown, temperance! it should look so mean," objected mrs louvaine. "her best gown'll look meaner, if all the lace be hung with cobwebs, and all the frilling lined with apple-parings," said temperance. "she'll take better care of it than so, i hope," said edith. "and a lawn gown should be cold for this season." "well, let the child wear her brown kersey. that'll not spoil so much as some." in her heart lettice hoped she would not have to wear the brown kersey. brown was such an ugly colour! and the kersey, already worn two seasons, was getting shabby--far too shabby to wear at a party. she would have liked to put on her best. but no girl of twenty, unmarried, at that date decided such matters for herself. "oh, never that ugly thing!" said mrs louvaine. "i mean her to wear my pearls, and that brown stuff--" wear aunt faith's pearls! lettice's heart beat. "faith, my dear, i would not have the child use ornaments," said lady louvaine quietly. "you wot, those of our way of thinking do commonly discard them. let us not give occasion for scandal. i would have lettice go neat and cleanly, and not under her station, but no more." the palpitations of lettice's heart sobered down. of course she could not expect to wear pearls and such worldly vanities. grandmother was always right. "i can tell you, mrs gertrude and mrs anne shall not be in brown kersey," said mrs louvaine, in her usual petulant tone. "and if aubrey don him not in satin and velvet, my name is not faith." "it shouldn't have been, my dear, for it isn't your nature," was her sister's comment. "we need not follow a multitude to do evil," quietly responded lady louvaine, as she sat and knitted peacefully. "well, madam, what comes that to--the brown kersey, trow? edith saith truth, lawn is cold this weather." "i think, my dear, the green perpetuana were not too good, with clean apron, ruff, and cuffs, and a silver lace: but i would have nought more." so lettice made her appearance at the apple-cast in her sunday gown, but decked with no pearls, and her own brown hair turned soberly back under her hood. she put no hat on over it, as she had only to slip into the next house. in the hall tom rookwood met her, and bowing, requested the honour of conducting her into the garden, where his sisters and cousin were already busy with the day's duties. on the short ladder which rested against one of the apple-trees stood dorothy, the tallest of the rookwoods, clad in a long apron of white lawn edged with lace, over a dress of rich dark blue silk, gathering apples, and passing them to anne at the foot of the ladder, by whom they were delivered to gertrude, who packed them in sundry crates ready for the purpose. by gertrude's side stood a dark, rosy, merry-looking child of six, whom she introduced to lettice as her cousin bessy. lettice, who had expected bessy to be much older, was disappointed, for she was curious to know what kind of a creature a female papist might be. "now, tom, do your duty!" cried dorothy, as tom was about to retire. "i am weary of gathering, and you having the longest legs and arms amongst us, should take my place. here come mr montague and rebecca townsend; i'm coming down. up with you!" tom pulled a face and obeyed: but showing a disposition to pelt dorothy and bessy, instead of carefully delivering the apples unbruised to anne, he was screamed at and set upon at once, gertrude leading the opposition. "tom, you wicked wretch! come down this minute, or else behave properly. i shall--" the--accidental?--descent of an enormous apple on the bridge of gertrude's nose put her announcement of her intentions to speedy flight: and in laughing over the _fracas_, the ice rapidly melted between the young strangers. the apple-gathering proceeded merrily, relieved by a few scenes of this sort, until the trees were stripped, the apples laid carefully in the crates for transportation to the garrets, and on their arrival, as carefully taken out and spread on sheets of grey paper on the floor. when all was done, the girls were marshalled into gertrude's room to tidy themselves: after which they went down to the dining-room. mrs rookwood had provided an excellent dinner for her youthful guests, including geese, venison, and pheasants, various pies and puddings, muscadel and canary wines. after dinner they played games in the hall and dining-room, hood-man blind, and hunt the slipper, and when tired of these, separated into little groups or formed _tete-a-tetes_ for conversation. lettice, who could not quite get rid of an outside feeling, as if she did not belong to the world in which she found herself, was taken possession of by her oldest acquaintance, gertrude, and drawn into a window-seat for what that young lady termed "a proper chat." "i thought my cousin was to be here," said lettice, glancing over the company. "ay, tom asked him, i believe," said gertrude. "maybe his lord could not spare him. do you miss him?" "i would like to have seen him," said lettice innocently. "tom would not love to hear you say so much, i can tell you," laughed gertrude. "he admires you very much, lettice. oh, do let us drop the `mistress'--it is so stiff and sober--i hate it." "me!" was all that it occurred to lettice to answer. "you. don't you like men to admire you?" "i don't know; they never did." gertrude went off into a soft explosion of silvery laughter. "o lettice, you are good! you have been brought up with all those sober, starched old gentlewomen, till you don't know what life is--why, my dear, you might as well be a nun!" "don't i know what life is?" said lettice. "i've had twenty years of it." "you haven't had twenty days of it--not _life_. you've been ruled like a copy-book ever since you were born. i have pitied you, poor little victim, you cannot guess how much! i begged mother to try and win you for to-day. she said she did not believe starch and knitting-pins would suffer it, but she would try. wasn't i astonished when i heard you really were to come!" "what do you mean by starch and knitting-pins?" asked the bewildered lettice. "oh, that awful aunt of yours who looks as if she had just come out of the wash, and your sweet-smiling grandmother who is always fiddling with knitting-pins--" gertrude stopped suddenly. she understood, better than lettice did herself, the involuntary, unpremeditated gesture which put a greater distance between them on the window-seat, and knew in a moment that she had scandalised her guest. "my dear creature!" she said with one of her soft laughs, "if you worship your starchy aunt, i won't say another word! and as to my lady louvaine, i am sure i never meant the least disrespect to her. of course she is very sweet and good, and all that: but dear me! have you been bred up to think you must not label people with funny names? everybody does, my dear--no offence meant at all, i assure you." "i beg your pardon!" said lettice stiffly--more so, indeed, than she knew or meant. "if that be what you call `life,' i am afraid i know little about it." "and wish for no more!" said gertrude, laughing. "well, if i offended you, i ought to beg pardon. i did not intend it, i am sure. but, my dear, what a pity you do not crisp your hair, or curl it! that old-fashioned roll back is as ancient as my grandmother. and a partlet, i declare! they really ought to let you be a _little_ more properly dressed. you never see girls with turned-back hair now." lettice did not know whether to blush for her deficiencies, or to be angry with gertrude for pointing them out. she felt more inclined to the latter. "now, if i had you to dress," said gertrude complacently, "i should just put you in a decent, neat corset, with a white satin gown, puffed with crimson velvet, a velvet hood lined with white satin, a girdle of gold and pearls, crimson stockings, white satin slippers, a lace rebato, and a pearl necklace. oh, how charming you would look! you would not know yourself. then i should put a gold bodkin in your hair, and a head-drop of pearls set round a diamond, and bracelets instead of these lawn cuffs, and a fan; and wash your face in distilled waters, and odoriferous oils for your hands." "but i should not like my hands oily!" said lettice in amazement. gertrude laughed. "oh yes, you would, when you were accustomed to it. and then just the least touch on your forehead and cheeks, and--o lettice, my dear, you would have half london at your feet!" "the `least touch' of what?" inquired lettice. "oh, just to show the blue veins, you know." "`show the blue veins!' what can you show them with?" "oh, just a touch of blue," said gertrude, who began to fear she had gone further than lettice would follow, and did not want to be too explicit. "you never, surely, mean--_paint_?" asked lettice in tones of horror. "my dear little puritan, be not so shocked! i do, really, mean paint; but not all over your face--nothing of the sort: only a touch here and there." "i'll take care it does not touch me," said lettice decidedly. "i don't want to get accustomed to such abominable things. and as to having half london at my feet, there isn't room for it, and i am sure i should not like it if there were." "o lettice, lettice!" cried gertrude amidst her laughter. "i never saw such a maid. why, you are old before you are young." "i have heard say," answered lettice, laughing herself, "that such as so be are young when they are old." "oh, don't talk of being old--'tis horrid to think on. but, my dear, you should really have a little fine breeding, and not be bred up a musty, humdrum puritan. i do hate those she-precise hypocrites, that go about in close stomachers and ruffles of geneva print, and cannot so much as cudgel their maids without a scripture to back them. nobody likes them, you know. don't grow into one of them. you'll never be married if you do." lettice was silent, but she sat with slightly raised eyebrows, and a puzzled expression about her lips. "well, why don't you speak?" said gertrude briskly. "because i don't know what to say. i can't tell what you expect me to say: and you give such queer reasons for not doing things." "do i so?" said gertrude, looking amused. "why, what queer reasons have i given?" "that nobody will like me, and i shall never be married!" "well! aren't they very good reasons?" "they don't seem to me to be reasons at all. i may never be married, whether i do it or not; and that will be as god sees best for me, so why trouble myself about it? and as to people not liking me because i am a puritan, don't you remember the lord's words, `if the world hate you, ye know that it hated me before it hated you'?" "oh, you sucked in the bible with your mother's milk, i suppose," said gertrude pettishly, "and have had it knitted into you ever since by your grandmother's needles. i did not expect you to be a spoil-sport, lettice. i thought you would be only too happy to come out of your convent for a few hours." "thank you, i don't want to be a spoil-sport, and i do not think the bible is, unless the sports are bad ones, and they might as well be spoiled, might they not?" "there's mr stone!" cried gertrude inconsequently, and in a relieved tone, for lettice was leading in a direction whither she had no wish to follow. "look! isn't he a fine young man? what a shame to have christened so comely a man by so ugly a name as jeremy!" "do you think so? it is a beautiful name; it means `him whom god hath appointed,'--aunt edith says so." "think you i care what it _means_!" was the answer, in a rather vexed tone, though it was accompanied by a laugh. "'tis ugly and old-fashioned, child. now your cousin, mr louvaine, has a charming name. but fancy having a name with a sermon wrapped up in it!" "i do not understand!" said lettice a little blankly. "you seem to think little of those things whereof i have been taught to think much; and to think much of those things whereof i have been led to think little. it puzzles me. excuse me." gertrude laughed more good-naturedly. "my dear little innocence!" said she. "i am sorry to let the cold, garish daylight in upon your pretty little stained-glass creed: it is never pleasant to have scales taken from your eyes. but really, you look on things in such false colours, that needs must. why, my child, if you were to go out into the world, you would find all those fancies laughed to scorn. 'tis only puritans love sermons and bibles and such things. no doubt they are all right, and good, and all that; quite proper for sunday, and sick-beds, and so on. i am not an infidel, of course. but then--well?" lettice's face of utter amazement arrested the flow of words on gertrude's lips. "would your mother think you loved her, gertrude, if you told her you never wanted to see her except on sundays and when you were sick? and if god hears all we say, is it not as good as telling him that? you puzzle me more and more. i have been taught that the world is the enemy of god, and refuses to guide its ways by his word: but you speak as if it were something good, that we ought to look up to, and hearken what it bids us. it cannot be both. and what god says about it _must_ be true." "lettice, whatever one says, you always come back to your puritan stuff. i wish you would be natural, like other maids. see, i am about to turn you over to dorothy. let us see if she can make something of you--i cannot.--here, doll! come and sit here, and talk with lettice. i want to go and speak to grissel yonder." dorothy sat down obediently in the window-seat. "i thought mr louvaine was to be here to-day," she said. "so did i likewise. i cannot tell why he comes not." "have you seen him lately?" "no, not in some time. i suppose he is busy." dorothy looked amused. "what think you he doth all the day long?" lettice had not been present when aubrey detailed his day's occupations, and she was under the impression that he led a busy life, with few idle hours. "truly, i know not what," she answered; "but the earl, no doubt, hath his duties, and 'tis aubrey's to wait on him." "the earl, belike, reads an hour or two with his tutor, seeing he is but a child: and the rest of the time is there music and dancing, riding the great horse, playing at billiards, tennis, bowls, and such like. that is your cousin's business, mrs lettice." "only that?--but i reckon he cannot be let go, but must come after his master's heels?" "he is on duty but three days of every week, save at the _lever_ and _coucher_, and may go whither he list on the other four." "then i marvel he comes not oftener to visit us," said innocent lettice. "do you so? i don't," answered dorothy, with a little laugh. "why?" "how old are you, mrs lettice?" the notion of discourtesy connected with this query is modern. "i was twenty last june," said lettice. "dear heart! i should have supposed you were about two," said dorothy, with a little curl of her lip. "but my grandmother thinks so likewise, and she is near eighty," said lettice. "ah! extremes meet," answered dorothy, biting her lip. lettice tried to think out this obscure remark, but had not made much progress, when at the other end of the room she caught a glimpse of aubrey. though he stood with his back to her, she felt sure it was aubrey. she knew him by the poise of his head and the soft golden gloss on his hair; and a moment later, his voice reached her ear. he came up towards them, stopping every minute to speak with some acquaintance, so that it took him a little time to reach them. "there is cousin aubrey," said lettice. dorothy answered by a nod. "you admire your cousin?" "yes, i think he looks very well," replied lettice, in her simplicity. dorothy bit her lip again. "he is not so well-favoured as mr jeremy stone," said she, "though he hath the better name, and comes of an elder line by much." by this time aubrey had come up. "ah, lettice!" said he, kissing her. "mrs dorothy, your most obedient, humble servant." "are you?" responded she. "surely i am. lay your commands on me." "then bring mr stone to speak with me." aubrey gave a little shrug of his shoulders, a laugh, and turned away as if to seek mr stone: while dorothy, the moment his back was turned, put her finger on her lip, and slipped out of sight behind a screen, with her black eyes full of mischievous fun. "why, my dear," said a voice beside lettice, "is none with you? i thought i saw doll by your side but now." "she was, gentlewoman," answered lettice, looking up at mrs rookwood, and beginning to wish herself at home again. might she slip away? "may i pray you of the time?" mrs rookwood was neither of wealth nor rank to carry a watch, so she went to look at the clock before replying, and aubrey came up with mr stone. "why, where is gone mrs dorothy?" asked the former, knitting his brows. "all the beauty has not departed with her," responded mr stone gallantly, bowing low to lettice, who felt more and more uncomfortable every minute. "'tis on the stroke of four, my dear," said mrs rookwood, returning: "but i beg you will not hurry away." "oh, but i must, if you please!" answered lettice, feeling a sensation of instant and intense relief. "grandmother bade me not tarry beyond four o'clock. i thank you very much, gentlewoman, and i wish you farewell.--aubrey, you will come with me?" aubrey looked extremely indisposed to do so, and lettice wondered for what reason he could possibly wish to stay: but mrs rookwood, hearing of lady louvaine's order, made no further attempt to delay her young guest. she called her daughters to take their leave, and in another minute the golden fish was left behind, and lettice ran into the door of the white bear. she went straight upstairs, and in the chamber which they shared found her aunt edith. lettice had no idea how uneasy edith had been all that day. she had a vague, general idea that she was rather a favourite with aunt edith-- perhaps the one of her nieces whom on the whole she liked best: but of the deep pure well of mother-like love in edith's heart for dudley murthwaite's daughter, lettice had scarcely even a faint conception. she rather fancied herself preferred because, as she supposed, her mother had very likely been aunt edith's favourite sister. little notion therefore had lettice of the network of feeling behind the earnest, wistful eyes, as the aunt laid a hand on each shoulder of the niece, and said-- "well, lettice?" "aunt edith," was the answer, "if that is the world i have been in to-day, i hope i shall never go again!" "thank god!" spoke edith's heart in its innermost depths; but her voice only said, quietly enough, "ay so, dear heart? and what misliked thee?" "it is all so queer! aunt edith, they think the world is something good. and they want me to paint my face. and they call aunt temperance `starch.' and they say i am only two years old. and they purse up their faces, and look as if it were something strange, if i quote the bible. and they talk about being married as if it must happen, whether you would or not, and as if it were the only thing worth thinking about. and they seemed to think it was quite delightful to have a lot of gentlemen bowing at yon, and saying all sorts of silly things, and i thought it was horrid. and altogether, i didn't like it a bit, and i wanted to get home." "lettice, i prayed god to keep thee, and i think he has kept thee. my dear heart, mayest thou ever so look on the world which is his enemy, and his contrary!" edith's voice was not quite under her control--a most unusual thing with her. "aunt edith, i did think at first--when mrs rookwood came--that i should like it very well. i felt as if it would be such a pleasant change, you know, and--sometimes i have fancied for a minute that i should like to know how other maids did, and to taste their life, as it were, for a little while; because, you see, i knew we were so quiet, and other people seemed to have more brightness and merriment, and--well, i wanted to see what it was like." "very natural, sweet heart, at thy years. i can well believe it." "and so, when mrs rookwood asked, i so hoped grandmother would let me go. and i did enjoy the apple-gathering in the garden, and the games afterward in the hall. but when we sat down, and girls came up and talked to me, and i saw what they had inside their hearts--for if it had not been in their hearts, it would not have come on their tongues--aunt edith, i hope i shall never, never, _never_ have anything more to do with the world! i'd rather peel onions and scrub tiles every day of my life than live with people, and perhaps get like them, who could call my dear old grandmother `knitting-pins' in scorn, and tell god himself that they only wanted to think of him on sundays. that world's another world, and i don't belong to it, and please, i'll keep out of it!" "amen, and amen!" said aunt edith. "my lettice, let us abide in the world where god is king and father, and sun, and water of life. may that other world where satan rules ever be another and a strange world to thee, wherein thou shalt feel thyself a traveller and a stranger. my child, there is very much merriment which hath nought to do with happiness, and very much happiness which hath nought to do with mirth. 'tis one thing to shut ourselves from god's world which he made, and quite another to keep our feet away from satan's world which he hath ruined. when god saith, `love not the world,' he means not, love not flowers, and song-birds, and bright colours, and sunset skies, and the innocent laughter of little children. those belong to his world; and 'tis only as we take them out thereof, and hand them unto satan, and they get into the devil's world, that they become evil and hurtful unto us. satan hath ruined, and will yet, so far as he may, all the good things of god; and beware of the most innocent-seeming thing so soon as thou shalt see his touch, upon it. thank god, my darling, that he suffered thee not to shut thine eyes thereto! was aubrey there, lettice?" "he came but late, aunt, and therefore it was, i suppose, that as it seemed, he had no list to come with me. he said he might look in, perchance, at after." "and mr tom rookwood?" "ay, he was there, though i saw scarce anything of him but just at first." edith was privately glad to hear it. she had been a little afraid of designs upon lettice from that quarter. "aunt, was it not rude to give nicknames?" "very rude, and very uncomely, lettice." "i thought it was horrid!" said lettice. "louvaine," tom rookwood was saying, next door, "i met mr tom winter this afternoon, and he asked me if you had gone to the low countries to take service under the archduke. he hath seen nought of you, saith he, these three weeks." "i know it," said aubrey, sulkily. "well, he told me to bid you to supper with him o' thursday even next. i shall be there, and sir josceline percy, sir edward bushell, and mr kit wright." "i can't. wish i could." "why, what's to hinder?" "oh, i'm--ah--promised beforehand," said aubrey, clumsily. "can't you get off?" "_no_. but i've as great a mind to go--" "you come, and never mind the other fellows. you'll find us much jollier grigs of the twain." "i know that. hang it, tom, i'll go!" "there's a brave lad! four o'clock sharp, at the duck. i'll meet you there." "done!" "where was he promised, i marvel?" asked dorothy in a whisper, with a yawn behind her hand. "oh, didn't you see how he flushed and stammered?" said gertrude, laughing. "i vow, i do believe old knitting-pins had made him swear on her big bible that he wouldn't speak another word to mr winter. had it been but another merry-making, he should never have looked thus." there was no visit from aubrey at the white bear that evening. he felt as if he could not meet his grandmother's eyes. he was not yet sufficiently hardened in sin to be easy under an intention of deliberate disobedience and violation of a solemn promise; yet the sin was too sweet to give up. this once, he said to himself: only this once!--and then, no more till the month was over. when the saturday evening arrived, aubrey made a very careful toilet, and set forth for the strand. it was a long walk, for the earl of oxford lived in the city, near bishopsgate. aubrey was rather elated at the idea of making the acquaintance of sir josceline percy and sir edward bushell. he was concerned at the family disgrace, as he foolishly considered it, of hans's connection with the mercer, and extremely desirous to attain knighthood for himself. the way to do that, he thought, was to get into society. here was an opening which might conduct him to those elysian fields--and at the gate stood his grandmother, trying to wave him away. he would not be deprived of his privileges by the foolish fancies of an old woman. what did old women know of the world? aubrey was not aware that sixty years before, that very grandmother, then young lettice eden, had thought exactly the same thing of those who stood in her way to the same visionary paradise. temple bar was just left behind him, and the duck was near, when to aubrey's surprise, and not by any means to his satisfaction, a hand was laid upon his shoulder. "hans! you here?" "truly so. where look you i should be an half-hour after closing time?" this was a most awkward contretemps. how should hans be got rid of before the duck was reached? "you are on your way to the white bear," said hans, in the tone of one who states an incontrovertible fact, "have with you." aubrey privately wished hans in the arctic sea or the torrid zone, or anywhere out of the strand for that afternoon. and as if to render his discomfiture more complete, here came mr winter and tom rookwood, arm in arm, just as they reached mrs more's door. what on earth was to be done? mr thomas rookwood, whose brain was as sharp as a needle, guessed the situation in a moment, and with much amusement, from a glance at aubrey's face. he, of course, at once recognised hans, and was at least as well aware as either that hans represented the forces of law and order, and subordination to lawful authority, while aubrey stood as the representative of the grand principle that every man should do what is right in his own eyes. a few low-toned words to mr winter preceded a doffing of both the plumed hats, and the greeting from tom rookwood as they passed, of-- "good even to you both. charming weather!" a scarcely perceptible wink of tom's left eye was designed to show aubrey that his position was understood, and action taken upon it. aubrey saw and comprehended the gesture. hans saw it also, but did not comprehend it except as a sign of some private understanding between the two. they walked on together, aubrey engaged in vexed meditation as to how he was to get rid of hans. but hans had no intention of allowing himself to be dismissed. he began to talk, and aubrey had to answer, and could not satisfy himself what course to pursue, till he found himself at the door of the white bear. charity was at the door, doing what every housemaid was then compelled to do, namely, pouring her slops into the gutter. "eh, mestur aubrey, is that yo'?" said she. "'tis a month o' sundays sin' we've seen you. you might come a bit oftener, i reckon, if you'd a mind. stand out o' th' way a minute, do, while i teem these here slops out. there's no end to folks' idleness down this road. here's marg'et rumboll, at th' back, been bidden by th' third-borough to get hersen into service presently, under pain of a whipping, and mary quinton, up yon, to do th' same within a month, at her peril. [note .] i reckon, if i know aught of either mall or marg'et, they'll both look for a place where th' work's put forth. dun ye know o' any such, mestur aubrey, up city way?" aubrey was not sufficiently sharp to notice the faint twinkle in charity's eyes, and the slight accent of sarcasm in her tone. hans perceived both. "i do not, charity, but i dare be bound there are plenty," said aubrey, stepping delicately over the puddle which charity had just created, so as to cause as little detriment as possible to his spanish leather shoes and crimson silk stockings. "ay, very like there will. they'll none suit you, mestur 'ans; you're not one of yon sort. have a care o' th' puddle, mestur aubrey, or you'll mire your brave hose, and there'll be wark for somebody." with which parthian dart, charity bore off her pail, and aubrey and hans went forward into the parlour, "good even, my gracious lord!" was the greeting with which the former was received. "your lordship's visits be scarcer than the sun's, and he has not shown his face none wist when. marry, but i do believe i've seen that suit afore!" "of course you have, aunt temperance," answered the nettled aubrey. he was exceedingly put out. his evening was spoiled; he was deprived of his liberty, of his friends' company, of a good dinner--for mr winter gave delightful little dinners, and mrs elizabeth more, the housewife at the duck, was an unusually good cook. moreover, he was tied down to what he contemptuously designated in his lofty mind "a parcel of women," with the unacceptable and very unflattering sarcasms of aunt temperance by way of seasoning. it really was extraordinary, thought mr aubrey, that when women passed their fortieth milestone or thereabouts, they seemed to lose their respect for the nobler sex, and actually presumed to criticise them, especially the younger specimens of that interesting genus. such women ought to be kept in their places, and (theoretically) he would see that they were. but when he came in contact with the obnoxious article in the person of aunt temperance, in some inscrutable manner, the young lord of creation never saw it. at the duck, the company were making merry over tom rookwood's satirical account of aubrey's discomfiture. for his company they cared little, and the only object they had for cultivating it was the consideration that he might be useful some day. their conversation was all the freer without him, since all the rest were papists. something, at that moment, was taking place elsewhere, with which the company at the duck, and even aubrey louvaine, were not unconcerned. lord monteagle was entertaining friends to supper at his house at hoxton, where he had not resided for some time previously. just before the company sat down to table, a young footman left the house on an errand, returning a few minutes later. as he passed towards his master's door, a man of "indifferent stature," muffled in a cloak, and his face hidden by a slouched hat drawn down over the brow, suddenly presented himself from amongst the trees. "is your lord within, and may a man have speech of him?" asked the apparition. "his lordship is now sitting down to supper," was the answer. the stranger held out a letter. "i pray you, deliver this into your lord's own hand," said he, "seeing it holdeth matter of import." the young man took the letter, and returned to the house. lord monteagle was just crossing the hall to the dining-room, when his servant delivered the letter. grace having been said, and the business of supper begun, he unfolded the missive. his lordship found it difficult to read, which implies that his education was not of the most perfect order, for the writing is not at all hard to make out. but gentlemen were much less versed in the three r's at that date than at the present time [note ], and lord monteagle, calling one of his servants, named thomas ward, desired him to read the letter. now, mr thomas ward was in the confidence of the conspirators,--a fact of which there is no doubt: and that lord monteagle was the same may not inaptly be described as a fact of which there is doubt--an extremely strong probability, which has been called in question without any disproof [see appendix]. both these gentlemen, however, conducted themselves with perfect decorum, and as if the subject were entirely new to them. this was what mr ward read:-- "my lord out of the loue i beare you [this word was crossed out, and instead of it was written] some of youere trends i haue a caer of youer preseruacion. therfor i would aduyse yowe as yowe tender youer lyf to deuyse some exscuse to shift of youer attendance at this parleament. for god and man hathe concurred to punishe the wickednes of this tyme and thinke not slightlye of this aduertisment but retire youer self into youre contri wheare yowe maye expect the euent in safti for thowghe theare be no apparance of anni stir yet i saye they shall receyue a terrible blowe this parleament and yet they shall not seie who hurts them this councel is not to be acontemned because it maye do yowe good and can do yowe no harm for the dangere is passed as soon as yowe have burnt the letter and i hope god will giue yowe the grace to mak good use of it to whose holy proteccion i commend yowe." the writing was tall, cramped, and angular. there was neither signature nor date. the hearers gazed on each other in perplexed astonishment, not unmixed with fear. "what can it mean?" asked one of the guests. "some fool's prating," replied lord monteagle. "how else could the danger be past so soon as i had burnt the letter?" this question no one could answer. lord monteagle took the letter from the reader, pocketed it, and turned the conversation to other topics. the thoughts of the company soon passed from the singular warning; and occupied by their own fancies and amusements, they did not notice that their host quitted them as soon as they left the dining-room. with the letter in his pocket, lord monteagle slipped out of his garden gate, mounted his horse, and rode to his house in the strand. leaving the horse here, he went down to the water-side, where he hailed a boat, and was rowed to westminster stairs. to hail a boat was as natural and common an incident to a londoner of that day as it is now to call a cab or stop an omnibus. lord monteagle stepped lightly ashore, made his way to the palace of whitehall, and asked to speak at once with the earl of salisbury, lord high treasurer of england. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . these exemplary women really resided at southampton, a few years later. note . a letter of lord chief-justice popham would be a suitable subject for a competitive examination. chapter eight. the fifth of november. "better to have dwelt unlooked for in some forest's shadows dun, where the leaves are pierced in triumph by the javelins of the sun! better to be born and die in some calm nest, howe'er obscure, with a vine about the casements, and a fig-tree at the door!" the earl of salisbury sat in his private cabinet in whitehall palace. he was robert cecil, younger son of the great earl of burleigh, and he had inherited his father's brains without his father's conscientiousness and integrity. the dead queen had never trusted him thoroughly: she considered him, as he was, a schemer--a schemer who might pay to virtue the tribute of outward propriety, but would pursue the scheme no less. yet if robert cecil cared for any thing on earth which was not robert cecil, that thing was the protestant religion and the liberties of england. [note .] the present sovereign was under pre-eminent obligation to him, for had he not cast his great weight into the scale in his favour, the chances were that james might very possibly, if not probably, have been james the sixth of scotland still. lord salisbury was in person insignificant-looking. when she wished to put him down, his late mistress had been accustomed to address him as "little man," and his present master termed him "my little beagle." his face was small, with wizened features, moustache, and pointed beard; and though only forty-five years of age, there were decided silver threads among the brown. he looked up in surprise at the announcement that lord monteagle requested permission to speak with him quickly. what could this young roman catholic nobleman want with him at nine o'clock in the evening--a time which to his apprehension was much what midnight is to ours? perhaps it was better to see him at once, and have done with the matter. he would take care to dismiss him quickly. "show my lord monteagle this way." in another moment lord monteagle stood by the table where salisbury was seated, his plumed hat in his hand. "my lord," said he, "i entreat your lordship's pardon for my late coming, and knowing your weighty causes, will be as brief as i may. a letter has been sent me which, in truth, to my apprehension is but the prating of some fool; yet seeing that things are not alway what they seem, and that there may be more in it than appeareth, i crave your lordship's leave to lay it before you, that your better judgment may pronounce thereupon. truly, i am not able to understand it myself." and the nameless, undated letter, on which the fate of king and parliament hung, was laid down before salisbury. the lord high treasurer read it carefully through; scanned it, back and front, as if to discover any trace of origin: then leaned back in his chair, and thoughtfully stroked his moustache. "pray you, be seated, my lord. whence had you this?" lord monteagle gave such details as he knew. "you have no guess from whom it could come?" "never a whit." "nor you know not the writing?" "it resembleth none hand of any that i know." there was another short pause, broken by lord monteagle's query, "thinks your lordship this of any moment?" "that were not easy to answer. it may be of serious import; or it may be but a foolish jest." "truly, at first i thought it the latter; for how could the danger be past as soon as the letter were burnt?" "ah, that might be but--my lord, i pray you leave this letter with me. i will consider of it, and if i see cause, may lay it before the king. any way, you have well done to bring it hither. if it be a foolish jest, there is but a lost half-hour: and if, as might be, it is an honest warning of some real peril that threatens us, you will then have merited well of your king and country. i may tell you that i have already received divers advices from beyond seas to the same effect." "i thank your lordship heartily, and i commend you to god." so saying, lord monteagle took his leave. the sunday passed peacefully. thomas winter, in his chamber at the sign of the duck, laid down a volume of the writings of thomas aquinas, and began to think about going to bed; when a hasty rap on the door, and the sound of some one being let in, was succeeded by rapid steps on the stairs. the next moment, thomas ward entered the room. "what is the matter?" said winter, the moment he saw his face. "the saints wot! a warning letter is sent to my lord monteagle, and whereto it may grow--hie you to white webbs when morning breaketh, with all the speed you may, and tell mr catesby of this. i fear--i very much fear all shall be discovered." "it's that rascal tresham!" cried winter. "he was earnest to have his sister's husband warned, and said he would not pluck forth not another stiver without our promise so to do." "be it who it may, it may be the ruin of us." "god forbid! i will be at white webbs with the dawn, or soon after." before it was light the next morning winter was on horseback, and was soon galloping through the country villages of islington, holloway, and hornsey, on his way to enfield chase. in the depths of that lonely forest land stood the solitary hunting-lodge, named white webbs, which belonged to dr hewick, and was let in the shooting season to sportsmen. this house had been taken by "mr meaze" (who was garnet) as a very quiet locality, where mass might be said without being overheard by protestant ears, and no inconvenient neighbours were likely to gossip about the inmates. in london, garnet was a horse-dealer; at white webbs he was a gentleman farmer and a sportsman. here he established himself and somebody eke, who has not yet appeared on the scene, and whom it is time to introduce. and i introduce her with no feeling save one of intense pity, as one more sinned against than sinning--a frail, passion-swayed, impulsive woman, one of the thousands of women whose lives rome has blighted by making that sin which was no sin, and so in many instances leading up to that which was sin--poor, loving, unhappy anne vaux. the hon. anne vaux was a younger daughter of william lord vaux of harrowden, and elizabeth beaumont, his first wife. like many another, she "loved one only, and she clave to him," whose happy and honourable wife she might have been, had he been a protestant clergyman instead of a jesuit priest. that anne vaux's passionate love for garnet was for the man and not the priest, her own letters are sufficient witness, and garnet returned the love. she took a solemn vow of obedience to the superior of the jesuit mission in england, in order that she might be with him where he was, might follow his steps like a faithful dog, that his people should be her people, and his god her god. but where he died she could not die. to "live without the vanished light" was her sadder destiny. at white webbs, she passed as mrs perkins or parkyns, a widow lady, and the sister of mr mease. she received numerous visitors, beside mr mease himself,--catesby, who does not appear to have assumed any alias, mr and mrs brooksby (the latter of whom was anne's sister eleanor), tresham, the winters, and two dubious individuals, who passed under the names of robert skinner and mr perkins. the former was accompanied by his wife, real or professed; the latter professed to be a brother-in-law of "mrs perkins," and is described as "of middle stature, long visage, and somewhat lean, of a brown hair, and his beard inclining to yellow,"--a description which suits none of the conspirators whose personal appearance is known. at white webbs, accordingly, thomas winter alighted, and broke in on the party there assembled, with the startling news that-- "all is discovered! there is a letter sent to my lord monteagle, and our action is known." the party consisted of anne vaux, fawkes, the brooksbys, and catesby, who had presented himself there a few days before, with the avowed object of joining the royal hunting-party at royston the next day, but in the morning resolving to "stay and be merry with his friends," he settled down comfortably, sent his man for venison, and took his ease. the ease and comfort were broken up by this sudden and startling news. "pray you, flee, mr catesby, while you have time!" said winter, anxiously. "nay, i will be further as yet," was the resolute answer. "what shall we now do? how say you?" "make sure how much is truth. go you to town, mr fawkes, to-morrow, as soon as may be, and bring us word what time of day it shall be with us. try the uttermost; for if the part belonged to myself i would try the same adventure." fawkes obeyed, on the wednesday, returning at night, to the great relief of the conspirators, with reassuring news. there was no appearance of any attempt to meddle with the cellar; all seemed quiet in london: no excitement among the people, no signs of special precaution by the authorities. they might safely go on with the work. on the following day, thomas winter returned to london, and fawkes followed in the evening, arriving at the chequers, in holborn, just before it grew dark. he did not stay here, but proceeded to the house next to the house of lords, where he slept that night in its solitary bed, turning out his supposed master, as the one bed would not accommodate both, and "when mr percy lay there, his man lay abroad." percy, meanwhile, had not been idle. his vocation as gentleman pensioner gave him easy access to any part of the palace; and the previous day had seen him making himself very agreeable in the apartments of the young prince, playing with the child, and chatting in a very affable manner with his nurse. the youthful prince's nurse, happily for him, was a shrewd scotchwoman, and percy took little by his motion, "pray you, mrs fordun, whither leads that door?" "out o' the chalmer, sir," said agnes fordun. "what time doth his highness ride forth commonly?" "when it likes the king's majesty." "how is his highness attended?" "atweel, 'tis maistly by them that gang wi' him." "is his highness a brisk, lively child, or no?" "he's what a prince suld be," stiffly said agnes. percy gave her up as impracticable, and reported to his colleagues at white webbs that the duke could not be compassed. "comes the prince, then, to the parliament?" asked catesby. percy and winter agreed that on this head rumour was assuming a negative aspect. "then must we have our horses beyond the water," said catesby, "and more horses and company to surprise the prince, and let the duke alone." the king returned from royston on the st of october. the next morning, salisbury requested a private audience, and in the long gallery of whitehall palace, laid before his majesty the mysterious letter. the astute salisbury, and also the lord chamberlain, had already fathomed the meaning of the "terrible blow," and the means by which it was to be effected; but the former would scarcely have been a cecil had he not also read his royal master. his majesty must have the matter so communicated to him that he should be able to believe that his own supernatural sagacity had solved a mystery impenetrable to the commonplace brains of the lords of the council. it might be reasonably anticipated that such a warning should be no mystery to the son of lord darnley--that his thoughts would fly rapidly to that house in the kirk o' field, where his own father had received his death-blow, and had not seen who hurt him. that the one word "gunpowder!" should drop from white, stern lips was to be expected. but do people ever do what is expected of them by others? in this case, at any rate, nothing half so dramatic took place. "his majesty made a short reply,"--which it may be was then thought such, but which now would assuredly be set down as long, wordy, and sententious. "the incertainty of the writer, and the generality of the advertisement," began the royal orator, "besides the small likelihood of any such conspiracy on the general body of any realm, gives me less cause to apprehend it as a thing certain to be put in execution. considering that all conspiracies commonly distinguish of men and persons, yet seeing the words do rather seem (as far as they are to be regarded) to presage danger to the whole court of parliament (over whom my care is greater than over mine own life), and because the words describe such a form of doing as can be no otherwise interpreted than by some stratagem of fire and powder,--i wish that there may be special consideration had of the nature of all places yielding commodity for those kinds of attempts: and i will then deliver my further judgment." the man who could deliver his judgment in this stilted style of pompous word-building, in such circumstances as were then existing, would have required a powdered footman in spotless plush to precede him out of a house on fire. i must confess to a little misgiving as to the authenticity of this speech. it looks much more likely to have been deliberately penned by my lord salisbury in the calm of his official study, when the smoke had cleared away from the battlefield, than to have been fired off by king james in haste and trepidation--which he was sure to feel--at the moment when the letter was laid before him. the evidence that the government account of the circumstances was drawn up with due regard to what they might and should have been to produce the proper effect on the docile public, and not very much as to what they were, is irresistible. but as no other narrative exists, we can but have recourse to the stained-glass article before us. his sacred majesty having thus exhibited his incomparable wisdom, and been properly complimented and adored on account thereof, my lord salisbury left the gallery with a grave face, and hastily summoning the lords of the council, went through the farce of laying the letter before them. "sire," said he, when he returned to the king, "the lords of the council, subject to your majesty's gracious pleasure, advise that my lord chamberlain shall straitly view the parliament house, and my lord monteagle beseecheth leave to be with him." "gude!" said his majesty, who to the day of his death never lost his scottish accent. "i wad ha'e ye likewise, my lord salisbury, ta'e note o' such as wad without apparent necessity seek absence frae the parliament, because 'tis improbable that among a' the nobles, this warning should be only gi'en to ane." "sire, your majesty's command shall be obeyed." "atweel, let the search be made, and report to me," said the king, as he left the gallery. the following monday, which was the day before the opening of parliament, was appointed for the search. on the friday, catesby, thomas winter, and tresham met at barnet, when catesby angrily accused tresham of having sent the warning to lord monteagle, and tresham vehemently denied it. "marry, it must be you!" said catesby. "the only ones that harried us touching the saving of persons were you and mr keyes, who would fain have saved his master, my lord mordaunt; all other were consenting to the general issue that the catholic lords should be counselled to tarry away on account of the new statutes." "i never writ nor sent that letter, on my honour!" cried tresham. did he speak the truth? no man knows to this day. on the saturday, the conspirators had another scare. in lincoln's inn walks, thomas winter met tresham, who told him in a terrified whisper that lord salisbury had been to the king, and, there was grave reason to fear, had shown him the fatal letter. winter hastened away to catesby, to whom he communicated the news. for the first time gatesby's heart failed him. "i will be gone!" said he. "yet--nay, i will stay till mr percy come, without whose consent will i do nothing." but money was wanted; and one of the moneyed men, who had been drawn into the conspiracy for that purpose, could alone supply it. tresham, that one who was at hand, took winter to his apartments in clerkenwell [note ], where he counted out a hundred pounds. the same night a letter was brought to salisbury which had been found dropped in the street. a few words of it were in cipher. it purported to be written by e.f. mak to richard bankes: and in it these words occurred:--"the gallery with the passage thereto yieldeth the best of assurance, and a safety of the actors themselves." "i hope to behold the tyrannous heretic defeated in his cruel pleasures." these mysterious hints, coming so quickly after the monteagle letter, still further alarmed and excited the council. the conspirators gathered on sunday night in the house behind saint clement's--fawkes, catesby, thomas winter, and the two wrights. they were shortly joined by percy. it was late when they parted--parted, to meet all together in this world never any more. catesby had made up his mind to go down into the country the next day; percy and the wrights were preparing to follow; all were ready to escape the moment the necessity should arise, except fawkes, who was to fire the powder, and thomas winter, who said he would tarry and see the end. some had already departed--sir everard digby to coughton, the house of mr throckmorton, which he had borrowed--where garnet already was. percy spent the monday in a visit to the earl of northumberland at syon; christopher wright and thomas winter in buying articles needful for the coming journey. in the morning rookwood accidentally met catesby, whose spirits had risen. there was no need to fear things would go on well. three o'clock in the afternoon saw lord suffolk, the lord chamberlain of the household, accompanied by lord monteagle, descending into the vaults of the house of lords. they glanced into different parts, and coming to the cellar immediately under the house, the lord chamberlain noticed that it was apparently filled with stacked faggots. "whose are all these?" said he. a tall, dark man, who had unlocked the cellar for their lordships' entrance, and was now standing by with the key in his hand, gave the answer, with an air of rustic simplicity. "an't like your lordships, 'tis my master's provision for the winter." "who is your master?" asked the lord chamberlain. "an't please you, mr percy, one of his majesty's pensioners, that hath his lodging this next door." "i thought none dwelt next door. how long hath your master had the house?" "under your lordships' leave, about a year and an half; but hath deferred his lying there by reason of some occasions which caused him to be absent." "well, he has laid in a good stock of fuel," said the chamberlain, as if carelessly; and their lordships turned and remounted the stairs. arrived at a place where they might speak unheard, the noble searchers looked each into the other's face with the same question on the lips of both. "what thinks your lordship of all this stock of fuel below?" "nay, what think you, my lord?" "truly, i am very suspicious thereof." "my lord, the more i do observe the letter," said lord monteagle, earnestly, "and meditate on the words thereof, the more jealous am i of the matter, and of this place. look you, this mr percy the pensioner and i had great dearness of friendship between us at one time; he is a near relative of my lord northumberland, and a catholic. were i you, that cellar should be thoroughly overhauled." "well, let us go to the king." it was between five and six o'clock, and the short november daylight was over, when the searchers brought back their report to his majesty, recounted their suspicions, and asked what they were to do. "gi'e me a man wi' his heid on his shoulders," said his majesty, "and ye ha' that, my lord monteagle. noo, i'll just tell ye, i ay held ane maxim, to wit, either do naething, or do that quhilk shall make a' sure. so ye'll just gang your ways, and ha'e a glint ahint thae faggots in the bit cellar." "if it please your highness, is there no fear that so we may give room for murmurings and evil rumours? if we search this cellar and find nothing, may not men say the government is unduly suspicious?" "and, under your highness' leave, shall it not place my lord northumberland in jeopardy?--he being akin to mr percy, and his great friend." "ay, is there twa heids weel screwit on? i jalouse, my lord monteagle, ye're saying ae word for my lord northumberland and twa for yoursel'. be it sae: a man hath but ane life. my lord chamberlain, can ye no raise a bit rumour that a wheen o' the hangings are missing that suld ha'e been in the wardrobe in wyniard's keeping? then gang your ways, and turn out the faggots." "and, if it might please your majesty," suggested the lord chamberlain, "were it not best some other made the search--one of the gentlemen of your privy chamber,--so as to rouse less suspicion?" "ay, gang your ways, and send auld knevet down, wi' a pair or twa o' younger hands to toss the faggots." "might it not be well also, sire, to extend the search to the houses adjoining the parliament house, and so make examination of the lodging where mr percy lieth?" "do sae, do sae," responded the king. "i affy me in you: only heed this, what you do, do throughly." just as the abbey clock struck eleven, fawkes came out of percy's rooms, and went down into the vault by the door which had been made the previous easter. he carried in one hand a dark lantern, lighted, and in the other a piece of touchwood, and a match eight or nine inches in length. as he set the lantern down in the corner of the vault, he felt a touch upon his shoulder, and looked up in alarm until he met the eyes of robert keyes. "mr fawkes, take this watch, which mr percy sends you, that you may the better know when to fire the train." keyes spoke in a very low tone, so that he might not be heard outside. fawkes took the watch, and secreted it carefully. watches were rare and precious things, not carried by every gentleman even when wealthy; and percy had bought this one for its special purpose. keyes departed, and fawkes opened the door of the vault for a breath of fresh air. he had scarcely come out, and closed it behind him, when another hand grasped his shoulder, not with the light touch of his confederate. "who are you?" asked the voice of an old man. "my name is john johnson, my master; i am mr percy's man." "make stay of him," said the voice; "and you, come after me into the vault." into the vault went sir thomas knevet, and with his men began a search among the carefully-stacked wood. it did not take long to lay bare the six-and-thirty barrels, and by drilling a small hole into two of them to make sure of the nature of their contents. spread before them, in the full magnitude of its horror, lay the "gunpowder treason and plot," which through the coming ages of english history, should "never be forgot." a slight noise overhead alarmed the searchers, who feared lest "mr percy's man" might be endeavouring to escape. sir thomas sent up one of his men, named doubleday, to make sure of him till his return. fawkes, however, was still in the hands of the watchman, but on doubleday's appearance, he requested permission to go to his own room in the adjoining house. this doubleday allowed, posting himself as watchmen at the door. no sooner was fawkes alone than he took the opportunity to rid himself of the chief evidences against him, by flinging the match and tinder out of his window, which overlooked the river. in another minute sir thomas knevet and his men entered the chamber. "know you what we have found in your master's cellar?" "you have found what was there, i suppose," was the cool reply. "search the man," was sir thomas knevet's order. but this indignity fawkes resented, and opposed with all his strength. the struggle was severe, but short. he was overpowered, and bound with his own garters. they found on him the watch which keyes had brought from percy. "how could you have put fire to the gunpowder," asked knevet, "without danger to yourself?" "i meant to fire it by a match, eight or nine inches long; as soon as i had set it i should have fled for mine own safety. if i had been in the cellar when you took me, i would at once have blown up all." "keep a strong guard on this caitiff," said sir thomas, "and you, doubleday, see to the cellar. i will to his majesty." as he left percy's house, midnight tolled out on the clock of the abbey. the fifth of november had begun. sir thomas knevet left his prisoner under guard, and returned to the king. late as it was, his majesty had not retired. the members of the council who were at hand--for some always slept in the palace--were called in, the gates secured, a cordon of troops set across king street, and another at charing cross. the remainder of the council in town had been sent for, and as soon as they arrived, about one o'clock a.m., the king sat at their head in his bedchamber, and fawkes was brought in and placed before them. nothing quelled the spirit of guy fawkes. the councillors were eager, impatient, vehement: he was calm as a summer eve, cool as the midnight snow. to their hurried queries he returned straightforward, unabashed, imperturbable answers, still keeping up his character of an ignorant rustic. "tell us, fellow, why that store of gunpowder was laid in?" "to blow up the parliament house," said fawkes. "when should it have been executed?" "to-morrow, when the king had come, and the upper house was sitting." "of whom?" "of myself." "how knew you that the king would come?" "only by report, and the making ready his barge." "and for what cause?" "for the advancement of the catholic religion." "you are a papist?" "ay." "and wherefore would you be a party to the destruction of so many of your own religion?" "we meant principally to have respected our own safety, and would have prayed for them." "your name and calling?" "john johnson, and mr percy's man." "was your master a party to this treason?" "you can ask him when you see him." "who were your accomplices?" then the dark eyes shot forth fire. "you would have me betray my friends!" said guy fawkes. "the giving warning to one hath overthrown us all." it was found impossible to obtain any further information from fawkes. neither fear nor coaxing would induce him to name his accomplices. he was sent to the tower, which he entered by traitor's gate. "well, to be sure! whatten a thingcum's [what sort of a thing] this? has summat happened sin' we went to bed? rachel! i say, rachel, lass! come here." rachel heard the exclamation when charity opened the front door, and came running with a wooden spoon in her hand. "see thou, lass! dost thou see all them soldiers drawn right across th' street? look, they're turning folks back 'at goes up, and willn't let 'em pass. there's summat up, for sure! what is it, thinkst thou?" "thou'd best ask somebry [somebody] as comes down from 'em," suggested rachel: "or send in next door. eh, mistress abbott will be some mad [greatly vexed], to think hoo's missed th' news by lying abed." "ah, hoo will. here--i say, master! what's up, can you tell us?" the man addressed stopped. he had been up to the cordon, and had been turned back by them. "why, there's a plot discovered," he answered: "one of the worst ever was heard. the parliament house should have been blown up this very morning, and you should have been in danger of your lives." "lord, have mercy!" cried rachel. "thanks be, that 'tis found out!" said charity. "be the rogues catched, think you?" "one of 'em--he that should have fired the mine. they have learned nought of the rest as yet." "well, for sure! happen [perhaps] he'll tell o' t'others." "they'll make him, never fear," said the man, as he passed on. "why, my maids! are you both so warm this november morrow, that you stand at the street door?" said edith's voice behind them. "prithee shut it, charity; my mother comes anon." charity obeyed, while rachel hastily poured the astonishing news into edith's ears. the latter grew a shade paler. "what be these traitors?" she said. "they're papists, for sure!" said rachel, decidedly. "nobry else'd think of nought so wicked." "ah, i reckon they are," added charity, clinching the nail. "they're right naught [note ], the whole boilin' of 'em." the news was broken to lady louvaine more gently than it had been to edith; but she clasped her hands with a faint cry of--"aubrey! if these be they with whom he hath consorted, god keep the lad!" "i trust, mother dear, god will keep him," responded edith, softly. "would you have him hither?" "truly, i know not what to say, daughter. maybe he is the safest with my lady of oxford. nay, i think not." now came temperance with her market-basket, and she had to be told. her first thought was of a practical nature, but it was not aubrey. "dear heart, you say not so? how ever am i to get to market? lancaster and derby! but i would those papist companions were swept clean away out of the realm. i don't believe there's a loyal man amongst 'em!" "nay, temperance, we know not yet if they be papists." "know not if they be! why, of course they are!" was the immediate decision of temperance. "what else can they be? there's none other sort ill enough to hammer such naughty work out of their fantasy. `don't know,' indeed! don't tell _me_!" and temperance and her basket marched away in dudgeon. the previous evening had been spent by christopher wright, rookwood, and keyes at the duck; and they were the first among the conspirators to hear of the discovery and arrest. at five o'clock in the morning, christopher wright made a sudden appearance in thomas winter's chamber, where that worthy was sleeping, certainly not the sleep of the just. "rise up, mr winter!" he cried excitedly. "rise and come along to essex house, for i am going to call upon my lord northumberland. the matter is discovered, by a letter to my lord monteagle." thomas winter sat up in his bed. "go back, mr wright," said he, "and learn what you can about essex gate." off dashed christopher, and winter dressed hastily. he was scarcely ready when his friend returned. "surely, all is lost!" cried wright, "for leyton is got on horseback at essex door, and as he 'parted, he asked if their lordships would have any more with him, and being answered `no,' is rode as fast up fleet street as he can ride." "go you, then, to mr percy," urged winter, "for sure it is for him they seek, and bid him be gone. i will stay and see the uttermost." away went wright again, and winter followed more slowly. he found the court gates "straitly guarded," so that he was not allowed to enter. then he turned and went down towards the houses of parliament, and in the middle of king street he found the guard standing, who would not let him pass. as winter passed up king street again, silence abbott came out of her door, having just published herself for the day, and accosted rachel, who was busy with the doorsteps. "why, whatever's all this to-do?" said she, in considerable dismay. had she been wasting daylight and precious material for gossip, by lying in bed half-an-hour longer than usual? "why, there's a treason discovered," said rachel, wringing out her flannel. "lack-a-day! what manner of treason?" "biggest ever was heard on. the king and all th' lords o' th' parliament to be blown up." winter hesitated no more. evidently all was known. to save himself--if it might be--was the only thing now possible. he went straight to the livery-stable where he kept his horse, mounted, and set forth for dunchurch, where the hunting-party was to meet. if all were lost in london, it was not certain that something might not be retrieved in the country. it was a grievous blunder, and grievously they answered it. had they instantly gone on board the vessel which lay moored in the river, ready to carry fawkes away when the mine was fired, and set sail for flanders, every one of them might have fulfilled the number of his days. it seems almost as if their eyes were holden, that they should go up and fall at the place appointed. the first to fly had been catesby and john wright. keyes followed at eight o'clock, going straight to turvey; rookwood at eleven, overtaking keyes three miles beyond highgate, and catesby and wright at brickhill. as they rode together, wright "cast their cloaks into a hedge to ride more speedily." percy had spent the night in the city, but christopher wright soon found him, and they galloped after their colleagues. at hockliffe percy's servant story met them with fresh horses, and overtaking the others further on, they at last reached ashby saint ledgers in safety. robert winter, the elder brother of thomas, was then at grafton, the residence of his father-in-law, stalwart old john talbot, whither he and his wife had ridden on the last day of october. he was among the more innocent of the plotters, and had taken no active part in anything but the mining. riding from grafton, on the th, he spent the night at the bull inn, coventry, and next day reached the hall at ashby saint ledgers, where the widowed lady catesby held her solitary state. lady catesby (_nee_ anne throckmorton) and her worthy son were not on the best terms, having found it necessary or amusing to sue one another in his majesty's law courts; and shortly before this, lady catesby had been to huddington to request robert winter's assistance in making peace with her son. he was now on his way to advise her, and had heard nothing of the proceedings in london. but soon after his arrival at the hall, four weary, bemired men arrived also. these were percy, the wrights, and rookwood, keyes having left them on the way. "lost, lost!" cried impetuous percy, as he came, booted, spurred, and covered with mud, into the very neat drawing-room where lady catesby and her young daughter elizabeth were engaged on their embroidery. "all is lost! the whole plot discovered. i cast no doubt proclamations shall be out by morning light to seize us all, with a full relation how short or how long we be." lady catesby exerted herself to provide for the refreshment and comfort other very unexpected guests, and they were soon on their way across the hall to supper, when one of the servants came up with a message that "one at the base door prayed speech of mr winter." robert winter excused himself to his hostess, and going to the back-door, he there found martha bates, wife of the bates who was his fellow--conspirator and catesby's servant. "pray you, sir," said martha with a bob of deprecation mingled with deference, "to come into the fields by the town's end, where is one would speak quickly with you." "who is it?" martha glanced round, as if afraid of the chestnuts overhearing her. "well, sir, to tell truth, 'tis mr catesby; but i pray you, let not my lady anne know of his being here." robert winter took his way to the place appointed, and found a group of some twelve horsemen awaiting him. "good even! well, what news?" "the worst could be. mr fawkes is taken, and the whole plot discovered." "ay, you have heard it, then? here are come but now my cousins wright, with mr percy and mr rookwood, bringing the same news. what now do we?" "what say you?" "well, it seems to me best that each should submit himself." "we've not yet come to that. bid them every one follow me to dunchurch without loss of time. only--mind you let not my mother know of my being here." "to dunchurch--what, afore supper? we were but just come into the dining-chamber, and i smell somewhat uncommon good." "you may tarry for jugged hare," said catesby contemptuously. "i shall ride quickly to dunchurch, and there consult." "well--if you must, have with you." "bring some pies in your pocket, robin, and then you'll not fall to cannibalism on the way," called catesby after him. "and--hark! ask if any wist the road to dunchurch, for i know it not." the question was put in vain to all the party. it appeared, when they came up with catesby, that nobody knew the road to dunchurch. guide-posts were a mystery of the future. "we must needs have a guide," said catesby; "but i am fain at this moment not to show myself in ashby. robin, wilt thou win us one? go thou to leeson, the smith, at the entering in of the village as thou comest from ravensthorpe--" "ay, i know." "ask him if he will guide us to dunchurch, and he shall be well paid for it. he is safe, being a catholic. we will follow anon." bennet leeson, the blacksmith at ashby saint ledgers, had given up work for the day, and having gone through some extensive ablutions and the subsequent supper, now stood at his cottage door, looking out on the green and taking his rest. he was not enjoying a pipe, for that was as yet a vice of the city, which had not penetrated to rustic and primitive places such as ashby saint ledgers. a horseman came trotting up the street, and drew bridle at his door. "give thee good den, smith! dost know the road to dunchurch?" bennet leeson took off his leather cap, and scratched his head, as if it were necessary to clear a path to his brains before the question could penetrate so far. "well, i reckon i do, when 'tis wanted. what o' that?" "wilt guide me thither?" "what, this even?" "ay, now." bennet's cap came off again, and he repeated the clearing process on the other side of his head. "i will content thee well for it," said the stranger: "but make up thy mind, for time presseth." a dulcet vision of silver shillings--of which no great number usually came his way--floated before the charmed eyes of the blacksmith. "well, i shouldn't mind if i did. tarry while i get my horse." the stranger waited, though rather impatiently, till bennet reappeared, leading a rough dunsmoor pony, with a horsecloth tied round it, on which he mounted without saddle. "now then, my master. nay, not that way! you're turning your back on dunchurch so." the horseman checked his hasty, start with a smile, and followed his guide. as they reached the other end of the village, and came out into the open, catesby and his companions emerged from the trees, and joined robert winter. "him's growed!" said bennet leeson to himself, as he glanced round at the increased sound of horses' hoofs. "first time i ever see one man split his self into thirteen. the beast's split his self too. wonder if them'll ha' come to six-and-twenty by the time us gets at dunchurch!" the company, however, grew no further, and bennet led them up to the door of the lion at dunchurch without any more marvels. it was now about "seven or eight o'clock in the night." catesby, the only one whom he knew by sight, said to the smith as he dismounted-- "here, smith, wilt walk the horses a few moments? it shall not be forgot in the reckoning." the whole party then went into the lion, where sir everard digby and others awaited them. a hurried, eager discussion of future plans took place here. the drawer was called to bring bottles of sack and glasses, and before he was well out of hearing, impetuous percy cried, "we are all betrayed!" "softly, an't like you!" responded the cooler catesby. "we must go on now," cried percy: "we shall die for it else." "but what must we now do?" asked rookwood. "go, even yet, to combe abbey, and seize on the lady elizabeth?" "we wait for you, mr catesby," said sir everard. "you have been our leader from the beginning, and we of your following will not forsake you now." "too late for anything of that sort," was catesby's decision. "there are scarce enough of us, and word will sure be sent to my lord harrington, quicker than we could reach the place. remember, they will go direct, and we have come round. nay, our only way is to gather all our friends together, and see what manner of stand we can make. in numbers is our safety." "every catholic in the realm will rally to us," said sir everard. "and many protestants belike," suggested robert winter. "marry, we shall have brave following, ere we be twelve hours older," said percy. "but which way go we now?" "let us first cross over to grant's; we shall maybe increase our numbers there: then go we to coughton, pressing such as will join us on the way." "done!" said percy, always the first to agree to anything which was action, and not waiting for events. outside, in the meantime, bennet leeson was walking the horses, as he had been requested. "tarry a bit, leeson: thou hast not yet handled all thou mayest gain this night," said a voice the smith knew. "why, whence came you, tom bates?" "you've good eyes, bennet. i've been behind you ever since we left ashby." "by the same token, but i never saw you." "well, let be seeing me or no--wilt guide me to rugby and back here for another shilling?" bates and leeson accordingly rode away to "a little town called rugby," where at the bailiffs house they found nine more worthies, who had finished their supper, and were playing cards. one of these gentry was john winter--the half-brother of robert and thomas,--whose mother was the daughter of queen mary's redoubtable secretary, sir john bourne [note ]. he was either very simple or very clever, and at this distance of time it is not easy to say which. bates delivered the message with which he was charged, that "the gentlemen at dunchurch desired their company to be merry," and the nine card-players accordingly returned with him to that place. having paid the promised shilling to leeson, bates took his new convoy into the inn, whence the whole party emerged in about a quarter of an hour. "that is for thy pains, smith, and i thank thee," said catesby, stooping from his saddle to put two shillings in the hand of his guide. the whole party now rode away in the direction of coventry. "well, that's a queer start!" said the blacksmith to himself, looking first after the horsemen, and then down at the money in his hand. "if it hadn't a-been muster catesby, now, and tom bates, might ha' thought us 'd been out wi' the fairies this even. you're good silver, aren't you? let we see. ay--an edward shovelboard [note ], and a new shilling o' king james, and three groats o' queen bess--that's not fairy silver, i 'count. come along, yethard!" [note ] as he scrambled on the back of his shaggy friend. "thee and me'll go home now. us has done a good night's work. they shillings 'll please she, if her's not in a tantrum. gee up wi' thee!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . sicklemore, one of the priests, said with a sigh, "the divell is in that lord of salisbury! all our undoing is his doing, and the execution of garnet is his only deed." (additional manuscript , folio .) note . clerkenwell was a suburb wherein many roman catholics dwelt. "there were divers houses of recusants in saint john's street," among them those of sir henry james and thomas sleep, at the last of which fawkes was a frequent visitor. mrs wyniard bore witness that when fawkes paid her the last quarter's rent, on sunday, november rd, he had "good store of gould in his pocket." note . modern writers are apt to confuse nought and naught. at this time they were quite distinct, the former signifying _nothing_, and the latter (whence naughty is derived) _wickedness_. note . this is the gentleman described by the hot gospeller as coming to the door of the council-chamber, "looking as the wolf doth for a lamb; unto whom my two keepers delivered me," and "he took me in greedily." (narrative of edward underhill, harl. manuscript , folio , b.) note . the shilling of edward the sixth acquired this popular name from being so large and flat, that it was found convenient for use in the game of shovelboard. note . the northamptonshire pronunciation of edward. chapter nine. on the weary way to holbeach. "and thou hast fashioned idols of thine own-- idols of gold, of silver, and of stone: to them hast bowed the knee, and breathed the breath, and they must help thee in the hour of death." sir edwin arnold. while the discomfited conspirators were thus speeding on their weary way, in hope of yet gathering recruits enough to raise the standard of rebellion in the interests of that church on whose behalf they counted everything lawful, lord harrington, at combe abbey, heard the news, and hurried the little princess off to coventry, as a safer place than his own house, for coventry was determinately protestant and loyal. elizabeth, afterwards well known as the queen of bohemia, was deeply impressed and horrified with the terrible discovery. "what sort of a queen should i have been," said the true-hearted child, "when i had won to my throne through the blood of my father and my brothers? thanked be god that it was not so!" the metropolis was passing through a ferment of delight, amazement, and activity. everywhere in the streets bonfires were blazing,--the first of those gunpowder plot bonfires which every fifth of november has seen after them. a watch was set on percy's house in holborn, and his wife was guarded. a priest named roberts was taken in the house. mrs martha percy appears to have been a fitting mate for a conspirator. she put on an affectation of the sublimest innocence. how should she know anything? she who lived so quietly, and was entirely occupied in teaching her own and other children. as to her husband, she had not seen him since midsummer. he was attendant on my lord of northumberland, and lodged, as she supposed, in his house. having thus lulled to sleep the suspicions of those set to watch her, the next morning mrs percy was not to be found. whether she slipped through a door, or climbed out of a window, or went up the chimney on a broomstick, there was no evidence to show; but three days later she made her appearance at norbrook house in warwickshire, the residence of her eldest brother, john wright, and was affectionately received by her sister-in-law. at westminster, lord chief-justice popham and sir edward coke sat in judicial ermine, and summoned before them two prisoners--gideon gibbons the porter, and the clever gentleman who called himself john johnson, and whose real name was guy fawkes. gibbons was soon disposed of, for he was as innocent as he seemed to be. all that he could say was that he had been hired, in his usual way of business, with two other porters, to carry three thousand billets of wood to the parliament house, and that mr percy's servant johnson had stacked them in the cellar. the key of the house next door had been at times left in charge of his wife. so much he knew, and no more. the examination of "john johnson" was another matter. the king himself had drawn up a paper containing questions to be put to him, and he answered these and all others with an appearance of perfect frankness and wish to conceal nothing. his replies were in reality a mixture of truth and falsehood, which was afterwards proved. the catechism began as usual, "what is your name?" "john johnson." to this he adhered through two more examinations. "how old are you?" "thirty-six." this was true. "where were you born?" "in netherdale, in the county of york." "how have you lived hitherto?" "by a farm of thirty pounds a year." "how came those wounds in your breast?" "they are scars from the healing of a pleurisy." the treatment of pleurisy in the seventeenth century was apparently rather severe. fawkes went on to reply to the articles demanded, that he had never served any man but percy--though he had been in the service of anthony browne, lord montague, a few months before: that he obtained percy's service "only by his own means, being a yorkshire man"; that he had learned french in england, and increased it when abroad; that he was born a papist, and not perverted--which was false. being asked why he was addressed as "mr fauks" in a letter (as he alleged) from mrs colonel bostock, which was found in his pocket, mr "johnson" replied with the coolest effrontery, that it was because he had called himself so in flanders, where mrs bostock resided. this letter was subsequently discovered to come from anne vaux. thus far went king james's queries: in respect of which the king desired "if he will no other ways confesse, the gentle tortours to be first used unto him, _et sic per gradus ad ima tenditur_; and so god speede your good work!" it was not, however, necessary to urge a confession: mr percy's man seemed anxious to make a clean breast of it, and promised to tell everything. he proceeded accordingly to lead his examiners astray by a little truth and a good deal of falsehood. he gave a tolerably accurate account of the hiring of the house and the cellar, the bringing in of the powder, etcetera, except that he refrained from implicating any one but himself. there was, at first, a certain air of nobility about fawkes, and he sternly refused to become an informer. he declined to admit his summer journey abroad, and would not allow that the spring excursion had any other object than "to see the country and pass away the time." "what would you have done," asked the examiners, "with the queen and the royal issue?" "if they had been there, i would not have helped them." "if all had gone, who would have been published or elected king?" "we never entered into that consideration." "what form of government should have succeeded?" "we were too few to enter into the consideration. the people themselves would have drawn to a head." all this was untrue, as fawkes subsequently allowed. a number of arrests were made, mostly of innocent persons. all in whose houses the conspirators had lodged. mrs herbert, mrs more, the tailor patrick; mrs wyniard, mrs bright, and their respective servants; lord northumberland's gentlemen, and the earl himself, were put under lock and key. the poor earl bemoaned himself bitterly, and entreated that percy might be searched for--"who alone could show him clear as the day, or dark as the night." he asserted that percy had obtained money from him by falsehood: and seeing how exquisitely little value most of these worthy gentlemen seem to have set upon truth, it was not at all unlikely. lady northumberland wrote an impulsive letter to lord salisbury, entreating him to stand her friend by "salving" her husband's reputation, "much wounded in the opinion of the world by this wretched cousin": but the only result of the appeal was to make the lord treasurer angry, and give rise to an intercession in her behalf from her lord and master, who begs salisbury to "bear with her because she is a woman," and therefore "not able with fortitude to bear out the crosses of the world as men are: and," adds the earl humorously, "she will sometimes have her own ways, let me do what i can, which is not unknown to you." [note .] the prisoners were remanded, and the great metropolis slept: but there was no sleep for those bemired and weary horsemen who pressed on that night journey to norbrook. where grant joined them is not recorded, but humphrey littleton had left them at dunchurch. his share in the plot had been insignificant, but we shall hear of him again. catesby, john wright, and percy, who rode in front, beguiled their journey by a discussion as to how they could procure fresh horses. they were approaching warwick, and it was proposed that grant and some of the servants should be sent on in front, with instructions to make a raid on a livery-stable in the town, kept by a man named bennock, and seize as many horses as they could get. robert winter, riding behind, saw the men sent on, and pressing forward to the front, inquired the meaning of it. when told the intention, he combated it strongly, and did his best to dissuade catesby from it. the man who had swallowed the camel of the gunpowder plot was scandalised at the idea of horse-stealing! [note .] "i pray you, no more of this!" said robert winter. "it will but further increase the wrath of the king." "some of us may not look back," said catesby. robert replied with some spirit, for he knew himself to be among the less guilty of the plotters. "yet others, i hope, may; and therefore, i beg you, let this alone." catesby looked up with a faint, sad smile, and tired sleepless eyes. "what, hast thou any hope, robin? i assure thee, there is none that knoweth of this action but shall perish." when the body of the conspirators reached warwick, about a.m., the horses were almost ready for them to mount. ten were seized at the the livery-stable, and a few more were either stolen or borrowed from the castle. thus provided, and now about eighty in number, they rode on to grant's house at norbrook. on arrival here, they despatched bates to coughton, with a letter to garnet from digby. this letter was read by garnet to greenway, both of whom are represented by bates as spotlessly ignorant of the plot until that moment. greenway returned with bates, at his earnest request, attired in "coulored satten done with gould lace," and was met by catesby with the exclamation-- "here is a gentleman who will live and die with us!" from norbrook robert winter despatched a servant in advance, summarily ordering his wife to "go forth of the house, and take the children with her," which the obedient gertrude did. about two o'clock on the afternoon of the sixth, thirty-six worn-out men arrived at huddington, to be re-armed from robert winter's armoury; after which, finding himself rather at a loss in the housekeeping department, the master of the house recalled his gertrude to minister to the comfort of himself and his guests. that submissive lady did her duty, and leaving the children with the neighbour at whose house she had taken refuge, returned to her own kitchen to superintend a hastily-prepared supper for the weary travellers. before this was ready, catesby and john wright took robert winter aside, and tried hard to induce him to write to his father-in-law, attempting to draw him into the now almost hopeless rebellion. "there is no remedy, robin," said john wright, "but thou must write a letter to thy father talbot, to see if thou canst therewith draw him unto us." "nay, that will i not," was the determined answer. "robin, you must," said catesby. "my masters, ye know not my father talbot so well as i," replied robin winter. "all the world cannot draw him from his allegiance. neither would i if i could, in this case. what friends hath my poor wife and children but he? and therefore, satisfy yourselves; i will not." "well, then," suggested wright, "write as we shall say unto thee to master smallpiece, that serves thy father talbot." robert winter, who liked an easy life, suffered himself to be persuaded on this point; and wrote the letter, of which all that now remains is a few half-burnt lines, written in great haste, and barely legible: "good cousin, i fear it will not seem strange to you that--a good number of resolved catholics so perform matters of such... will set their most strength, or hang all those that ever... use your best endeavour to stir up my father talbot... which i hold much more honourable than to be hanged after... cousin, pray for me, i pray you, and send me all such friends... haste, i commend you. from huddington, this th of november." "r..." having written this letter, mr robert winter proceeded, not to forward, but to pocket it, and declined to give it up until the next morning, when he resigned it, "to stop a peace withal." late in the evening of the th, the conspirators were joined by stephen littleton and thomas winter, the latter of whom had not been able to overtake them any sooner. before daybreak on the following morning, they assembled in the private chapel of huddington house, where mass was sung by the family confessor, mr hammond, and the sacrament was administered to all present after due confession. then, leaving huddington about sunrise, they recommenced their weary flight. they were now "armed at all points in open rebellion," yet with daggers and guns only. instead of continuing their course, as hitherto, directly westward, they turned towards the north, and made for hewell grange, the residence of lord windsor, where they plundered the armoury. the company had much decreased: one and another every now and then dropped off stealthily, doubtful of what was coming, though catesby and sir everard rode pistol in hand, warning them that all who sought to steal away would be shot without quarter. percy, grant, john wright, and morgan, were placed behind for the same purpose. as the party rode towards hewell grange, they asked all whom they met to join them. the usual response was-- "we are for king james; if you go for him, then will we have with you." to this the conspirators were wont to reply--"we go for god and the country." but the shrewd worcestershire peasants declined to commit themselves to anything so vague as this. at last they came to an old countryman, to whom they addressed their customary appeal. the old man planted his staff firmly in front of him, and set his back against a wall. "i am for king james," he said, "for whom i will live and die." upon this the disloyalty of the company was plainly manifested by shouts of "kill him! kill him!" but there was no time to stop for that, which probably saved the brave old loyalist's life. upon leaving hewell, the conspirators rode up to the houses of all the roman catholic gentry in the neighbourhood, and summoned their owners to join them for god and the church. but sore disappointments met them on every side. from door after door they were driven with horror and contumely--were openly told that "they had brought ruin on the catholic cause." "not one man came to take our part," is their lament, "though we had expected so many." to add to their misery, the rain began to pour down in torrents; one after another deserted them as they fled: and when at last in the darkness the heath was passed, and holbeach house was reached, instead of the gallant company of eighty well-accoutred troops who had left norbrook the morning before, there crept into the court-yard only eighteen wet and weary men, who had lost all, including honour. holbeach house was about two miles from stourbridge, and was the home of stephen littleton, one of the latest to join the plot. here the worn-out men slept--the last sleep for some of them. so weary and worn-out were they, that they sank to sleep just as they were, in the dining-room--some pillowing their heads on the table, others casting themselves on the floor. at this very unsuitable moment, it seemed good to mr john winter to inquire of percy what he meant to do. [note .] percy, in extremely somnolent tones, answered that he intended to go on. "ay, but how and whither?" responded thomas winter, as wide awake as he usually was in all senses. "if you have e'er a plan in your head, out with it," replied percy. "just now, i've no head to put one in." "if you will hearken to me," said thomas, "you will now despatch robin's letter to my cousin smallpiece." "what to do?" "`what to do'!--to win his aid. he is as true a catholic as any of us." "ay, he's catholic, but he is very timorous. he has no mind to be hanged, trust me." "have you?" "i should stand to it better than he. then you'll meet old master talbot, who shall kick you forth ere you have time to say, `an't please you.'" "i'll have a care of that. steenie, wilt have with me?" mr stephen littleton had to be awoke before he could answer the question. as soon as he understood what was demanded of him, he professed his readiness to accompany anybody anywhere in the future, so long as he might be let alone to finish his nap at the present. before another sentence had been uttered, he reverted to an unconscious state. suddenly sir everard sprang up. "mr catesby, methinks i shall best serve you if i go to hasten the succours. what think you?" "if you will," said catesby, for once a little doubtfully. ten minutes later, one of the least wearied horses in the group carried him away. there were troops on their way to holbeach, but it was not for succour. sir richard walsh, the sheriff, sir john folliott, a few gentlemen, and a party of the king's troops, with all the force of the county, were on the track of the wretched fugitives. they had chased them from northamptonshire into warwickshire, from warwickshire into worcestershire, and now they were approaching their last refuge in staffordshire. it was still dark on the friday morning, when thomas winter and stephen littleton rode to pepperhill, where old mr talbot was at that time. robert declined to accompany them, and bates excused himself. to obtain sight of mr smallpiece, without being seen by mr talbot, was the delicate business on which they were bent. leonard smallpiece seems to have been an agent or bailiff of mr talbot, and a relative of the winters; he was "exceeding popishe, but very timorous." [note .] the pair of worthies settled that stephen should remain outside in charge of the horses, while winter tried to effect safe entrance. they rode up to the yard door, and having dismounted, were about to investigate possibilities, when without any warning the doors were flung open, and the sturdy old loyalist owner appeared behind them. "how dare you come hither?" was his fierce greeting to the unwelcome visitors, "considering what speech there is of your tumultuous rising." "sir," answered winter, deprecatingly, "my meaning was not to speak with you, but with one in your house; and i am very sorry i have met with you." "so am i, too!" said john talbot. "your coming may be as much as my life is worth. it is very fit you should be taken." "i shall not easily be taken," was the reply. "fare you well! get you away!" answered talbot, as he slammed the gate in winter's face. they came to the conclusion that discretion would be the better part of valour, and retraced their steps to holbeach. here stephen went into the house, leaving winter outside. the former found his friends very busily engaged in making preparations for resistance, for they had now determined that at holbeach their last stand should be made. their gunpowder, like themselves, had been soaked in the rain, the stour being extremely high, and the cart which they had stolen from hewell grange a very low one. catesby, rookwood, and grant, applied themselves to the drying of the powder. they laid about sixteen pounds of it in a linen bag on the floor, and heaping about two pounds on a platter, placed it in the chimney-corner to dry by the fire. a servant entering to put fresh logs on the fire, was not sufficiently careful of the platter. a spark flew out, lighted on the powder, and it exploded. part of the roof was blown off, the linen bag was carried through the hole thus made, and afterwards taken up uninjured in the court-yard: but the three powder-dryers, with henry morgan, were severely injured both in face and body. in the same pit that they had dug privily, was their own foot taken. when the conspirators thus beheld themselves "hoist with their own petard," the first feeling among them was less fear for their safety than awe at the just judgment of god. the most guilty among them were also the most horrified. for a moment those nearest the powder were supposed to be killed. john wright lost his head, flung himself on what he believed to be the corpse of his leader, with a wild cry-- "woe worth the time that we have seen this day! bring me the powder! bring me the powder, that i may set it afire, and blow up ourselves and this house together!" rookwood rushed to a picture of the virgin, and throwing himself on his knees, confessed "that the act was so bloody that he desired god to forgive him;" in which prayer he was joined by some of the others. catesby himself lost his firmness, and on recovering himself, gasped out his fear that god disapproved of their project. robert winter and greenway fled in terror--so far that they never came back. stephen littleton went off also, but he waited long enough to send a message to thomas winter, who had not yet come in. "tell him to fly," said the valiant stephen, "and so will i." whatever else thomas winter was, he was loyal to his oath and to his friends. "his honour rooted in dishonour stood, and faith unfaithful kept him falsely true." he supposed the news to mean that catesby was killed. "nay," said he; "i will first see the body of my friend and bury him, whatsoever befall me." returning to the house, winter found his friends decidedly alive and "reasonable well." "what resolve you to do?" he asked them. "we mean here to die," was the answer. "well!" replied winter, "i will take such part as you do." and john wright said, "i will live and die among you." not long afterwards, about noon, the sheriff and his troops surrounded holbeach house. after several ineffectual summonses to surrender, and the reading of a proclamation in the king's name bidding the rebels to submit themselves, which met only with blunt refusals, the sheriff fired the house, and led an attack upon the gates. the conspirators who were left showed no lack of courage. they walked out into the court-yard, set the gate open, and took up their stand in front of it, catesby in the middle, with percy and thomas winter on either side. at the first assault, an arrow from a cross-bow had struck winter in the shoulder, and rendered his right arm useless. the second shot struck john wright, the third christopher wright, the fourth rookwood. the two wrights fell, and were supposed to be dead. "stand by me, tom," said catesby to winter, "and we will die together." "sir," was the answer, "i have lost the use of my right arm, and i fear that will cause _me_ to be taken." they were the last words of robert catesby. the next bullet passed clean through his body, and lodged in that of percy at his side. catesby fell, mortally wounded. he had just strength to crawl on his hands and knees into the vestibule of the house, where stood an image of the virgin: and clasping it in his arms, he died. percy sank down, also wounded to death; he expired the following day. john wright, recovering somewhat from his wound, called to bates, and delivered him a bag of money, entreating him to fly and take it to mrs wright at norbrook. winter was seized; grant, rookwood, and morgan, yielded themselves to the sheriff: but the exasperated mob, rushing in, while the sheriff's men were lifting one of the wounded, seized upon the others, stripped and ill-used them, until wounds which might possibly have been healed were past cure. john and christopher wright died in two or three days. one or two fugitives were brought into holbeach later; five were arrested at stourbridge, sir everard digby at dudley. bates succeeded in making good his escape with the bag, and reached wolverhampton in the night. his wife martha, who lived at ashby, hearing a false rumour of his capture and imprisonment in shrewsbury gaol, went to see him, and both stayed for the night in the same inn at wolverhampton, neither of them knowing the nearness of the other. bates, finding himself unable to reach lapworth, and with no hope of escaping finally, delivered the bag of money to a friend to convey to martha, and departed, not wishing to endanger his friend. he then went to oldfield, in shropshire, to the house of his cousin, richard bates, by whom having been betrayed, he was apprehended, and brought to london. by his confession on his examination, garnet and greenway were implicated, though bates tried his best to prove them innocent. sir richard walsh conveyed his prisoners to worcester, where he occupied himself in taking their examinations, and sending the information obtained to the lords of the council. sir richard verney was sent to scour the country on the recent track of the fugitives, and to arrest the relatives and servants of every one of them. john winter, gertrude winter at huddington, ludovic grant at dudley, dorothy grant at norbrook, and at lapworth john wright's wife dorothy, and christopher's wife margaret; ambrose rookwood's wife, and her sister; and thomas rookwood of claxton, at bidford, were all gradually added to the group. mrs dorothy grant, whether from fright or loquacity, proved very candid in answering questions, and from her they learned that the missing martha percy was "not far off." sir richard verney, however, found it no easy matter to keep his prisoners when he had got them. twice his house was set on fire, evidently by design; but he held stoutly to the lively ladies in his care, and delivered them all safely in london in due time. we must now, for a short time, follow the two conspirators who had escaped in company, and whose wanderings are not devoid of interest. robert winter and stephen littleton got safely away from holbeach, thus evading the miserable fate of their fellow-conspirators. they succeeded in reaching the house of a certain christopher white, a servant of stephen's cousin, humphrey littleton, who lived in the village of king's rowley. this man they bribed to allow them to remain in his barn until the search for the fugitives should have ceased, when they promised to give him a substantial reward, and no longer to endanger him by their presence. "there they abode a great while, but with very poor and slender fare, such as otherwise had been too coarse and out of fashion for them." a proclamation was meanwhile set forth by government for their discovery, wherein robert winter was described as "of mean stature, rather low than otherwise; brown hair and beard, not much beard, short hair; somewhat stooping, square made, near forty." stephen littleton was "a very tall man; swarthy complexion, no beard or little, brown coloured hair; about thirty." a neighbour of white's, named smart, and apparently smart by nature as well as name, noticed the unusual evidences of prosperity in his neighbour's dwelling, and shrewdly surmised the reason. upon due consideration of the subject, mr smart, like a good many people both before and after him, came to the conclusion that it was highly unreasonable that his neighbour should be mounting the social ladder when he remained at the bottom. he therefore applied himself to the matter, discovered the refugees in the barn, and strongly recommended his barn as far preferable to white's. the fugitives were persuaded to change their hiding-place. this was no sooner done, than another neighbour, named hollyhead, set his wits also to work, and dulcetly represented that smart's barn was a much less safe and attractive locality than his house: each of these worthy individuals being of course moved by respect to the pecuniary reward for which he hoped. on the departure of his guests, white took fright and fled: which caused "much rumour to be blabbed abroad" concerning the vain search and the probable vicinity of the fugitives. humphrey littleton, who was in the secret, began to be alarmed, and removed his friends from hollyhead's house to that of a man named john perks, in the village of hagley, close to hagley park, the residence of his widowed sister-in-law. it was before dawn on new year's day that they reached the cottage of perks, a warrener or gamekeeper, who had been dismissed from mrs littleton's service for dishonesty. the wearied men knocked at his door; and when perks came forth, said they were friends, and begged him to help them to food and shelter. "ye be mr stephen littleton, and mr winter," said perks. "we are so," they admitted. "pray you, goodman, grant us meat and lodging till we be fit for journeying; and when we can travel, then shall you bring us to london, and have a great reward from the king for taking us, we being willing to die, and not live any longer in so miserable a condition." if mr perks's eyes glistened as this distant prospect of a great reward was held out to him, they grew yet more radiant when humphrey littleton counted into his hand thirty golden sovereigns, twenty into that of his man, and seventeen to his sister. perks led the way to his barn, where mounting on a barley mow, he formed a large hole in its midst, and here the unhappy gentlemen were secreted, food being brought to them by perks as occasion served, by his sister margaret, or at times by his man, thomas burford. here they might have remained in safety for a considerable time without fear of discovery, had not mr perks entertained rather too close an affection for barley in another form than heaped up in a barn--namely, in company with hops and water. mr perks had a friend, named poynter, who liked beer and rabbits quite as well as himself; and one winter night, nine days after the fugitives had been hidden in the mow, these worthies set forth on a poaching expedition. returning home somewhat late, and "well tippled in drink," it occurred to mr poynter that it would save him a walk home if his friend perks were to lodge him for the night. the latter, however, did not see the circumstance in that light, and a tipsy altercation followed, which was ended by perks "shaking off" poynter, and staggering home by himself. the night was cold and wet, and mr poynter's temper was scarcely so cool as the atmosphere. he was tipsily resolved that he would have a lodging at perks's expense, whether that gentleman would or not; and bethinking himself that if perks's house were locked against him, his barn was not, he took thither his unsteady way, and scrambling up the barley mow, to his own unfeigned astonishment dropped into the hole on the top of the sleeping conspirators. thus roused suddenly in the dead of night, and naturally concluding that their enemies were upon them, winter and littleton sprang up to defend themselves, and to sell their lives dearly. poynter, who was quite as much amazed and terrified as they could be, as naturally fought for his own safety, and a desperate struggle ensued. it ended in the two overcoming the one, and insisting on his remaining with them, so that they could be certain of his telling no tales. for four days poynter remained on the mow, professing resignation and contentment, and lamenting the sore pain which he suffered from a wound in the leg, received in the pursuit of his vocation as a rabbit-stealer. when margaret perks came with food, and afterwards burford, poynter pretended to be in mortal anguish, and besought them earnestly to bring him some salve, without which he was quite certain he should die. the salve was brought, and the wily poynter then discovered that lying in the hole he had not sufficient light to apply it. he was suffered to creep up on the top of the mow, which he professed to do with the greatest difficulty. but even there the light was scarcely sufficient: might he drag himself a little nearer the door? being now quite deceived by mr poynter's excellent acting, and believing that he was much too suffering and disabled to escape, they permitted him to crawl quite to the edge of the mow nearest to the light, and of course next to the door. the moment this point was reached, the disabled cripple slipped down from the mow, and the next instant was out of the door and far away, running with a fleetness which made it hopeless to think of following him. there was still, however, some room for that hope which springs eternal in the human breast. poynter's friendship for perks, and the expectation that perks could bribe him to secrecy, weighed with the fugitives, who had not sufficiently learned that the friendship of an unprincipled man is worth nothing. poynter, on the other hand, considered his chances superior in the opposite direction. he made at once for hagley hall, intending to tell his story there; but on the way he met with perks, who was ignorant of poynter's recent adventure; and that gentleman suggesting a joint visit to the nearest tavern, poynter easily suffered his steps to be diverted in that attractive direction. the precious pair of friends drank together, and departed to their respective homes. now, mistress littleton, the lady of hagley park, was a protestant, and a gentlewoman of extreme discretion; and the day on which poynter thus made his escape from the hay-mow had been chosen by her to commence a journey to london. before her departure, she summoned her steward, mr hazelwood, and desired him to be circumspect during her absence, "owing to the mischances happening in the county." mistress littleton having ridden forth on her journey, her worthy brother, mr humphrey, commonly called red humphrey, who certainly did not share the discretion of his sister, determined to play the mouse during the absence of his cat, and to convey his traitor-friends into his own chamber at hagley park. there is reason to think that mistress littleton was not only a sagacious but also a somewhat managing dame, who rode red humphrey with a tighter curb than that reckless individual approved. accordingly, having heard of poynter's escape, and taking one person only into his confidence, he repaired to the barn about eleven o'clock that night, and smuggled his cousin and friend away from the barley mow into the pleasanter shelter of his own room in hagley park. the one person thus selected as humphrey's confidant, was john fynwood or fynes, alias "jobber," also known as john cook, from the office which he bore in the household. humphrey had brought him up, and when come to suitable age, had induced his sister-in-law to engage him as cook: he therefore expected this man, being thus beholden to him, to remain faithful to his interests. but there was another person whose interests were considerably dearer to john cook, and that was himself. the trio reached master humphrey's chamber in safety, aided by john cook. robert winter turned round as he entered, and grasped the cook's hand. "ah, jack!" said he, "little wots thy mistress what guests are now in her house, that in so long a space did never so much as look upon a fire!" "welcome, heartily!" answered humphrey, motioning to his guests to approach nearer to the cheerful hearth. "jack, lad, the time being thus late, canst kill some hen or chickens about the house, to serve and fit the present occasion withal? i will recompense it to thee afterward." jack readily undertook the commission, and brought up a very appetising dish with great diligence and promptness. "master," said he, "you shall need drink, and the butler is in bed; to call on him for the key might rouse suspicion. pray you, shall i run in the town to my mother, and fetch you drink from thence?" "so do, honest jack, and hie thee back quickly. see, here is a tester for thee." honest jack picked up the tester, and disappeared. it does seem strange, considering the danger which was thus run, that the fugitives should not have been satisfied to drink water with their supper, since even thus they would have fared much better than they had done for some time past. but in truth, the very idea of drinking water was foreign to men's minds in those days, except in the light of a very cruel hardship, and about the last strait to which a starving man could be reduced. the mother of jack kept a small tavern in the village. thither he ran to fill his jug, and to pour into the ears of the hostess the interesting fact that the traitors then sought for by the king's proclamation were at that moment entertained in master humphrey's chamber at hagley park. "pray you, mother," he added, "when morning breaketh, raise the town to take them, for i fear lest i may not, unsuspected, get forth again to do it." having made which little arrangement, honest jack and his jug returned to the park, where the trio of traitors finished their supper, and proceeded to sleep three in a bed. to make assurance doubly sure, jack rapped at mr hazelwood's door, and bestowed upon him the same interesting information already given to mrs fynwood. the morning being come, the cook paid another visit to his prisoners, whom he found nearly dressed, and looking out of the window to see the meaning of the noise they heard, which was in fact the arrival of the sheriff's officer and his men. even then, so complete was their confidence in jack, that they never imagined themselves betrayed, and humphrey, having stowed his friends for more complete security in a closet-room opening out of his chamber, went down into the hall--and met the officer of the law. "sir, i understand there be in this house certain traitors, so charged by proclamation of his sacred majesty, whom you have in keeping." "never an one, my master, i do ensure you," answered humphrey, as lightly as if he spoke the truth: and he cut a large slice from the loaf standing on the table. "pray you, sit down and break your fast; you are full welcome, as i am sure my good sister should tell you were she at home. after that ye have eaten, ye shall search the house an' ye will.--see here, jack cook! make a good toast for these worthy masters; and thou, david butler, go up to my chamber for my cup--thou shalt find it on the window-ledge, i think." outside, mr hazelwood was giving directions for the search, hints being constantly supplied to him by the cook as to what transpired within. the butler, david bate, went to fetch his master's cup, and of course found the room empty. as he came to the foot of the back-stair, master humphrey met him. "good david, help me to the key of the back-door into the cellar," he said in a hurried whisper. "as ever thou wilt do anything for me, stick now to me, and help save my life." "sir, i have not the key," answered the astonished butler. "the brewer hath it." the brewer was hastily summoned, delivered the key, and was as hurriedly dismissed. then humphrey ran up to his closet, brought down his concealed guests, and conducted them through the buttery towards the cellar. the butler slipped away from them, and told the officers. the situation was now desperate. inside the house the officers were pursuing them; outside, a crowd, in league with the authorities, was shouting itself hoarse in execration of them. the wretched men made one last frantic dash around the house, and robert winter and stephen littleton were arrested in the stable-yard, and prevented from reaching the neighbouring wood. but what had become of red humphrey? the instant he saw the game was up, he hurriedly mounted his horse, and eluded his pursuers. but he was not to escape much longer. the searching party which poynter had led to the barn, disappointed there, scoured the neighbourhood; and at prestwood the fugitive was taken, and committed to safe custody in stafford gaol. even after they were secured, it was no easy matter to carry the other prisoners to worcester. while they were "refreshing themselves" in an alehouse at hagley--probably the tavern kept by mrs fynwood--a tumult arose among the people outside which almost led to their rescue; and a few miles from hagley, sir thomas undirhood and his company overtook the sheriff, and vainly attempted to gain possession of them to take them back to staffordshire. the worcestershire men, however, held on grimly to their prize, and at last triumphantly lodged their prisoners in the gaol at worcester. the examinations of the culprits in london went on. they were mainly characterised by mr fawkes's contradictions on every occasion of something which he had previously said; by the addition of a little information each time; and by the very small amount of light that could be obtained from any outsiders. on his third examination, mr "john johnson" owned that his name was guy fawkes; that he was born at york, the son of edward fawkes, a younger brother, who had left him "but small living," which he ran through with equally small delay. he denied on his conscience that he was in orders, "major or minor, regular or secular": on which occasion he told the truth. fawkes added that he did not now desire to destroy the king. "it is past," he said, "and i am now sorry for it, for that i now perceive that god did not concur with it." he admitted also the design on the lady elizabeth, but he still declined to name his accomplices, and proved obdurate to all attempts--and the attempts were basely made--to persuade him to accuse the prisoners in the tower, of whom the chief was sir walter raleigh. the utmost he could be induced to admit concerning this point was that it had been "under consultation that the prisoners in the tower should have intelligence" of the intended plot, and that raleigh and several others had been named in this connection. "we should have been glad to have drawn any, of what religion soever, unto us," he said: "we meant to have made use of all the discontented people of england." but he would not allow, even to the last, that any communication had actually been made. in his fourth examination fawkes gave the names of those who had been "made privy afterwards," but he still refused to reveal those of the original traitors. he was accordingly put to the torture. gentle or ungentle, this worked its office: and on the ninth of november, after half-an-hour on the rack, fawkes recounted the names of all his accomplices. he made also an admission which proved of considerable importance--he mentioned a house in enfield chase, "where walley [garnet] doth lie." every examination is signed by the prisoner. to the first he signs "guido faukes" in a free, elegant italian hand, the hand of an educated man. but it is pitiful to see the few faint strokes which sign the fifth, even the "guido" being left unfinished. he is supposed to have fainted before the word could be written. the subsequent reports are fully signed, and in a firmer hand; but the old free elegant signature never comes again. that night an unheard-of event occurred at the white bear. hans floriszoon was two hours late in coming home. "my lad!" said edith, meeting him in the hall, "we feared some ill had befallen thee." "it hath not befallen _me_, mrs edith," was the answer; "and may god avert it from us all! but these men that aubrey was wont to visit--mr catesby, mr winter, and the rest--are now confessed by the caitiff in the tower to have an hand in the plot." "aubrey?" the word was only just breathed from edith's lips. "i went thither at once, and spake with aubrey, whom i found to have heard nought, and to be very sore troubled touching mr winter, whose friendship i can see hath been right dear unto him. i besought him to lie very close,--not to come forth at all, and if he would communicate with us these next few days, to send a messenger to me at mr leigh's, and not here, for it seemed to me there was need of caution. after a time, if all blow over, there may be less need. will you tell my lady lettice, or no?" "dear hans, thou art ever thoughtful and good. thou hast done very well. but i think my mother must be told. better softly now, than roughly after--as it may be if it be let alone." lady louvaine sat silent for a few minutes after that gentle communication had been made. then she said-- "`the floods lift up themselves, and rage mightily: but yet the lord, who dwelleth on high, is mightier.' 'tis strange that it should be so much harder to trust him with the body than with the soul! o father, keep my boy from evil!--what is evil, thou knowest: `undertake for us!'" on the rd of november, one of the prisoners in the tower escaped the sentence of the law, by an inevitable summons to the higher tribunal of god almighty. francis tresham died in his prison cell, retracting with his last breath, and "upon his salvation," the previous confession by which he had implicated garnet in the spanish negotiations. it has been suggested that he was poisoned by government because he knew too much; but there is no foundation for the charge except the possibility that his death might have been convenient to the government, and the fact that they allowed his wife and servant to be with him in his last illness goes far to disprove this improbable accusation. the authorities were now engaged in lively pursuit of the new track which fawkes had indicated to them. a house in enfield chase where garnet was or might be found, was too appetising a dainty to be lightly resigned. on the rd, they obtained a full confession from thomas winter, and the actual name of white webbs. from this moment white webbs became their ultima thule of hope and expectation. a poor and mean revenge was taken on the dead catesby and percy. their bodies were exhumed, and beheaded, and their heads set on the pinnacles of the houses of parliament. the spectators noticed with superstitious terror that blood flowed from percy's wound. the authorities seem to have regarded percy as the head and front of the conspiracy; they term him "the arch-traitor." but by the testimony of both fawkes and winter, catesby was the original deviser of the gunpowder plot. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . excerpts from burghley papers, additional manuscript , folios , .--lady northumberland was dorothy devereux, daughter of walter earl of essex and lettice knolles, and sister of the famous robert earl of essex, in whose rebellion so many romanists took part. poor lord northumberland, if innocent, paid dearly for his relationship to his "wretched cousin," being fined , pounds, which in was commuted to , pounds. he borrowed , pounds from peter vanlore to discharge the fine, and repaid half of it within a year. note . the most comical item of this assumption of virtue is the reason, as given by himself, for mr rookwood's riding on in advance at this juncture. "seeing that he was so well horsed as he was--he having fifteen or sixteen good bourses--he meant not to adventure himself in stealing of any!" note . "at holbeach, i demanded of mr percy and the rest, _being most of them asleep_, what they meant to do." (letter of john winter, gunpowder plot book, article .) note . for this shot one of the sheriff's men, named john streete, received shillings per day up to . chapter ten. the chain of our sins. "when on the problems of the past a flood of light has come; when we see the evil that we did, and the good we might have done." cyrus thornton. on the th of january, robert and thomas winter, guy fawkes, john grant, ambrose rookwood, robert keyes, and thomas bates were placed upon their trial at westminster. grant and bates were really guilty of very little beyond knowing of the plot and keeping silence. but they all received the same sentence--to be hung, drawn, and quartered. sir everard digby was tried separately, but to the same end. he alone pleaded guilty; his principal anxiety seemed to be to save the priests--a wish wherein all the conspirators agreed. on leaving the dock, sir everard, "bowing himself towards the lords, said, `if i may but hear any of your lordships say, you forgive me, i shall go more cheerfully to the gallows.' whereupon the lords said, `god forgive you, and we do.'" of all the conspirators, sir everard won the greatest sympathy, from his rank, his youth, his accomplishments, and especially his fine person-- which last drew expressions of pity from the queen, who was afflicted with that fatal worship of beauty which was the bane of the stuart race. three days later, the scaffold was set up at the west end of saint paul's cathedral, and four of the traitors were brought forth to die. they were the four least guilty of the group--sir everard digby, robert winter, john grant, and thomas bates. as the prisoners were being drawn to the scaffold upon hurdles, a pathetic incident took place. martha bates had followed her husband to london, and as the procession passed by, she rushed from the crowd of spectators, and flung herself upon the hurdle in an agony. bates then told her of the money entrusted to him by wright, which he wished her to keep for her own relief, and it was afterwards granted to her by the crown. arrived at the place of execution, sir everard was the first to ascend the ladder. very pale, yet very self-controlled, he spoke to the people, saying that his conscience had led him into this offence, which in respect of religion he held to be no sin at all, but in respect of the law he confessed that he had done wrong; and he asked forgiveness of god, the king, and the kingdom. he declined the ministrations of the clergy, and after a few latin prayers, crossed himself, and so "made an end of his wicked days in this world,"--an example for all time how little education and accomplishments can do to keep man from sin, a martyr to a priest-ridden conscience unenlightened by the word of god. robert winter followed next. he scarcely spoke, asked no forgiveness, but after a few silent prayers, passed calmly into the silent land. the next was john grant. this grave, melancholy man went smiling to his death. when he was entreated to seek for pardon for his crimes, his reply was, in a triumphant tone, "i am satisfied that our project was so far from being sinful, that i rely entirely upon my merits in bearing a part of that noble action, as an abundant satisfaction and expiation for all sins committed by me during the rest of my life!" he died thus with a lie in his right hand, and went to present the filthy rags of his own righteousness before his eyes in whose sight the heavens are not pure, and whose command is "thou shalt do no murder." last came poor bates, who "seemed sorry for his offence," and said that only his love for his dead master had drawn him to forget his duty to god, his king and country. and "thus ended that day's business." in old palace yard, "over against the parliament house,"--namely, where now stands the statue of godfrey de bouillon--the second scaffold was erected on the following day. the four prisoners who were now to suffer were, the priests excepted, the most guilty of those left alive. they were drawn from the tower on hurdles, as was usual. as they passed along the strand, from an open window the beautiful elizabeth rookwood called to her husband-- "ambrose, be of good courage! thou art to suffer for a great and noble cause." raising himself from the hurdle as well as he could, rookwood answered, "my dear, pray for me." "i will, i will!" she cried. "and do you offer yourself with a good heart to god and your creator. i yield you to him, with as full an assurance that you will be accepted of him as when he gave you to me." and so the procession passed on. the first to suffer of these was thomas winter. he was extremely pale, and seemed sorry for his offence "after a sort;" but he spoke little, merely protesting that he died "a true catholic." rookwood, who came next, made a long speech. he said that he asked forgiveness of god, whom he had offended in seeking to shed blood, of the king, and of the people. he prayed for the king and royal family, entreating that the king might become a "catholic:" [note ] and he besought the king's goodness to his elizabeth and her children. he was spared the worst, for he drew his last breath ere it began. the next to follow was keyes. he had said on the trial that his fortunes being desperate, his fate was "as good now as another time, and for this cause rather than another." in this hardened, reckless spirit, he flung himself from the ladder, with such force as to break the halter. last came "the great devil of all," guy fawkes, who, "being weak with torture and sickness, was scarce able to go up the ladder." he made no long speech, but "after a sort, seemed to be sorry" and asked forgiveness: and "with his crosses and his idle ceremonies" was cast-off, dying instantaneously. so ended the awful scenes which were the reward of the gunpowder plot. but not yet had justice overtaken all the perpetrators of this villainy. three important traitors were yet at large, and they were all jesuit priests. greenway, who had fled from holbeach with robert winter, had not continued in his company. for ten days he hid in barns and cottages in worcestershire; but when the proclamation was made for his arrest, thinking it safest to be lost in a crowd in the metropolis, he came to london. here he was one day seized by a man, as they stood among others reading the proclamation for his arrest. greenway, with artful composure, denied the identity, but went quietly with his captor till they reached an unfrequented street, when the priest, who was a very powerful man, suddenly set upon his companion, and escaping from him, after a few days' concealment fled to the coast, whence he safely crossed to the continent. he afterwards wrote for his superiors a narrative of the plot, wherein all the conspirators are impeccable heroes of the romantic novel type, and the plot--which during its existence he upheld and fervently encouraged--is condemned as a "rash, desperate, and wicked" piece of business. he succeeded so well in deceiving his superiors (or else they were equally hypocritical with himself), that he was appointed penitentiary to the pope, and ended his life in the full favour of that potentate. gerard, also, who had originally assisted the plotters in taking their oath of secrecy, had now disappeared. so excellent an opinion had the roman catholics of him, that many refused to believe "that holy, good man" could have had any share in the conspiracy. the description of this worthy, as given in the proclamation for his arrest, is curious in its detail, and the better worth quoting since it has apparently not been printed:-- "john gerrarde the jesuit is about thirty years old, of a good stature, something higher than sir thomas leighton [this name is crossed out, and replaced by the word] ordinary, and upright in his pace and countenance; somewhat staring in his looke and eyes, curled headed by nature, and blackish, and not apt to have much hair on his beard. his nose somewhat wide, and turning up; blebberd lipped [thick-lipped], turning outward, especially the upper lip, upward toward the nose. curious in speech, if he do continue his custom, and in his speech he flewreth [note ] and smiles much, and a faltering, lisping, or doubling of his tongue in his speech." [note .] what a picture of a jesuit! this is the type of man who practises an art which i never saw to such perfection as once in the principal of a jesuit college--that of: "washing the hands with invisible soap in imperceptible water." lastly, what had become of garnet? he had not escaped nor left england, yet he seemed in some inscrutable manner to have vanished from the face of the earth, as completely as a morning mist. the next step was to secure white webbs. commissioners were sent down to enfield chase, with directions to search for that undiscoverable house, to make thorough investigation of it, and to take into custody every individual therein. they found the place--an old rambling house in the heart of the chase, full of trap-doors, passages, unexpected steps up or down, holes, corners, and cupboards at every turn. but it had no inhabitants save servants, and they could tell little. their mistress was mrs perkins, the widowed sister of mr mease, a berkshire farmer. it was quite true they were catholics, all allowed; and elizabeth shepherd admitted that mass had been performed in the house. but what connection could there be between the gunpowder plot and worthy mr mease the faimer, or innocent mrs perkins the widow? many persons would have resigned the search: but not so sir william wade. sir william wade, the keeper of the tower, had an uncommonly keen scent for a heretic which term was in his eyes the equivalent of a jesuit. he could see much further than any one else through a millstone, and detected a jesuit where no less acute person suspected anything but a farmer or a horse-dealer. not only was a jesuit capable of every crime that man could commit, but every criminal was pretty nearly certain to turn out a jesuit. moreover, sir william loved a joke only less than he bated a jesuit; and apathy in any pursuit was not one of his failings who wrote that "he thanked god on the knees of his soul" for the discovery of the gunpowder plot. mr mease was not to escape sir william's penetration. he was anxious to see a little more of mr mease, and of mrs perkins also. for the moment, however, he was doomed to disappointment. sturdy james johnson, mrs perkins' servant, would not betray his employers, even when put to the rack, until he had suffered appallingly. half-an-hour had been sufficient to exhaust guy fawkes' endurance, but james johnson bore three hours. even then he could tell little. for his mistress's brother he knew no name but mease, except that he had heard him addressed as "farmer:" but he did know, and had known for two years, that the real name of his mistress was anne vaux. he could also say that she had been visited by a mr and mrs skinner, a mr and mrs thomas jennings, a mr catesby, and a little gentleman whom the latter called tom, and whose name he said was winter. as to himself, johnson asserted that he was "a romishe catholic," and "never was at church nor yet at mass in his life." frightened little jane robinson, aged fourteen, admitted that mass had been said in the house, but when asked what vestments the priest wore, could only answer that "he was apparelled like a gentleman." sir william wade went down once more upon the knees of his soul, when his ears were refreshed by these delightful names. at harrowden, the seat of lord vaux, the family had already been questioned to no purpose. mrs vaux, the mother of the young lord, and the sister-in-law of anne, was astonished that anybody should suspect her of a guilty knowledge of the plot. having previously denied that she knew any such person as gerard, she subsequently confessed that gerard and garnet had been frequently at her house, and that she had a vague suspicion that "something was going to happen." harrowden must be further investigated; and admissions were wrung from the servants at white webbs which satisfied the commission that the relations between anne vaux and garnet had been of an intimate character. sir william wade was now on the track of a jesuit, and might be trusted to pursue that enticing path with eager and untiring accuracy. the watch set at harrowden was removed just too soon. had it lasted two days longer, gerard would have been starved out, for he lay concealed in the priest's hiding-place. as soon as the watching party took their leave, he emerged from his refuge, and succeeded through multifarious difficulties in safely escaping over seas. about this time--from what source is uncertain--a hint reached the government to the effect that gerard might possibly, and hall would probably, be found in one of the priest's hiding-places at hendlip hall in worcestershire, the residence of mr thomas abington. edward hall, alias oldcorne, [note ] was mr abington's private chaplain; and though there is little evidence extant to connect him with the plot, the government appear to have been extremely suspicious of him. when, therefore, the suggestion reached them that they might as well inspect the curiosities of hendlip hall, the authorities lost no time in sending down sir henry bromley, of holt castle, at the head of a searching party, for that purpose. until or thereabouts, hendlip hall remained standing, on the highest ground in the neighbourhood between droitwich and worcester, and rather nearer to the latter. a most curious, cunningly-planned, perplexing house it was--a house of houses wherein to secrete a political refugee or a jesuit priest--full of surprises, unexpected turnings, sliding panels, and inconceivable closets without apparent entrances. "there is scarcely an apartment," wrote a spectator shortly before its destruction, "that has not secret ways of going in or going out; some have back staircases concealed in the walls; others have places of retreat in their chimneys; some have trap-doors, and all present a picture of gloom, insecurity, and suspicion." on one side was a high tower, from which the approach of any enemy could be easily observed. the house had been built in , by john abington, cofferer to queen elizabeth; but his son thomas, the owner in , had added the hiding-places. such concealed chambers were very common in houses belonging to roman catholic families; and in the safest of all those at hendlip hall, two priests were at that moment in close confinement. the government had been so far truly informed. hall, too, was one of them: but gerard was not the other. sir william wade would have danced in delight, could he have known that his colleagues were on the track of the great provincial of the jesuit mission to this heathen country of england, the chief of all the conspirators yet left at large. about two months before this, garnet had come to the conclusion that he was no longer safe at coughton, which, as the property of mr throckmorton, and lately in the occupation of sir everard digby, would be likely to obtain a thorough overhauling. from mr hall he had received a pressing invitation to hendlip for himself and his confidential servant, nicholas owen, who went by the name of "little john." the latter was an old acquaintance at hendlip, for it was his ingenuity that had devised the numerous hiding-places which had been added to the hall by its present owner. to hendlip accordingly garnet removed from coughton,--accompanied by anne vaux and the brooksbys,-- about the th of december, and for some weeks resided with the family without concealment. but on monday, the th of january, as the day broke, sir henry bromley and his troops marched up to and invested hendlip hall. the hon. mrs abington was a sister of lord monteagle, and was quite as good an actress as her brother was an actor. she possessed the power of assuming the most complete outward composure, as if nothing whatever were the matter, however adversely things might be going to her wishes. she had also a very quiet, very firm, very unmanageable will. mr abington was not at home; but that signified little, for the grey mare was unquestionably the superior creature of the pair. if the information imparted to her so early on that morning had been that the cat had mewed, or that a hen had dropped a feather, the lady of hendlip could scarcely have received it with more repose of manner. "that is what we might look for," said she. "if it please you, holy fathers, it might be as well that you should repair to one of your chambers for a while.--bid edward come to me." edward, a white-headed confidential servant with an aspect of appalling respectability, presented himself at once in response to his mistress's summons. "edward," said mrs abington, "i would have you, quickly, take up these holy fathers to the hole in your chamber, and set little john and chambers in the next safest. there are enemies approaching." edward bowed his dignified head, and obeyed. he led garnet and hall up the chief staircase, and into the bedroom occupied by edward himself, which stood behind that of his master. garnet cast his eyes round the chamber. "truly, good edward," said he, "i scarce see means to hide so much as a mouse in this chamber, other than in yonder closet, which is as plain as the door or the window." edward replied by an amused smile. "you've a deal of book-learning, father garnet," said he, "but under your leave, there's a few things you don't know in this world." he walked into the chimney-corner. chimneys, be it remembered, were much wider in the seventeenth century than they have been since the invention of grates. there was room in every chimney-corner, not only for the fire, but for one or two chairs and settles, where people could sit when they wished to warm themselves; and as there was no fire on edward's hearth, moving about on it was as easy as in a closet. "are we to fly up the chimney on a pair of broomsticks?" laughed hall. edward only smiled again, and after a moment's feeling with his hand among the bricks at the side of the chimney, they heard a sound as of the pushing back of bolts. slowly, as if it moved with some difficulty, a square door opened in the chimney, so cleverly concealed that it required a skilful detective indeed to guess its existence. the door was of wood, "curiously covered over with brick, mortared and made fast" to it, "and coloured black like the other parts of the chimney, that very diligent inquiry might well have past by." behind it was a very small square recess, large enough to hold the two, though not sufficiently high for them to stand upright. a narrow tunnel, in outward appearance like a chimney, led up to the top of the house, designed for the admission of light and air to the hiding-place, but capable of conveying no great quantity of either. having fetched a short ladder, edward placed it in position, so that the priests could climb up into the chamber. "it had been more to your comfort, fathers, could we have cast forth some of this furniture," he said, looking round it: "but it were scarce wise to defer the matter, the house being already invested." "let be, we will serve ourselves of it as it is, and well." the priests mounted into the tiny hiding-place. "see you, holy fathers," edward asked, "a vessel of tin, standing below a little hole in the wall? have a care that you move it not without you first stop the hole, for it runneth through into my mistress's chamber, and by a quill or reed therein laid can she minister warm drinks unto you, as broths and caudle. she can likewise speak to you through the hole, and be heard: but if you hear the noise of feet or strange voices in that chamber, have a care to lie as squat [quiet] and close as ever you can. so may you safely hover [lie concealed]; for the cleverest soldier of them all shall be hard put to it to find you here, if it please god." would it please god? did no memory come to either of those well-read priestly refugees of a familiar question--"shall the throne of iniquity have fellowship with thee?" "a tight fit this, for two!" said hall. "ay, it is. there hath not been above one here aforetime. but it is the safest hilling [hiding-place] in the house. good-day, holy fathers, and god keep you safe!" while these scenes were enacting in one part of the house, in another sir henry bromley was introducing himself to the lady of hendlip hall, and, with plumed hat in hand, apologising for his intrusion, and civilly requesting her permission to examine the house. a kindly, tender-hearted man was the commander of this searching party, but at the same time a conscientious one, and a determined protestant. if anything could be more considerate and cordial than sir henry's appeal, it was to all appearances the spirit wherein it was received. mrs abington begged her visitor not to speak of intrusion. his majesty the king had no subjects more loyal than every man and woman in that house. it was really a source of pleasure to her that her abode should be scrutinised in the most critical manner, and her perfect innocence and submission to law thus made manifest. the lady at once delivered her keys--she did not say that a few of them were on a separate bunch-- and requested that no quarter might be given. appearances were so charming, and innocence apparently so clear, that they might have deluded a more astute man than sir henry bromley. sir henry, however, had come to do his duty, and he did it in spite of appearances. lord salisbury had furnished him with minute instructions, which pointed decidedly to probable need of caution in this respect. he was to search for a suspected vault at the east end of the dining-room; for a similar erection beneath the cellars; for ingenious closets squeezed in between the walls of upper rooms; for possible holes in corners and chimneys, wainscots which could be pierced by gimlets, double lofts, and concealed chambers in the rafters. sir henry set to work. "madam," said he to mrs abington, "were it not more to the conveniency of yourself and these gentlewomen your friends, that you should take occasion to pay some visit forth of the house? i fear the noise made by my men, not to speak of the turning about of your chambers by taking up of boards and trying of wainscots, shall greatly incommode you if you tarry." sir henry wanted sadly to get the ladies away. but mrs abington was quite as sagacious as himself, and more determined. she assured him that the noise was nothing, and the little novelties of holes in her dining-room floor and broken wainscots in her drawing-room would be rather amusing than otherwise. poor sir henry, baffled by this clever woman, laments to lord salisbury,--"i did never hear so impudent liars as i find here--all recusants, and all resolved to confess nothing, what danger soever they incur.--i could by no means persuade the gentlewoman of the house to depart the house, without i should have carried her, which i held uncivil, as being so nobly born; as i have and do undergo the greater difficulties thereby." the monday night brought home the master of the house. he answered the queries of the gentlemen in possession with as much apparent frankness as his wife, but assured sir henry that the persons for whom he was searching were absolute strangers to him; he had never seen any of them save gerard, and him only some five and twenty years before. for suspecting him of harbouring priests, not to speak of traitors, there was not a shadow of reason! sir henry went on searching, though he was out of hope. in the first place, he discovered some parcels of "books and writing," which showed at that time that "some scholars" must have used them; an ordinary country gentleman was not expected to have any books, except bible and prayer-books, one or two on law, needed in his capacity as a magistrate, a book on etiquette, and a few dog's-eared plays. on the wednesday a discovery of more importance was made, for in three or four places where boards were uplifted, a quantity of "popish trash" was brought to light. thus encouraged, the searchers resolved to continue their work, which they were on the point of giving up. mr abington continued to protest his supreme innocence of all knowledge or connivance. the books were none of his; the "popish stuff" astonished him as much as it did the searchers. this assumption of exquisite stainlessness lasted until one day a hiding-place was discovered, which contained his family muniments and the title-deeds of his estate. after that, mr abington protested no more; and it was needless, for he would not have been believed had he done so. sir henry at once despatched him to worcester to be taken care of by a magistrate; and "being much wearied," on wednesday night returned to his own house to take rest, leaving his brother sir edward in charge. on the thursday morning, when he returned to hendlip, he was met by two wan, gaunt men, whose countenances showed privation and suffering. they gave their names as william andrews and george chambers. by some unexplained want of care or foresight, these two unfortunate men had been suffered to secrete themselves without provisions, and had nothing but one apple between them from monday to thursday. sir henry was delighted, for at first he thought he had secured greenway and hall. a little further examination, however, showed him that his captives were only the priests' servants; yet he shrewdly surmised that the servants being there, the masters in all probability were not far away. for four days more the search was pursued in vain: but on the th news came that not only was hall certainly concealed in the house, but that the most important of all the implicated jesuits, garnet, would probably be found by a diligent continuance of the search. it came from an unexpected quarter--no other than red humphrey littleton. justice had not been slow in overtaking the harbourers of robert winter and stephen littleton. white and his brothers had got clear away; but smart, hollyhead, perks, and burford, suffered the last penalty of the law. margaret perks was pardoned, though condemned to death. humphrey littleton received the torture; and when apparently at the point of death, entreated permission to confess important facts, which he promised to do if his life might be spared. his appeal was granted, and he then told the authorities that the most important criminal still at large would be found in the priest's hiding-place at hendlip hall. fortified by this encouraging news, though the prisoners already taken denied all knowledge of any others being hidden in the house, sir henry pushed on his search; and at last, on the th, eight days after his arrival, one of his men broke into the cunningly contrived hiding-place in the chimney of edward's room. this brave discoverer was so terrified by his own success that he ran away lest the priests should shoot him; but others coming rapidly to his assistance, the priests offered to come out if they might do so with quietude. "so they helped us out," says garnet, "very charitably." garnet's account of their experiences in "the hoale," as he terms it, is not suggestive of an inviting place. "we were in the hoale seven days and seven nights and some hours, and were well wearied;" the place was so encumbered with books and furniture that they "could not find place for their legs" even when seated; and the cramped positions which they were compelled to assume caused their legs to swell greatly. garnet seems to have suffered more of the two. yet he adds that they were "very merry and content," and could have stayed three months, though when they came out at last, "we appeared like two ghosts." sir henry bromley at once recognised the provincial of the jesuit mission; but which of his various aliases really belonged to him puzzled his captor not a little, and garnet declined to enlighten him. "call me as you will," said he; "i refer all to my meeting with my lord of salisbury, and he will know me. in truth, i say not thus for any discourtesy, but that i will not, in the places we are, be made an obloquy: but when i come to london, i will not be ashamed of my name." sir henry now marshalled his prisoners for transport to worcester. he described them to the authorities as "humphrey phillips alias henry garnet; john vincent alias hall; thomas abington, esquire; william androwes alias nicholas owen, either a priest or servant to garnet; george chambers, servant of hall; edward jarrett, servant of mrs dorathie abington; william glandishe, servant of mr abington." [note .] mr abington and the priests were taken to worcester in sir henry's coach. the mind of that gentleman was somewhat exercised as to what he was to do with them when he got them there. before leaving hendlip he had promised to place them in the house of some bailiff or citizen; but as they were driving into worcester, he said uneasily-- "my masters, i cannot do for you as i would; i must needs send you to the gaol." "in god's name!" [note ] responded garnet. "but i hope you will provide we have not irons, for we are lame already, and shall not be able to ride after, to london." sir henry's tender heart was touched at once. "well," said he, "i will think of it." he thought of it to such purpose, that when they reached the inn, he placed garnet in a private room, with a guard--his reverence says, "to avoid the people's gazing;" sir henry would probably have added that it was also in order to prevent the prisoner's disappearance. after despatching his business he ordered his coach, and took his prisoners home with him to holt castle. here, on their own testimony, they were "exceeding well used, and dined and supped with him and his every day,"--not without some apprehension on the part of their kindly gaoler that they might reward him by perverting his young daughters from the protestant faith. when candlemas day came, sir henry "made a great dinner to end christmas," and sent for wine to drink the king's health. it was then customary for gentlemen always to dine with their hats on, and to uncover when a royal toast was proposed. the hats were doffed accordingly. the wine came in, and with it a wax candle, lighted--a blessed candle taken at hendlip, among the "popish trash," and destined for use on the services of that very day, having "jesus" painted on one side of it, and "maria" on the other. garnet's heart leaped at the familiar sight, and he begged leave to take the candle in his hand. passing it to mr hall, he said, half joyfully, half sadly-- "i am glad yet, that i have carried a holy candle on candlemas day." restoring the holy wax to the unholy candlestick, the priests drank the king's health in what mr garnet is kind enough to tell us was "a reasonable glass"--a piece of information the more valuable, since this adjective was not always applicable to his reverence's glasses. when they came to leave worcester, the parting between garnet and the ladies was almost affectionate. the priest was evidently possessed of that strong personal magnetism which some men and women have, and which is oftener exercised for the purposes of satan than in the service of god. "madam," he said to lady bromley, "i desire you all to think well of me till you see whether i can justify myself in this cause." the journey to london took longer than would otherwise have been needed, on account of the condition of the prisoners. garnet, whose sufferings had been the more severe, was also the one in whom their results lasted longest; and on the th of february, sir henry wrote that he was "but a weak and wearisome traveller." he was, however, "passing well used at the king's charge, and that by express orders from my lord salisbury," and "had always the best horse in the company." garnet adds, "i had sorde bickering with ministers by the way. two very good scholars, and courteous, mr abbott and mr barlow, met us at an inn; but two other rude fellows met us on the way, whose discourtesy i rewarded with plain words, and so adieu." the jesuit superior apparently rather enjoyed a little brisk brushing of wits with well-educated gentlemanly clerics, but felt some disgust of abuse which passed for argument with others. on the evening of the th of february they reached london, where they were lodged in the gate-house, and garnet was "very sick the first two nights with ill lodging." it was not until the th that the first examination took place before the privy council at whitehall. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . to which the reporter adds, "otherwise a papist, which god for his mercy ever forbid!" note . to flewer or fleer is to smile in that grinning manner which shows all the teeth. our forefathers considered it a mark of a sneering, envious man. note . domestic state papers, james the first, volume eighteen, article . note . this most untruthful gentleman asserted that "his true name was oldcorne;" but garnet and anne vaux both call him hall in writing to each other. note . domestic state papers, james the first, volume , article . mrs dorathie abington was mr abington's maiden sister, who lived at hendlip hall, and had a priest of her own, a jesuit, named butler or lyster. he does not appear in this narrative, and was very likely absent. note . this was not meant profanely, but was simply equivalent to saying, "god's will be done!" chapter eleven. according to that beginning. "carry him forth and bury him. death's peace rest on his memory! mercy by his bier sits silent, or says only these few words-- let him who is without sin 'mongst ye all cast the first stone." dinah mulock. a great crowd had assembled near whitehall, and was lining charing cross and the tiltyard below, on the morning of that th of february, when sir henry bromley and his guard, with the prisoners in their midst, marched down the street to the palace. among them were temperance murthwaite and rachel, and near them was mrs abbott. the crowd was deeply interested in the prisoners, especially the two priests. "there is a provincial!" said a respectable-looking man who stood next to rachel. "ay, and there goeth a young pope!" returned temperance, grimly, in allusion to hall. "they bear a good brag, most of 'em," said the man. "would we were rid of 'em all, neck and crop!" said another. "pack 'em off to the american plantations!" suggested a third. "if i dwelt there, i shouldn't give you thanks," replied the first. "find some land where nought dwelleth save baboons and snakes, and send 'em all there in a lump," was the response. "what think you, rachel?" demanded mrs abbott, who was not often silent for so long at once. "why, they're men, just like other folks!" was rachel's contribution. "did you think they'd have horns and tails?" said temperance. "well, nay, not justly that," answered rachel: "but i reckoned they'd ha' looked a bit more like wastrels [scoundrels]. yon lad's none so bad-looking as many a man you may meet i' th' street. and th' owd un's meterly [middling], too. happen [perhaps] they aren't any o' the worst." "why, maid," said the man who had first spoken, "that's father garnet, the head of all the jesuits in this country; there isn't a craftier fox in all england than he." "well, i shouldn't ha' thought it," saith rachel. "faces tell not alway truth," said temperance. "he's good eyes, though," remarked mrs abbott, "though they be a bit heavy, as though he'd had a poor night's rest." "he's one o' them long, narrow faces," said the man; "i never trust such. and a long nose, too--just like a fox." "ay, i'll be bound he's a fause [cunning] un," commented rachel. "his mouth's the worst thing about him," said temperance. "it's a little un," observed rachel. "little or big, it's a false one," answered temperance. "there's a prim, fixed, sanctimonious look about it that i wouldn't trust with anything i cared to see safe." "eh, i'd none trust one o' them--not to sell a pound o' butter," said rachel. "and by th' same token, mrs temperance, i mun be home to skim th' cream, or charity'll take it off like a gaumless [stupid] lass as hoo [she] is. hoo can do some things, well enough, but hoo cannot skim cream!" "go, good maid, if thou canst win out of this crowd, but methinks thou shalt have thy work cut out to do so." "eh, she will," said mrs abbott. "and mind you, rachel! if you pull yourself forth, you'll find your gown in rags by the time you're at home. i do hope, neighbour, you deal not with simpkinson, in the strand; that rogue sold me ten ells of green stamyn, and charged me thirty shillings the ell, and i vow it was scarce made up ere it began a-coming to bits. i'll give it him when i can catch him! and if i serve not our seth out for dinting in the blackjack last night, i'm a dutch woman, and no mistake! black jacks are half-a-crown apiece, and so i told him; but i'll give him a bit more afore i've done with him; trust me. there is no keeping lads in order. the mischievousness of 'em's past count. my husband, he says, `lads will be lads,'--he's that easy, if a mouse ran away with his supper from under his nose, he'd only call after it, `much good may it do thee.' do you ever hear mice in your house, mrs murthwaite! i'm for ever and the day after plagued wi' them, and i do wish those lads 'ud make theirselves a bit useful and catch 'em, instead o' dinting in black jacks. but, dear heart, you'll as soon catch the mice as catch them at aught that's useful. they'll--" "my mistress," said mrs abbott's next neighbour, "may i ask if your husband be a very silent man?" "i'm sure o' that," said the man who followed him. "eh, bless you, they all talk and chatter at our house while i can't slip a word in," was the lady's answer. "that's why she has so many to let go out o' door," remarked the last speaker. "i thought so," observed the neighbour, "because i have marked that men and women do mostly wed with their contraries." "why, what mean you?" inquired mrs abbott, turning round to look him in the face. "that my way lieth down this by-street," said he, working himself out of the crush into channon row, "and so i bid you all good-morrow." temperance murthwaite laughed to herself, as she let herself in at the door of the white bear, while mrs abbott hurried into the angel with a box on the ear to dorcas and hester, who leaned upon the gate watching the crowd. "get you in to your business!" said she. "chatter, chatter, chatter! one might as well live in a cage o' magpies at once, and ha' done with it. be off with the pair of ye!" garnet's admissions in answer to the questions put to him were few and cautious. he allowed that for twenty years he had been the superior of the english jesuits, but denied any knowledge of the negotiations with spain, carried on before the death of queen elizabeth. as to fawkes, he had never seen him but once in his life, at the previous easter. questioned about white webbs, he flatly denied that he ever was there, or anywhere near enfield chase "since bartholomewtide." he was not in london or the suburbs in november. the attorney-general was very kind to the prisoner, and promised "to make the best construction that he could" of his answers to the king; but sir william wade was not the man to accept the word of a jesuit, unless it should be the word "guilty." he accused garnet of wholesale violation of the decalogue in the plainest english, and coolly told him that he could not believe him on his oath, since the pope could absolve him for any extent of lying or equivocation. it was plainly no easy matter to beguile sir william wade. the next day, february th, garnet and hall were removed to the tower of london, where the former found himself, to his satisfaction, lodged in "a very fine chamber," next to that of his brother priest. here, as he records in a letter to his friends, he received the best treatment, being "allowed every meal a good draught of excellent claret wine," as well as permitted to send for additional sack out of his own purse for himself and the keeper: and he was suffered to vegetate as he thought proper, with only one sorrow to vex his soul--sir william wade. sir william wade, the lieutenant of the tower, constituted himself the torment of poor garnet's life. he was perpetually passing through his room, or at the furthest, loitering in the gallery beyond. sometimes he treated the prisoner as beneath contempt, and would not utter a word to him; at other times he sat down and regaled him with conversation of a free and easy character. the scornful silence was bad enough, but the conversation was considerably worse. whatever else garnet was, he was an english gentleman, as his letters testify; and sir william wade was not. he was, on the contrary, one of those distressing people who pride themselves on being outspoken, and calling a spade a spade, which they do in the most vulgar and disagreeable manner. he favoured the prisoner with his unvarnished opinion of the society to which he belonged, and with unsavoury anecdotes of its members, mingled with the bitterest abuse: and the worthy knight was not the man to spare his adjectives when a sufficient seasoning of them would add zest to a dish of nouns. at other times sir william dipped his tongue in honey, and used the sweetest language imaginable. it is manifest from the manner in which garnet mentions him, that the smallest of his trials was not sir william wade. mr garnet's first act, on being inducted into these comfortable quarters in his majesty's tower, was to bribe his keeper to wink at his peccadilloes. a few cups of that supernumerary sack, and an occasional piece of silver, were worth expending on the safe carriage of his letters and other necessities which might in time arise. he made affectionate inquiries as to the keeper's domestic relations, and discovered that he was blessed with a wife and a mother. to the wife he despatched a little of that excellent sack, and secured permission for his letters to be placed in the custody of the mother, who dwelt just outside the walls. but he was especially rejoiced when, a few days after his incarceration, the keeper sidled up to him, with a finger on his lips and a wink in his eye, and beckoned him to a particular part of the room, where with great parade of care and silence he showed him a concealed door between his own cell and that of hall, intimating by signs that secret communications might be held after this fashion, and he, the keeper, would take care to be conveniently blind and deaf. this was a comfort indeed, for the imprisoned priests could now mutually forgive each others' sins. there was a little cranny in the top of the door, which might be utilised for a mere occasional whisper; but when a regular confession was to be made, the door of communication could be opened for an inch or two. the one drawback was that the vexatious door insisted on creaking, as if it were a protestant door desirous of giving warning of popish practices. but the jesuits were equal to the difficulty. when the door was to be shut, the unemployed one either fell to shovelling coals upon the fire, or was suddenly seized with a severe bronchial cough, so that the ominous creak should not be heard outside. the comfort, therefore, remained; and heartily glad were the imprisoned jesuits to have found this means of communication by the kind help of their tender-hearted keeper. alas, poor jesuits! they little knew that they were caught in their own trap. the treacherous keeper drank their sack, and pocketed their angels, but their letters rarely went further than my lord of salisbury's desk; and in a convenient closet unseen by them, close to the creaking door, mr forset, a justice of the peace, and mr locherson, lord salisbury's secretary, were listening with all their ears to their confidential whispers, and taking thereby bad "coulds" which they subsequently had to go home and nurse. it was fox _versus_ fox. as soon as the door was closed under cover of cough or coals, the hidden spies came quickly forth, and in another chamber wrote down the conversation just passed for the benefit of his majesty's judges. benighted protestants were evidently messrs. forset and locherson, for the "catholic practice" of auricular confession was to them a strange and perplexing matter. they innocently record that "the confession was short, with a prayer in latin before they did confess to each other, and beating their hands on their breasts." the confiteor was succeeded by the whispered confession, in such low tones that scarcely anything reached the disappointed spies. hall made his confession first, and garnet followed. the subsequent conversation was in louder tones, though still whispered. garnet informed his fellow-conspirator that he was suspicious of the good faith of some one whose name the spies failed to hear--to which frailty he allowed that he was very subject; that he had received a note from thomas rookwood, who told him of greenway's escape, and from gerard, who therefore was evidently in safety, though "he had been put to great plunges;" that he believed mrs anne was in the town, and would let them hear from their friends; that the keeper had accepted an angel, and sundry cups of sack for himself and his wife, and taken them very kindly,--recommending similar treatment on hall's part; that garnet was very much afraid he should be driven to confess white webbs, but if so, he would say that he "was there, but knew nothing of the matter." then hall made a remark lost by the spies, to which garnet answered, with a profane invocation--too common in all ranks at that day--"how did they know that!" if he were pressed as to his treasonable practices before the queen's death, he would admit them, seeing that he held a general pardon up to that time. garnet bemoaned himself concerning sir william wade, and expressed his annoyance at the persistent questioning of the court touching white webbs. "i think it not convenient," said he, "to deny that we were at white webbs, they do so much insist upon that place. since i came out of essex i was there two times, and so i may say i was there; but they press me to be there in october last, which i will by no means confess, but i shall tell them i was not there since bartholomewtide." he expressed his apprehension lest the servants at white webbs should be examined and tortured, which might "make them yield to some confession;" a fear which made him more resolute to admit nothing concerning the place. he was also very much afraid of being asked about certain letters which lord monteagle had written. "but in truth i am well persuaded," he concluded, "that i shall wind myself out of that matter; and for any former business, i care not." just as garnet whispered these words, footsteps were heard approaching the chamber. "hark you, hark you, mr hall!" cried garnet in haste; "whilst i shut the door, make a hawking and a spitting." mr hall obediently and energetically cleared his throat, under cover of which garnet closed the door, and presented himself the next moment to the edified eyes of sir william wade in the pious aspect of a priest telling his beads. another conference through the door was held on the th of february, wherein garnet was heard to lament to hall that he "held not better concurrence"--namely, that he did not use diligence to tell exactly the arranged falsehoods on which the two had previously agreed. the poor spies found themselves in difficulties on this occasion through "a cock crowing under the window of the room, and the cackling of a hen at the very same instant." hall, however, was heard to undertake a better adherence to his lesson. it is more than once noted by the spies that in these conferences the prisoners "used not one word of godliness or religion, or recommending themselves or their cause to god; but all hath been how to contrive safe answers." during garnet's imprisonment in the tower, if his gaolers may be trusted, his consumption of that extra sack was not regulated by the rules of the blue ribbon army. they averred that he was "indulgent to himself" in this particular, and "daily drank sack so liberally as if he meant to drown sorrow." on the th, garnet knew that one of his apprehensions was verified, when he was confronted with poor james johnson, who had borne the torture so bravely, and who now admitted that the prisoner thus shown to him was the man whom he had known at white webbs as mr mease, the supposed brother of his mistress, mrs perkins. he confessed that he had seen him many times. after this, it was useless to deny white webbs any longer. hall was examined on the same day; but being ignorant of the evidence given by johnson, he audaciously affirmed that he had not visited white webbs, and knew of no such place. that evening, garnet gave a shilling to his keeper, with a request to have some oranges brought to him. this fruit, first introduced into england about , was at that time very cheap and plentiful, about eighteen-pence the hundred being the usual price. sir william wade, lounging about the gallery as usual, met the keeper as he came out of the cell with the money in his hand. "what would the old fox now?" demanded he. "an 't please you, sir, mr garnet asked for oranges." "oh, come! he may have an orange or two--he can't do any harm with them without he choke himself, and that should spare the king the cost of a rope to hang him," said shrewd sir william. but he was not quite shrewd enough, for it never occurred to his non-jesuitical mind that one of those innocent oranges was destined to play the part of a traitorous inkstand by the reverend henry garnet. a large sheet of paper, folded letter-wise, came out of the prison in the keeper's hand an hour later. it was addressed to the reverend thomas rookwood, and contained only--in appearance--the following very unobjectionable words. they were written in ink, at the top of the first page:-- "let these spectacles be set in leather, and with a leather case, or let the fould be fitter for the nose.--yours for ever, henry garnett." who could think of detaining so innocent a missive, or prevent the poor prisoner from obtaining a pair of comfortable spectacles? but when the sheet of paper was held to the fire, a very different letter started out, in faint tracings of orange-juice:-- "this bearer knoweth that i write thus, but thinks it must be read with water. the papers sent with bisket-bread i was forced to burn, and did not read. i am sorry they have, without advise of friends, adventured in so wicked an action.--i must needs acknowledge my being with the two sisters, and that at white webbs, as is trew, for they are so jealous of white webbs that i can no way else satisfy. my names i all confesse but that last... i have acknowledged that i went from sir everard's to coughton... where is mrs anne?" a few days later, on the nd of march, after a careful reconnoitre to avoid the ubiquitous sir william, garnet applied his lips to the cranny in the door. "hark you! is all well? let us go to confession first, if you will." the spies, ensconced in secret, confess that they heard nothing of hall's confession, but that garnet several times interrupted it with "well, well!" garnet then made his own confession, "very much more softlier than he used to whisper in their interloqucions." it was short, but unless the spy was mistaken, "he confessed that he had drunk so extraordinarily that he was forced to go two nights to bed betimes." then something was said concerning jesuits, to which garnet added-- "that cannot be; i am chancellor. it might proceed of the malice of the priests." the conversation on this occasion was brought to a hasty close by garnet's departure to read or write a letter; mr hall being requested to "make a noise with the shovel" while he was shutting the door. the second letter to mr thomas rookwood followed this interview. it was equally short in its ostensible length, and piously acknowledged the receipt of two bands, two handkerchiefs, one pair of socks, and a bible. beneath came the important postscript "your last letter i could not read; the pen did not cast incke. mr catesby did me much wrong, and hath confessed that he asked me the question in queen elizabeth's time of the powder action, and i said it was lawfull: all which is most untrew. he did it to draw in others. i see no advantage they have against me for the powder action." [gunpowder plot book, article .] garnet added that his friend might communicate with him through letters left in charge of the keeper's mother; but he begged him not to pay a personal visit unless he could first make sure that the redoubtable wade was absent. an answer from the reverend thomas consisted, to all appearance, of a simple sheet of writing-paper, enclosing a pair of spectacles in their case, and bearing the few words written outside--"i pray you prove whether the spectacles do fit your sight." inside, in orange-juice, was the real communication, from anne vaux, wherein she promised to come to the garden, and begged garnet to appoint a time when she might hope to see him. [gunpowder plot book, article .] this seems to show that garnet was sometimes allowed the liberty of the tower garden. on the th of march, hall and garnet were re-examined, when hall confessed the truth of the conversations through the door, and garnet denied them. the same day, the latter wrote a long letter, addressed to mrs anne vaux or any of his friends, giving a full account of his sufferings while in "the hoale" at hendlip hall, and of his present condition in the tower. remarking that he was permitted to purchase sherry out of his own purse, garnet adds-- "this is the greatest charge i shall be at, for fire will soon be unnecessary, if i live so long, whereof i am very uncertain, and as careless... they say i was at white webbs with the conspirators; i said, if i was ever there after the st of september, i was guilty of the powder action. the time of my going to coughton is a great presumption, but all catholics know it was necessary. i thank god, i am and have been _intrepidus_, wherein i marvail at myself, having had such apprehension before; but it is god's grace." on the third examination, which was on the th of march, both garnet and hall confessed white webbs at last,--the former, that he had hired the house for the meetings of the conspirators, the latter that they had met there twice in the year. garnet also allowed that perkins was the alias of the hon. anne vaux, to avoid whose indictment he afterwards said his confession had been made. it is evident, from several allusions in his letters, that garnet was terribly afraid of torture, and almost equally averse to confronting witnesses. the first was merely human nature; the second speaks ill for his consciousness of that innocence which he repeatedly asserts. but not yet had the gunpowder plot secured its latest or its saddest victim. soon after sir henry bromley's departure from hendlip, mrs abington came to london, bringing anne vaux with her, and they took lodgings in fetter lane, then a more aristocratic locality than now. here they remained for a few weeks, doing all that could be done to help garnet, and poor anne continually haunting the neighbourhood of his prison, and trying to catch glimpses of him, if not to obtain stolen interviews, at the garden gate. but on the th of march the authorities interfered, and anne vaux was a prisoner of the tower. examined on the following day, she deposed that she "kept the house at white webbs at her own charge;" that she was visited there by catesby, thomas winter, tresham, and others, but said that she could not remember dates nor further names. she refused to admit that garnet had been there, but she allowed that she had been among the party of pilgrims to saint winifred's well, in company with lady digby and others whom she declined to name. lastly, she persisted in saying that she had known nothing of the plot. she was told--not improbably by sir william wade, and if so, we may be sure, not very tenderly--that garnet had been one of the chief criminals. a few sorrowful lines remain showing the spirit in which she heard it. they were written on the th of march. "i am most sore to here that father garnet shoulde be ane wease pryue to this most wicked actione, as himselfe euer cauled it, for that hee made to mee maney greate prostertations to the contrari diuers times sence. "anne vaux." [gunpowder plot book, article .] after this, garnet gave up the fiction of his total ignorance of the conspirators' object. in his fourth examination, on the th of march, he said that on the demise of queen elizabeth, he had received a letter from the general of the jesuits, stating that the new pope clement had confirmed the order of his predecessor that no such plot should be set on foot, and that garnet had accordingly done what in him lay to turn catesby from the idea. catesby, however, thought himself authorised by two briefs received by garnet about twelve months earlier, commanding the roman catholics of england not to consent to any successor of elizabeth who should refuse to submit to rome. these garnet had shown to catesby before destroying them. it is evident from these admissions, not only that garnet had been privy to the plot from the first, but also that it was known at rome, and controlled from the vatican--forbidden when success appeared unlikely, and smiled on as soon as it seemed probable. shortly after this, a letter came from anne vaux--a letter which sadly reveals the character of its writer, and shows how different life might have been for this poor passionate-hearted woman, had she not been crushed under the iron heel of rome. "to live without you," she writes to garnet, "it is not life, but death! now i see my los. i am and euer will be yours, and so i humbly beseche you to account me. o that i might see you!" her second examination took place a few days later, on the th of march. she now acknowledged that tresham catesby, and garnet, used to meet at her house at wandsworth: and that garnet was wont to say to them, when they were engaged in discussion,--"good gentlemen, be quiet; god will do all for the best; and we must get it by prayer at god's hands, in whose hands are the hearts of princes." the confession was carried to garnet. poor frail, loving heart! she meant to save him, and he knew it. he wrote calmly underneath-- "i do acknowledge these meetings.--h. garnett." [gunpowder plot book, article .] even her very gaolers dealt pitifully with anne vaux. "this gentlewoman," said lord salisbury to garnet, "hath harboured you these twelve years last past, and seems to speak for you in her confessions; i think she would sacrifice herself for you to do you good, and you likewise for her." garnet made no answer. letters continued to pass between the cells. a remarkable one was sent to anne on the nd of april, written principally in orange-juice, on the question which she had submitted to garnet as to her living abroad after her release. "concerning the disposal of yourself, i give you leave to go over to them. the vow of obedience ceaseth, being made to the superior of this mission: you may, upon deliberation, make it to some there. if you like to stay here, then i exempt you, till a superior be appointed, whom you may acquaint: but tell him that you made your vow yourself, and then told me; and that i limited certain conditions, as that _you are not bound to sin [note ] except you be commanded in virtute obedientiae_. we may accept no vows, but men may make them as they list, and we after give directions accordingly. mr hall dreamed that the general... provided two fair tabernacles or seats for us: and this he dreamed twice." [gunpowder plot book, article .] the sentence in italics is terrible. no protestant ever penned a darker indictment against popery. anne vaux received this letter, for she answered it at once. she speaks of her "vow of poverty," and adds-- "mr haule his dreame had been a great cumfert, if at the fute of the throne there had bin a place for me. god and you know my unworthenes.-- yours and not my own, anne vaux." [gunpowder plot book, article .] on the following day, garnet wrote again--eight closely covered pages, in his own hand throughout. i append a few extracts from this pathetic letter. "my very loving and most dear sister,--i will say what i think it best for you to do, when it please god to set you at liberty. if you can stay in england, and enjoy the use of the sacraments as heretofore, it would be best: and then i wish that you and your sister live as before in a house of common repair of the society, or where the superior of the mission shall ordinarily remain: or if this cannot be, then make choice of some one of the society, as you shall like, which i am sure will be granted you. if you like to go over, stay at saint omer, and send for friar baldwin, with whom consult where to live: but i think saint omer less healthy than brussels. in respect of your weakness, i think it better for you to live abroad, and not in a monastery. your vow of obedience, being made to the superior of the mission here, when you are over, ceaseth: and then may you consult how to make it again. none of the society can accept a vow of obedience of any; but any one may vow as he will, and then one of the society may direct accordingly." garnet proceeds to say that the vow of poverty was to cease in like manner, and might be similarly renewed. "all that which is for annuities" he had always meant to be hers, in the hope that she would afterwards leave it to the jesuit mission: but she is at liberty, if she wish it, to alienate a third of this, or if she should desire at any time to "retire into religion,"--i.e., to become a nun--and require a portion, she is to help herself freely. he "thanks god most humbly that in all his speeches and practices he has had a desire to do nothing against the glory of god." he was so much annoyed by having been misunderstood by the two spies that he "thought it would make our actions much more excusable to tell the truth, than to stand to the torture, or trial by witnesses." as to his acquaintance with the plot, he sought to hinder it more than men can imagine, as the pope can tell: how could he have dissuaded the conspirators if he had absolutely known nothing? but he thought it not allowable to tell what he knew. none of them ever told him anything, though they used his name freely--he implies, more freely than truth justified them in doing: "yet have i hurt nobody." he ordered the removal of certain books which he does not further describe; if they be found, "you can challenge them as your own, as in truth they are." he will "die not as a victorious martyr, but as a penitent thief:" but "let god work his will." the most touching words are the last. up to this point, the spiritual director has been addressing his subject. now the priest disappears, and the man's heart breaks out. "howsoever i shall die a thief, yet you may assure yourself your innocence is such, that but if you die by reason of your imprisonment, you shall die a martyr. [from this point the letter is in latin.] `the time is come that judgment must begin at the house of god.' farewell, my ever beloved in christ, and pray for me." [domestic state papers, james the first, volume , article .] yet a few words were to be written before the end. the execution of hall, which took place at worcester on the th of april, unnerved garnet as nothing else had done. he wrote, a fortnight later, to her who was his last and had always been his truest friend--a few hurried, incoherent words, which betray the troubled state of his mind. "it pleaseth god daily to multiply my crosses. i beseech him give me patience and perseverance to the end. i was, after a week's hiding, taken in a friend's house, where our confessions and secret conferences were heard, and my letters taken by some indiscretion abroad;--then the taking of yourself;--after, my arraignment;--then the taking of mr greenwell;--then the slander of us both abroad;--then the ransacking anew of erith and the other house;--then the execution of mr hall;--and now, last of all, the apprehension of richard and robert: with a cipher, i know not of whose, laid to my charge, and that which was a singular oversight, a letter in cipher, together with the ciphers--which letter may bring many into question. "`the patience of job ye have heard, and have seen the end of the lord,--that the lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy.' blessed be the name of the lord! [these quotations are in latin]--yours, eternally, as i hope, h.g." "_ st april_--i thought verily my chamber in thames street had been given over, and therefore i used it to save erith; but i might have done otherwise." at the end of the letter is a symbolic sketch. the mystic letters i.h.s. within a circle, are surmounted by a cross, and beneath them is a heart pierced by three nails. underneath is written, in latin--"god is [the strength] of my heart, and god is my portion for ever." so end the last words which passed between the unhappy pair. in his sixth examination, four days later, garnet admitted that as often as he and greenway had met, he had asked concerning the plot, "being careful of the matter;" and that "in general" he had inquired who was to be chosen protector after the explosion; greenway having answered that this "was to be deferred until the blow was passed, and then the protector to be chosen out of the noblemen that should be saved." this completely settles the question as to garnet's guilty knowledge of the plot before he received digby's letter. greenway is here shown to be garnet's informant; whereas the letter was addressed to garnet himself, and the occasion on which he received it was the last time that he ever saw greenway! a few days before his execution, the prisoner received a visit from three deans, who essayed to converse with him upon various points of doctrine. garnet, however, declined any discussion, on the ground that "it was unlawful for him." he was asked whether he thought that he should die a martyr. "i a martyr!" exclaimed garnet, with a deep sigh. "oh, what a martyr should i be! god forbid! if, indeed, i were really about to suffer death for the sake of the catholic religion, and if i had never known of this project except by the means of sacramental confession, i might perhaps be accounted worthy of the honour of martyrdom, and might deservedly be glorified in the opinion of the church. as it is, i acknowledge myself to have sinned in this respects and deny not the justice of the sentence passed upon me." then, after a moment's pause, he added with apparent earnestness, "would to god that i could recall that which has been done! would to god that anything had happened rather than that this stain of treason should hang upon my name! i know that my offence is most grievous, though i have confidence in christ to pardon me on my hearty penitence: but i would give the whole world, if i possessed it, to be able to die without the weight of this sin upon my soul." the st of may had been originally fixed for the execution, but it was delayed until the rd. to the last moment, when he received notice of it, which was on the th of april, garnet fully expected a reprieve. he "could hardly be persuaded to believe" in approaching death. yet even then, on the very night before his execution--if we may believe the testimony of his keepers--he drank so copiously that the gaoler thought it necessary to inform the lieutenant, who came to see for himself, and was invited, in thick and incoherent accents, to join garnet in his potations. sir william wade was not the man to allow such a fact to rest in silence; and garnet is neither the first nor the last whose words have been better than his actions. on the rd of may, he was drawn on a hurdle to the west end of saint paul's churchyard, where the first conspirators had suffered, and where the scaffold was again set up. his conduct on the scaffold was certainly not that of a martyr, nor that of a penitent thief: the impenitent thief appeared rather to be his model. advised by the attendant deans of saint paul's and winchester to "prepare and settle himself for another world, and to commence his reconciliation with god by a sincere and saving repentance," garnet answered that he had already done so. he showed himself very unwilling to address the people; but being strongly urged by the recorder, he uttered a few sentences, the purport of which was that he considered all treason detestable; that he prayed the king's pardon for not revealing that of which he had a general knowledge from catesby, but not otherwise; that he never knew anything of the design of blowing up the parliament house. the dean of winchester reminded him that he had confessed that greenway told him all the circumstances in essex. "that was in secret confession," said garnet, "which i could by no means reveal." the dean having reminded him that he had already allowed the contrary, the recorder was about to read his written confessions to the people--a course commanded by the king if garnet should deny his guilt upon the scaffold: but garnet stopped this conviction from his own mouth, by telling the recorder that he might spare himself that trouble; he would stand to the confessions he had signed, and acknowledge himself justly condemned for not having declared his general knowledge of the plot. he then spoke of anne vaux, and denounced as slander all the injurious reports concerning his relations with her: then he asked what time would be permitted him for prayer. he was told that he should choose his own time, and should not be interrupted. kneeling down at the foot of the ladder, garnet proceeded to his devotions in such a manner as to show that they were to him the purest formalities: as the words fell from his lips, he was gazing at the crowd, listening to the attendants, sometimes even replying to remarks they made. when he rose from his knees, he was urged once more to confess his guilt in plain terms. he answered that he had no more to confess; his guilt had been exaggerated. as he undressed for execution, he said in a low voice to those nearest to him, "there is no salvation for you, unless you hold the catholic faith." their reply was that they were under the impression they did hold it. "but the only catholic faith," responded garnet, "is that professed by the church of rome." having ascended the ladder, he addressed the people. he expressed in these closing words his grief that he had offended the king, and that he had not used more diligence in preventing the execution of the plot; he was sorry that he had dissembled with the lords of the council, and that he did not declare the truth until it was proved against him: "but," he said, "i did not think they had such sure proofs against me"! he besought all men "not to allow the catholics to fare worse for his sake," and bade the latter keep out of sedition. then he crossed himself, and added--"jesus maria! mary, mother of grace, mother of mercy! save me from mine enemies, and receive me in the hour of death. in thine hands i commend my spirit: thou hast redeemed me, o lord god of truth!" crossing himself once more, he added--always in latin--"by this sign of the cross, may all evil things be dispersed. plant thy cross, lord, in mine heart!" but his last words were, "jesus maria! mary, mother of grace!" then the ladder was drawn away, and henry garnet, the conspirator and liar, stood before that lord god of truth who will by no means clear the guilty. by express command of the king, the after-horrors of a traitor's death were omitted. three months after that sad close of life, the tower gates opened again--this time to release a prisoner. the hon. anne vaux was bidden to go whither she would. whither she would!--what a mockery to her to whom all the earth and the heavens had been made one vaulted grave--who had no home left anywhere in the world, for her home had been in the heart of that dead man. to what part of that great wilderness of earth she carried her bitter grief and her name of scorn, no record has been left to tell us, except one. thirty years later, in , a jesuit school for "catholic youths of the nobility and gentry" was dispersed by authority. it was at stanley, a small hamlet about six miles to the north-east of derby, a short distance from the nottingham road. the house was known as stanley grange, and it was the residence of the hon. anne vaux. so she passes out of our sight, old and full of days, true to the end to the faith for which she had so sorely suffered, and to the memory of the friend whom she had loved too well. "o solitary love that was so strong!" let us leave her to the mercy of him who died for men, and who only can presume to sit in judgment on that faithful, passionate, broken heart. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . this word is plainly _sin_, though mr lemon in his copy tried to read it _him_--an interpretation which he was obliged to abandon. chapter twelve. the fruit of his own way. "say not, this brackish well i will not taste; ere long thou may'st give thanks that even this is left for thee in such a burning waste." reverend horatius bonar. "tell mr louvaine that i desire speech of him." the page who received this order looked up in apprehension. so exceedingly stern were lady oxford's tone, and _so frowning_ her aspect, that he trembled for himself, apart from aubrey. escaping from that awful presence at the earliest moment possible, he carried the message to aubrey, who when he received it was lounging on a day-bed, or sofa, with his arms crossed behind his head. "and you'd best go soon, sir," said the page, "for her ladyship looks as though she could swallow me in two bites." "then i rather count i'd best not," said aubrey, looking very much indisposed to stir. "what on earth would she have of me? there's no end to the whims and conceits of women." he unwreathed his arms and stood up, yawned, and very slowly went upstairs to the gallery where he had learned that the countess was awaiting him. aubrey louvaine was at that moment a most unhappy young man. the first sensation of amazement and horror at the discovery of the treachery and wickedness of his chosen friends was past, but the apprehensions for his own safety were not; and as the time went on, the sense of loss, weariness, and disgust of life, rather grew than lessened. worst of all, and beyond all, were two better feelings--the honest affection which aubrey had scarcely realised before that he entertained for thomas winter, and the shock and pain of his miserable fate: and even beyond this, a sense of humiliation, very wholesome yet very distressing, at the folly of his course, and the wreck which he had made of his life. how complete a wreck it was he had not discovered even now: but that he had been very foolish, he knew in his inmost heart. and when a man is just making that valuable discovery is not the best time for other men to tell him of it. that fate was preparing for him not a sedative but a stimulant, he had little doubt as he went slowly on his way to the gallery: but of the astringent nature of that mixture he had equally small idea, until he turned the last corner, and came in sight of the countess's face. there was an aspect of the avenging angel about lady oxford, as she stood up, tall and stately, in that corner of the gallery, and held out to aubrey what that indiscreet young gentleman recognised as a lost solitaire that was wont to fasten the lace ruffles on his wrist. "is this yours, mr louvaine?" her voice said, "guilty or not guilty?" so plainly that he was almost ready to respond, "of what?" aubrey gave the garnet solitaire a more prolonged examination than it needed. he felt no doubt of its identity. "yes, madam, i think it is," he answered slowly. "at the least, i have lost one that resembles it." "i think it is, too," said the countess no less sternly. "do you know where this was found, mr louvaine?" aubrey began to feel thoroughly alarmed. "no, madam," he faltered. "in the chamber of thomas winter, the traitor and papist, at the sign of the duck, in the strand. perhaps you can tell me how it came thither?" aubrey was silent, from sheer terror. a gulf seemed to yawn before his feet, and the countess appeared to him in the light of the minister of wrath waiting to push him into it. with the rapidity of lightning, his whole life seemed to pass in sudden review before him--his happy childhood and guarded youth at selwick hall, the changed circumstances of his london experiences, his foolish ways and extravagant expenditure, his friendship with winter, the quiet home at the white bear into which his fall would bring such disgrace and sorrow, the possible prison and scaffold as the close of all. was it to end thus? he had meant so little ill, had done so little wrong. yet how was he to convince any one that he had not meant the one, or even that he had not done the other? in that moment, one circumstance of his early life stood out bright and vivid as if touched with a sunbeam:--an act of childish folly, done fifteen years before, for which his grandfather had made him learn the text, "thou god seest me." it came flashing back upon him now. had god seen him all this while? then he knew all his foolishness--ay, and his innocence as well. could he--would he--help him in this emergency? aubrey louvaine had never left off the outward habit of saying prayers; but it was years since he had really prayed before that unheard cry went up in the gallery of oxford house--"lord, save me, for my grandmother's sake!" he felt as if he dared not ask it for his own. all these thoughts followed each other in so short a time that lady oxford was conscious of little more than a momentary hesitation, before aubrey said-- "i suppose i can, madam." he had made up his mind to speak the plain, full truth. even that slight touch of the hem of christ's garment had given him strength. "then do so. have you visited this man?" "i have, madam." "how many times?" "several times, madam. i could not say with certainty how many." "how long knew you this thomas winter?" "almost as long as i have dwelt in your ladyship's house--not fully that time." "who made you acquaint with him?" "mr percy." "what, the arch-traitor?" percy was then supposed to be what catesby really was--the head and front of the offending. "he, madam. i will not deceive your ladyship." "and pray who made you acquaint with him?" demanded the countess, grimly. in her heart, as she looked into the eyes honestly raised to hers, she was saying, "the lad is innocent of all ill meaning--a foolish daw that these kites have plucked:" but she showed no sign of the relenting she really felt. "madam, that was mr thomas rookwood." "he that dwells beside the lady lettice?" "his son, madam." "were you acquaint with any of their wicked designs?" "not one of them, madam, nor i never imagined no such a thing of any of those gentlemen." "who of them all have you seen?" "madam, i have seen divers of whom i knew no more than to see them, whose names--but no more--i can specify if your ladyship desire it. but those that i did really know and at all consort with were three only beside mr tom rookwood--to wit, mr percy, mr catesby, and mr thomas winter: and i saw but little save of the last." "the boy's telling truth," said lady oxford to herself. "he has been exceedingly foolish, but no worse." then aloud she asked,--"saw you ever any priests there?" "not to know them for such, madam." "tampered they with you in any wise as to religion?" "never, madam." "and you are yet at heart a true protestant, and loyal to king james?" "as much so as i ever was, madam." but as aubrey spoke, the question arose in his conscience,--what had he ever cared about either? not half as much as he had cared for tom winter,--nay, not so much as he had cared for tom winter's tobacco. "mr louvaine," said the countess, suddenly, "have you discovered that you are a very foolish young man?" aubrey flushed red, and remained silent. "it seems to me," she continued, "that you speak truth, and that you have been no worser than foolish. yet, so being, you must surely guess that for your own sake, no less than for the earl's, you must leave this house, and that quickly." he had not guessed it, and it came upon him like a bomb-shell. leave oxford house! what was to become of him? "and if you will take my advice, you will not essay to win into any other service. tarry as still as you can some whither, till matters be blown over, and men begin to forget the inwards of this affair: not in town. have you no friend in the country that would take you in for a while? 'tis for your own good, and for my lady lettice' sake, that i give you this counsel." "lie hidden in the country!" aubrey's tones were perfectly aghast. such an expectation had never visited his least coherent dreams. "mr louvaine," said lady oxford in a kinder voice, "i can see that you have never reckoned till this moment whither your course should lead you, nor what lay at the end of the road you traversed. i am sorry for you, rather than angered; for i believe you thought no ill: you simply failed to think at all, as so many have done before you. yet is it the truest kindness not to cover your path by a deluding mist, but to point out to you plainly the end of the way you are going. trust me, if this witness in mine hand were traced to you by them in power, they should not take your testimony for truth so easily as i may. i know you, and the stock whence you come; to them, you were but one of a thousand, without favour or distinction. maybe you think me hard; yet i ensure you, you have no better friend, nor one that shall give you truer counsel than this which i have given. go you into the country, the further from london the better, and lie as quiet as you may, till the whole matter be blown over, and maybe some time hence, it shall be possible to sue you a pardon from his majesty to cover all." "some time!" broke from aubrey's lips. "ay, and be thankful it is no worse. he that leaps into a volcano, counting it but a puddle, shall not find it a puddle, but a volcano. you have played with firebrands, mr louvaine, and must not marvel nor grumble to feel the scorching of your fingers." aubrey's silence was the issue of sheer despair. "you must leave this house to-day," said the countess firmly, "and not as though you went on a journey. go forth this afternoon, as for a walk of pleasure, and carrying nothing save what you can put in your pockets. when you have set a few miles betwixt yourself and the town, you may then hire an horse, and ride quickly. i would counsel you not to journey too direct--if you go north or south, tack about somewhat to east and west; one may ride with far more safety than many. i am not, as you know, over rich, yet i will, for my lady lettice' sake, lend you a sufficiency to carry you an hundred miles--and if it fall out that you are not able to return the loan, trouble yourself not thereabout. i am doing my best for you, mr louvaine, not my worst." "i thank your ladyship," faltered the unhappy youth. "but--must i not so much as visit my grandmother?" it was no very long time since the white bear had been to aubrey a troublesome nuisance. now it presented itself to his eyes in the enticing form of a haven of peace. he was loved there: and he began to perceive that love, even when it crossed his wishes, was better worth having than the due reward of his deeds. "too great a risk to run," said the countess, gravely. "if any inquiration be made for you, and you not found here, the officers of justice should go straight thither. no: i will visit my lady lettice myself, and soften the thing as best i may to her and to mrs louvaine. the only thing," she paused a moment in thought. "what other friends have you in london?" "truly, none, madam, save my cousin david--" "not a relative. is there no clergyman that knows you, who is of good account, and a staunch protestant?" "there is truly mr marshall, a friend of my grandmother, and an ejected puritan." "where dwelleth he?" "in shoe lane, madam." "is he a wise and discreet man?" "i think, madam, my grandmother holds him for such." "it is possible," said lady oxford, meditatively, "that you might be safe in his house for a day or two, and your friends from the white bear could go as if to see him and his wife--hath he a wife?" "he buried his wife this last summer, madam: he hath a daughter that keeps his house, of about mine own years." "if you think it worth to run the risk, you might ask this good gentleman to give you a day's shelter, so as to speak with your friends ere you depart. it were a risk: yet not, perchance, too great. you must judge for yourself. if you choose this way, i will take it on myself to let your friends know how it is with you." it was a bitter pill to swallow. mr marshall was about the last man in his world to whom aubrey felt any inclination to lay himself under an obligation. both as a clergyman, a puritan, and an ejected minister, this undiscerning youth had looked down exceedingly upon his superior. the popular estimate of the clergy was just then at the lowest ebb, and it required some moral courage for any man to take holy orders, who was neither very high up in rank, nor very low down. this was the result partly of the evil lives, and partly of the gross ignorance, of the pre-reformation priests; the lives were now greatly amended, but too much of the ignorance, remained, and the time had not been sufficient to remove the stigma. a clergyman was expected to apprentice his children to a trade, or at best to place them in domestic service; and he would have been thought forward and impertinent if, when dining with laymen in a good position, he had not spontaneously taken his departure before dessert made its appearance. to be indebted, therefore, for an essential service to one of this lowly class, aubrey was sufficiently foolish to account a small degradation. happily for him, he had just enough sense left, and had been sufficiently humiliated, to perceive that he could not escape the necessity of devouring this unpalatable piece of humble pie, and that the only choice left him was a choice of bitters. the false manliness which he had been diligently cultivating had vanished into thin air, and something of the child's spirit, so long despised, was coming back to him,--the longing for the sound of a familiar voice, and the touch of a tender hand. even aunt temperance would have received, just then, a welcome which might have astonished her. but it showed the character of the women of his family that in this emergency aubrey's thoughts scarcely touched his mother, and dwelt longingly on his grandmother and his aunt edith. the wise countess waited quietly till aubrey's meditations had taken time to settle themselves into resolution. "madam, i thank your ladyship," he said at last, as he looked up, with an expression which had not dwelt for many a month in his eyes. "i think i perceive now how matters stand. suffer me to say that i never knew, until now, how foolish i have been. under your ladyship's leave, i will take your kindly counsel, and seek aid of mr marshall. i would like to see them again." his voice faltered as the last words were spoken. "so will you do well," said the countess, more kindly than before. "all is not yet lost, mr louvaine. you have been foolish, but there is time before you wherein you may be wise." aubrey bowed, took his leave, and went to his own room, where he filled his pockets with a few immediate necessaries and what little money he had. it was hard to bear, this going forth into the wilderness, not at god's call, but as the consequence of his own folly--egypt left behind, and no canaan in prospect. he must take leave of none save lady oxford--must appear to none to be what he was--a homeless fugitive with his life in his hand. as he came down-stairs, he was met in the hall by the same page who had previously summoned him. "my lady would speak a word with you in her cabinet ere you walk forth." aubrey found lady oxford at her desk, busied with household accounts, and a little pile of gold beside her. when she had reminded him that she was not rich, she had spoken very truly. that deceased husband of hers, as wanting in reason in his age as in his youth, having reduced the great vere estates to almost nothing, his second wife, the countess elizabeth, and her young son earl henry, had to sustain the dignity of the house upon a very insufficient number of gold pieces. twenty months had elapsed since the death of earl edward, and the excellent management and strict economy of the widowed countess had done something to retrieve the ruined fortunes of the family, but much still remained to do. lady oxford glanced up at aubrey as he entered. "mr louvaine, i owe you your quarter's wages," she said; "at least, so little time remains that it need not tarry, and 'tis to my conveniency to reckon with you this afternoon." this was said in a voice that the page could hear. then, as aubrey came up to her, with a significant look, she laid another ten pounds in his hand, with a few words for his private ear. "let me hear of you in time to come as a good man. god go with you! farewell." ten minutes later, aubrey closed the door of oxford house for the last time, and went out, truly not knowing whither he went. his primary destination of course was shoe lane; but after that--whither? through back streets he made his way to aldersgate, and passed through it out of the city; over snow hill and holborn bridge, and down shoe lane to the small house where mr marshall "had his lodging"--to use the phrase of the time--in other words, where he and agnes made their home in three rooms, the kitchen being open to all the lodgers to cook for themselves. two of the rooms were moderately large; these formed the sitting-room, and the clergyman's bedroom and study, the bedroom end being parted from the study end by a curtain between the two. the remaining room, a mere closet, was his daughter's bedchamber. pleasantest of the three was the sitting-room, the front half of which was the general and public portion, while the back was reserved as agnes's boudoir, where her little work-table and stool were set by a small window, looking out over the little garden towards fetter lane, bounded on the right hand by the wall of saint andrew's church. the door was opened by a rather slipshod girl, the landlady's daughter. "pray you, is mr marshall at home?" "he's not, sir; he's gone for a country walk." "what time look you for him?" "well, about dark, i dare say. mrs agnes, she's in." "thank you; i will come again about dusk." aubrey walked up the lane, turned aimlessly to the left, and sauntered on towards bloomsbury. it was no matter where he went--no matter to any one, himself least of all. passing saint giles's church, he turned to the right, up a broad country road lined by flowery banks, wherein the first primroses of spring were just beginning to appear. there are primroses there yet--in flower-girls' baskets: they bloom now no otherwise in tottenham court road. when he had gone some little distance, aubrey grew tired. it was a warm day for the season; he sat down to rest on the flowery bank, and lost himself in unhappy thought. a mile further on, mr marshall was coming home down the same road, in a more despondent mood than was usual with him. things were going badly for the puritans abroad, and for the marshalls at home. an ejected minister was at all times an unfashionable person, and usually a very poor man. his income was small, was growing smaller, and was not at all likely to take a turn and increase. his wife was gone, and he felt her loss rather more than less as time passed on; and agnes had her private trouble, for her affianced husband, a young tradesman to whom she had been engaged for two years, had jilted her when he heard of her father's ejectment. altogether, the prospect before the marshalls was not pleasant. rent was due, and clothes were needed, and money was exceedingly scanty. in the outside world, too, the sky was dull and gloomy. the puritans were in no greater favour than they had been, though the papists were at the lowest ebb. that there was any inconsistency in their conduct did not apparently occur to the authorities, nor that the true way to repress popery was by cultivating puritanism. believing the true principles of the church of england to be the golden mean between the two, they acted under the pleasing illusion that when both halves were cut off, the middle would be left intact, and all the better for the operation. as mr marshall walked on in the tottenham road, he saw a figure seated on the grassy bank at some distance before him. when he came nearer, he perceived that it was a young man, who sat with his head cast down, in an attitude of meditation, and a light cane in his hand, with which now and then he switched off the head of an unoffending dandelion. drawing nearer still, the minister began to suspect that the youth's face was not unfamiliar; and when he came close, instead of passing the sitter on the bank, he stepped down, and took a seat beside him. the youth had paid no apparent attention to his companion until that moment. his face was turned away northward, and only when mr marshall sat down close to him did he seem to perceive that he was not alone. "how goes the world with you this afternoon, mr louvaine?" "mr marshall! i ask your pardon. i had not seen you." "i thought not. you have taken a long walk." aubrey made no reply. "now, how am i to get at this shut-up heart?" said mr marshall to himself. "to say the wrong thing just now may do considerable harm. yet what is the right one?" aloud he said only,--"i hope my lady lettice is well? i know not whether you or i saw her last." "i have not seen her for months," said aubrey, curtly. "then i am happier than you, for i saw her three weeks since. i thought her looking somewhat frail and feeble, even more so than her wont; yet very ripe for heaven, when as it shall please god to take her." there was no answer again. aubrey's cane applied itself diligently to making a plantain leaf lie to the right of its neighbour instead of the _left_. "mr louvaine, did you ever hear that my mother and your grandfather were friends of old time?" for the first time aubrey turned his head fully, and looked at his companion. the face which mr marshall saw was not, as he had imagined it might be, sullen and reluctant to converse. it was only very, very weary and sad, with heavy eyes as though they had slept little, or were holding back unshed tears. "no, never," was all he said. "my mother," said mr marshall, "was an oxfordshire woman, of minster lovel by her birth, but she wedded a bookseller in oxford town, where she was in service to a lady. i think you were not present when i told this to my lady lettice. but do you remember your old friend mrs elizabeth wolvercot, that she told me you were wont to call cousin bess?" "remember cousin bess! of course i do," said aubrey, a tone of interest coming into his voice. "what of her?" "my mother was her sister ellen." "why, mr marshall! are you my cousin?" "if it please you to acknowledge me, cousin aubrey." "that i will, indeed!" said aubrey, clasping the hand of the ejected minister. then, with a sudden and complete change of tone,--"but, maybe, if you knew all i know, you were not over ready to acknowledge me." "you are in trouble, my friend," answered mr marshall sympathisingly. "can i help you thereout? at least i can feel for you in it, if i may do no more." there was another minute of dead silence. the next question came suddenly and bluntly. "mr marshall, did you ever in your life feel that you had been a grand fool?" "yes," was the short, quiet answer. "i am glad to hear it, though i should not have thought so. i thought you had always been a precisely proper person, and i did not suppose you could feel for me a whit. but i must tell my trouble to somebody, or i shall grow desperate. look you, i have lost my place, and i can get none other, and i have not twenty pounds in the world, and i owe an hundred pounds, and i can't go home." "thank god!" was the strange answer. "well, to be sure,--mr marshall, what on earth are you thanking god for?" "that your husks have lost their flavour, my son. so long as the prodigal finds the husks sweet, there is little hope of him. but let him once discover that they are dry husks, and not sweet fruits, and that his companions are swine, and not princes--then he is coming to himself, and there is hope of making a man of him again. i say therefore, thank god!" "i shall never make anything better than a fool." "a man commonly ceases to be a fool when he begins to reckon himself one." "you know not the worst yet. but--mr marshall, if i tell it you, you will not betray me, for my poor old grandmother's sake? i never gave her much cause to love me, but i know she doth, and it would grieve her if i came to public hurt and shame." "it would grieve me, my cousin, more than you know. fear not, but speak freely." "well,--i know not if my grandmother told you that i was intimate with some of these poor gentlemen that have paid the penalty of their treason of late?" "i know that you knew percy and winter--and, i dare say, rookwood." "i knew them all, and catesby too. and though i was not privy to the plot--not quite so bad as that!--yet i would have followed mr tom winter almost anywhere,--ay, even into worse than i did." "surely, aubrey louvaine, you never dreamed of perversion!" "mr marshall, i was ready to do anything tom winter bade me; but he never meddled with my religion. and--come, i may as well make a clean breast, as i have begun--i loved dorothy rookwood, and if she had held up a finger, i should have gone after. you think the rookwoods protestants, don't you? they are not." mr marshall sat in dismayed silence, for a moment. "i doubted them somewhat," he said: "but i never knew so much as you have told me. then mrs dorothy--" "oh, she would have none of me. she told me i was a beggar and a fool both, and she spake but the bitter truth. yet it was bitter when she said it." "my poor boy!" said mr marshall, compassionately. "i thought hans but a fool when he went and bound himself to yon mercer--he, the son of a dutch baron! but i see now--i was the fool, not he. had i spent my days in selling silk stockings instead of wearing them, and taken my wages home to my mother like a good little boy, it had been better for me. i see, now,--now that the doors are all shut against me, and i dare not go home." "yet tell me, aubrey, for i scarce understand it--why dare you not go home?" as aubrey laid the matter before him from the point of view presented by lady oxford, mr marshall's face grew graver every moment. he began to see that the circumstances were much more serious than he had apprehended. there was silence for a few minutes when aubrey finished his account. then the clergyman said-- "'tis a tangle, and a tight one, my boy. yet, by god's blessing, we may see our way out. let us take one point at a time. these debts of yours--will you tell me, are they `debts of honour,' falsely so-called?" "only twenty pounds. the rest is due partly to patrick the tailor and others for goods, and partly to tom rookwood for money i borrowed of him." "how much to tom rookwood?" "twenty pounds." "i will see what i can do with him," said mr marshall, thoughtfully. "if these rookwoods are in no wise dragged into the plot, so that they have no land escheated, nor fines to pay, then i think he can afford to wait for his money--better, very like, than the tradesfolk. but, aubrey, you must get another place. bear with me if i ask you,--could you bring your pride down to serve in a shop?" the young shapely head went up suddenly, as if in proud protest against this most unacceptable proposal. then it dropped again, and the cane toyed with the plantain. "i thought my pride was down," he said in a low voice? "but i see it might be lowered yet further. mr marshall, i will try to humble myself even to that, if it be needful." aubrey did not suspect that mr marshall had never come so near respecting him as at that moment. "well," he said, quietly, "i will do what i can to help you. i will see tom rookwood; and i know a bookseller in oxford town to whom i could speak for you if you wish it. the question for you at this moment is not, what is easy and pleasant?--but, what is right? `_facilis descensus averni_'--you know--`_sed revocare gradum_!' it is always hard work turning back. there is a bitter cup to be drunk; and if you would win back your lost self-respect--if you would bring help and comfort to your grandmother in her old age--if you would light up the lamp of joy where hitherto you have wrought darkness--nay, if you would win a smile from the blessed lips which said `father, forgive them' _for you_--then, aubrey louvaine, be a man, and drink off that bitter draught. you will find it sweeter afterwards than all the dainties you have been searching after for so long." aubrey sat still and silent for some time, and his companion let him alone to consider his ways. mr marshall was a wise man; and never gave more strokes to a nail than were needful to drive it in. at last the question came, in low, unsteady tones-- "mr marshall, did god send you up this road this afternoon?" "i have no doubt he did, my friend, if anything i say or do can help you to the right way. you see, i knew not of your being here, and he did." "when you came up," said the low voice, "i thought all was over, and my mind was very near made up to enlist as a common soldier, and leave no trace behind. i see now, it should have been an ill deed to do." "an ill deed in truth for your poor friends, if the only news they had ever heard of you were your name in a list of the dead." "yes, i wished to be killed as soon as might be--get to the end as fast as possible." "would that have been the end, aubrey?" the reply was barely audible. "no, i suppose not." "take up your burden instead, my son, and bear it by god's grace. he does not refuse that, even when the burden is heaped and bound by our own hands. unlike men, his compassion faileth never. he has maybe emptied thine heart, aubrey, that he may fill it with himself." aubrey made no reply, but mr marshall did not think that a bad sign. "well, come now," said he, rising from the bank, and in a more cheerful tone. "let us go to shoe lane, and see if agnes hath any supper for us. the prodigal son was not more welcome to his old father than you shall be to my poor lodging, for so long a time as may stand with your safety and conveniency. my lady oxford, you say, was to give my lady lettice to know how things went with you? but methinks it shall do none ill if i likewise visit her this evening. `two heads are better than one,' and though 'tis said `o'er many cooks spoil the broth,' yet three may be better than two." the feeling of humiliation which grew and deepened in aubrey's mind, was one of the best things which could have come to him. vanity and self-sufficiency had always been his chief failings; and he was now finding, to his surprise, that while his chosen friends surrounded him with difficulties, the people whom he had slighted and despised came forward to help him out of them. he had looked down on no one more than on mr marshall, and agnes had received a share of his contempt, partly because of her father's calling and comparative poverty, partly because she was not pretty, and partly because she showed no power of repartee or spirit in conversation. in aubrey's eyes she had been "a dull, humdrum thing," only fit to cook and sew, and utterly beneath the notice of any one so elevated and _spirituel_ as himself. during the last few hours, aubrey's estimate of things in general had sustained some rude shocks, and his hitherto unfaltering faith in his own infallibility was considerably shaken. it suffered an additional blow when mr marshall led him into his quiet parlour, and he saw agnes seated at her work, the supper-table spread, and a cheerful fire blazing upon a clean hearth. an expression of slight surprise came into her eyes as she rose to greet aubrey. "you see, daughter, i have brought home a guest," said her father. "he will tarry with us a little season." then, stepping across the room, he opened a closed door, and showed aubrey another chamber, the size of the first, across which a red curtain was drawn. "this is my chamber, and shall be also yours," said he: "i pray you use it freely. at this end is my study, and beyond the curtain my bedchamber. i somewhat fear my library may scarce be to your liking," he added, an amused smile playing round his lips; "but if you can find therein anything to please you, i shall be glad.--now, daughter, what have we here? we so rarely have guests to supper, i fear mr louvaine may find our fare somewhat meagre: though `better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.'" "it is a dinner of herbs, father," said agnes, echoing the smile; "for 'tis a bit of gammon of bacon and spinach, with eggs in poach." "how say you, my friend?" asked mr marshall of aubrey. "can you make your supper of so simple a dish?" "indeed i can, sir, and thankfully," was the answer. agnes marshall, though very quiet, was observant, and she perceived in a moment that something was wrong with the magnificent youth who had scarcely deigned to look at her when they had met on previous occasions. she saw also that his manner had greatly changed, and very much for the better. he spoke to her now on terms of equality, and actually addressed her father in a tone of respect. something must have happened. aubrey, naturally the less observant of the two, was looking on just now with quickened senses; and discovered, also to his surprise, that the simple supper was served with as much dainty neatness as at lord oxford's table; that mr marshall could talk intelligently and interestingly on other than religious subjects; that agnes really was not dull, but quite able to respond to her father's remarks; that her eyes were clear and bright, her complexion not at all bad, and her smile decidedly pleasant: and lastly, that both his hosts, though take a thus unawares, were exceedingly kind to him, and ready to put themselves to any trouble or inconvenience in order to accommodate him. he had learned more, when he lay down to sleep that night, in twelve hours than in any previous twelve months of his life, since his infancy. the lessons were of higher value, and they were not likely to be lost. when supper was over, mr marshall repaired to the white bear, and aubrey was left to agnes as entertainer. she was sewing a long seam, and her needle went in and out with unfailing regularity. for a few minutes he watched her in silence, discovering a sunny gleam on her hair that he had never before noticed. then he suddenly spoke out one of his thoughts. "don't you find that exceeding wearisome?" agnes looked up with amused surprise. "truly," she said, "i never thought about it." "i am sure i could not work at it ten minutes," replied aubrey. agnes laughed--a low, soft, musical laugh, which struck pleasantly on the ear. "my father would be ill off for shirts if i could not," she answered. "you see, mr louvaine, things have to be done. 'tis to no good purpose to be impatient with them. it doth but weary more the worker, and furthers not the work a whit." "would you not like to lead a different life?--such a life as other young maids do--amid flowers, and sunshine, and jewels, and dancing, and laughter, and all manner of jollity?" he was curious to hear what she would say to the question. agnes answered by a rather wondering smile. then her eyes went out of the window, to the steeple of saint andrew's, and the blue sky beyond it. "i might well enjoy some of them," she said slowly, as if the different ideas were passing in review before her. "i love sunshine, and flowers. but there is one thing i love far better." "and that is--?" a light "that never was from sun nor moon" flooded the grave grey eyes of agnes marshall. her voice was very low and subdued as she answered. "that is, to do the will of god. there is nothing upon earth that i desire in comparison of him." "is not that a gloomsome, dismal sort of thing?" there was divine compassion, mingled with human amusement, in the smile which was on agnes's lips as she looked up at him. "have you tried it, mr louvaine?" aubrey shook his head. "i have tried a good many things, but not puritan piety. it ever seemed to me a most weary and dreary matter,--an eternal `thou shalt not' carved o'er the gate of every garden of delight that i would fain enter. they may be angels that stand there, but they bear flaming swords." he spoke lightly, yet there was an accent in his voice which revealed to agnes a deep unfilled void in his heart. "don't try piety," she said quietly. "try jesus christ instead. there are no flaming swords in the way to him, and the truest and deepest satisfaction cannot be reached without him." "have you found it thus, mrs agnes?" "i have, mr louvaine." "but, then,--you see,--you have not tried other fashions of pleasure, maybe," said aubrey, slowly. "have you?" said agnes. "ay--a good many." "and did you find them satisfying? i say not, pleasant at the moment, but satisfying?" "well, that is a large word," said aubrey. "it is a large word," was the reply, "yet christ can fill it: and none can do it but he. know you any thing or creature else that can?" "i cannot say, for i have not needed it." "that is, you have not been down yet into deep places, methinks, where the floods have overflowed you. i have not visited many, in truth; yet have i been in one or two where i should have lost my footing, had not my lord held me up." a very sorrowful look came into the gentle eyes. agnes was thinking of the faithless jonas derwent, who had cast her off in the day of her calamity. aubrey made no answer. he was beginning to find out that life was not, as he had always imagined it, a field of flowers, but a very sore and real battlefield, wherein to lose the victory meant to lose his very self, and to win it meant to reign for ever and ever. and then mr marshall's voice said on the other side of the door,--"this is the way,"--and another voice, dearly welcome to aubrey, responded as aunt edith came into the room-- "mine own dear boy! god be thanked that we see thee safe from harm!" and again, for the twentieth time, aubrey felt as he kissed her that he had not deserved it. chapter thirteen. which is full of surprises. "ah, who am i, that god hath saved me from the doom i did desire, and crossed the lot myself had craved, to set me higher?" jean ingelow. as mr marshall approached the white bear that evening, he was unexpectedly pounced upon by silence abbott. "eh, parson, i declare it's you! how fares mrs agnes this cold even? marry, i do believe we shall have snow ere the day break again. the white bear'll be a bit whiter, i reckon, if he be well snowed o'er. are you going in there? you'll have some work to peace mrs louvaine; she's lamenting and weeping, you never heard!--and all for her son as cometh not home, and she is fair sure he'll be hung, because she saith he was in with those rogues yonder." "he was nothing of the sort," said mr marshall, breaking in sternly on the flow of silence's tide of words: "and let me tell you, mrs abbott, if you spread such a lie, you may have a death at your door, as like as not. mr louvaine, i have no doubt, is safe and well, and had no more ado with the gunpowder plot than you had: and i saw you with mine own eyes talking with fawkes, that rascal that called himself johnson." "eh deary, parson, but you'd never go to tell on a poor woman, and as honest as any in westminster, if i did pass the time o' day to a fellow, that i never guessed to be a villain? i do assure you, on my truth as--" "i hope you are an honest woman, mrs abbott; and so is mr louvaine an honest man; and if you would have me keep my tongue off your doings, see that you keep yours off his. now i have given you warning: that is a bargain." "eh deary, deary! but i never heard parson i' such a way afore!" lamented mrs abbott to her daughter mary, the only listener she had left, for mr marshall had walked straight into the white bear. "i'll say the lad's a prince of the blood, or an angel, or anything he's a mind, if he'll but let me be. me talk to guy fawkes, indeed! i never said no worser to him than `fine morning,' or `wet, isn't it?' as it might be: and to think o' me being had up afore the lords of the council for just passing a word like that--and the parson, too! eh, deary me! whatever must i say to content him, now?" "i fancy, mother," said mary, who took after her quiet father, "he'll be content if you'll hold your peace." mr marshall found the ladies at the white bear all assembled in the parlour. mrs louvaine had the ear of the house as he entered. "so unfeeling as you are, temperance, to a poor widow! and my only child as good as lost, and never found again. and officers and third-boroughs and constables all going about, making all manner of inquirations, trying to bring folks to justice, and aubrey in with those wicked people, and going to sup with them, and all--and nobody ever trying to prevent him, and not a soul to care but me whether he went right or wrong--i do believe you thought more of the price of herrings than you ever did of the dear boy--and now, he's completely lost and nobody knows what has become of him--" mr marshall's quiet voice effected a diversion. "mrs louvaine, pardon me. aubrey is at my house, safe and sound. there is no need for your trouble." "of course!" responded temperance. "i told her so. might as well talk to the fire-bricks, when she takes a fancy of this sort. if the lad had come to any harm, we should have heard it. faith never will think that `no news is good news.'" "i am glad aubrey is with you, mr marshall," said the gentle voice of lady louvaine. "i met with him, madam, in a walk this afternoon, and brought him so far with me." "and why not a bit further, trow?" asked temperance. "that am i come to say. madam,"--and he addressed himself to lady louvaine,--"having told you that your grandson is well in body, and safe at my lodging, i trust it shall not greatly touch you to learn that he is in some trouble of mind." "didn't i tell you?" demanded mrs louvaine, in tones suited to cassandra amid the ruins of troy. "i said i was sure some harm had come to the boy, and you laughed me to scorn, and not one of you went to see--" "nobody laughed at you but me, my dear," said her sister: "and as to going to see, when his mother did not reckon it worth while to budge, i don't see why his aunts should not sit quiet." "why, you never looked for _me_ to go?" responded mrs louvaine, with a faint scream of horror. "me, a poor widow, and with my feeble health! when i haven't been out of the door except to church for nigh a month!" "more's the pity! if you knocked about a bit more, and went to market of a morrow, and such like, maybe your health would not be so feeble." "temperance, you barbarous creature, how _can_ you?" "well, i know there are folks that can, faith, and there are folks that can't. you never heard me ask my lady lettice why she didn't stir up and go a-marketing. she can't; she'd be only too glad if she could, and would want no asking. but you could if you would--it's true, my dear, and you don't need to stare, as if you'd never seen me before this evening. as for looking for you to go, i didn't indeed; i never look for aught but cumber, and so i'm not disappointed.--mr marshall, i ask your pardon; i'm staying you from speaking." mr marshall accepted the apology with a smile. "well, the upshot of the matter is this. mr louvaine, though in truth, as i do verily believe, innocent of all ill, is in danger to fall in some suspicion through a certain jewel of his being found in the lodging of one of the caitiffs lately execute. he saith that he knew not where he had lost it: no doubt it dropped out of his apparel when he was there, as he allows he hath been divers times. he never heard, saith he, a word of any traitorous designs, nor did they tamper at all with his religion. but this jewel being carried to my lady oxford--truly, whether by some suspicion that it should be mr louvaine's, or how, i know not, nor am sure that he doth himself--she charged him withal, yet kindly, and made haste to have him forth of the house, warning him that he must in no wise tarry in the town, but must with all haste hie him down into the country, and there lie squat until all suspicion had passed. she would not even have him come hither, where she said he should be sought if any inquiry were made. the utmost she would suffer was that he should lie hid for a day or twain in my lodging, whither you might come as if to speak with agnes, and so might agree whither he should go, and so forth. my lady paid him his wage, well-nigh nine pound, and further counted ten pounds into his hand to help him on his journey. truly, she gave him good counsel, and dealt well with him. but the poor lad is very downcast, and knows not what to do; and he tells me he hath debts that he cannot pay. so i carried him to my lodging, where he now lieth: and i wait your further wishes." "i thank you right truly for that your goodness," said lady louvaine. "there, now! didn't i say the boy was sure to run into debt?" moaned mrs louvaine. "how much be these debts, mr marshall?" asked the old lady. "twenty pounds borrowed from mr thomas rookwood; twenty lost at play; and about sixty owing to tailors, mercers, and the like." "ay, i reckoned that velvet would be over a penny the yard." "i see, the lad hath disburdened himself to you," said lady louvaine, with a sad smile. "truly, i am sorry to hear this, though little astonied. mr marshall, i have been much troubled at times, thinking whether, in suffering aubrey to enter my lord oxford's service, i had done ill: and yet in very deed, at the time i could see nothing else to do. it seemed to be the way wherein god meant us to go--and yet--" "madam, the lord's mercies are great enough to cover our mistakes along with our sins. and it may be you made none. i have never seen mr louvaine so softened and humbled as he now looks to be." "may the lord lead him forth by the right way! what do you advise, true friend?" "i see two courses, madam, which under your good leave i will lay before you. mr louvaine can either lie hid in the country with some friend of yours,--or, what were maybe better, some friend of your friend: or, if he would be doing at once towards the discharging of his debts, he can take the part mr floriszoon hath chosen, and serve some tradesman in his shop." "trade! aubrey!" shrieked mrs louvaine in horror. "he never will! my boy hath so delicate a soul--" "he said he would," answered mr marshall quietly, "and thereby won my high respect." "nay, you never mean it!" exclaimed temperance. "bless the lad! i ne'er gave him credit for half the sense." "if aubrey be brought down to that, he must have learned a good lesson," said his grandmother. "not that i could behold it myself entirely without a pang." edith, who had hitherto been silent, now put in a suggestion. "our charity is true as steel," she said. "why not let aubrey lie close with her kindred, where none should think to look for him?" "in pendle?--what, amid all the witches!" said temperance. "edith, i'm amazed at you! i could never lie quiet in my bed!" wailed mrs louvaine. "only to think of the poor boy being bewitched by those wicked creatures! why, they spend sunday nights dancing round the churchyard with the devil." "and the place is choke-full of 'em, charity says," added temperance. "she once met mother demdike her own self, muttering under her breath, and she gave her the evillest look as she passed her that the maid ever saw." "ay, saying the lord's prayer backwards, of course." "well, i can't say," said temperance, dubiously: "it did not seem to do charity any ill. i shouldn't wonder, truly--" "for mercy's sake, stop her!" cried mrs louvaine. "she's going to say something wicked--i know she is! she'll say there are no witches, or no devil, or something horrible." "nay, i'll say nought o' the sort," responded temperance. "whether there be witches or no, the lord knows, and there i leave it; but that there is a devil i'm very sure, for he has tempted me over and over again. all i say is, if charity could meet a witch, and get no ill, why should not aubrey too?" "i won't have it!" cried mrs louvaine in an agony. "my poor darling boy! i won't have it! my fatherless child shall not go among snakes and witches and demons--" "now, faith, do be quiet, or you'll have a fit of the mother [hysterics]. nobody wants to send the lad amongst snakes--i don't know that there's so much as an adder there. as to devils, he'll find them where'er he goeth, and some of them in men's and women's bodies, or i mistake." "if your ladyship liked better," suggested mr marshall, quietly, "to take the other road i named, i am acquaint with a bookseller in oxford town, that is a cousin of my sister's husband, a good honest man, and a god-fearing, with whom, if you so pleased, he might be put. 'tis a clean trade, and a seemly, that need not disgrace any to handle: and methinks there were no need to mention wherefore it were, save that the place were sought for a young gentleman that had lost money through disputes touching lands. that is true, and it should be sufficient to account for all that the master might otherwise note as strange in a servant." "my poor fatherless boy!" sobbed mrs louvaine, with her handkerchief at her eyes. "servant to a tradesfellow!" "we are all servants," answered mr marshall: "and we need think no scorn thereof, since our lord himself took on him the form of a servant. howbeit, for this even, the chief question is, doth any of you gentlewomen desire to return with me?--mrs louvaine?" "i could not bear it!" came in a stifled voice from behind the handkerchief. "to see my poor child in his misery--it would break mine heart outright. 'tis enough to think of, and too-too [exceedingly] great to brook, even so." "let her pass; she'll be ne'er a bit of good," said temperance in a contemptuous whisper. then raising her voice, she added,--"now, lady lettice, don't you think thereof. there's no need, for edith and i can settle everything, and you'd just go and lay yourself by, that you should have no good of your life for a month or more. be ruled by me, and let edith go back and talk matters o'er with aubrey, and see whether in her judgment it were better he lay hid or went to the bookseller. she's as good a wit as any of us, yourself except. said i well?" "if your ladyship would suffer me to add a word," said the clergyman, "i think mrs temperance has well spoken." there was a moment's hesitation, as if lady louvaine were balancing duties. mr marshall noticed how her thin hand trembled, and how the pink flush came and went on her delicate cheek. "well, children, have it as you will," said the old lady at last. "it costs me much to give it up; but were i to persist, maybe it should cost more to you than i have a right to ask at your hands. let be: i will tarry." "dearest mother, you have a right to all that our hands can give you," answered edith, tenderly: "but, i pray you, tarry until the morrow, and then if need be, and your strength sufficient, you can ride to shoe lane." so edith went with mr marshall alone. even after all she had heard, aubrey's condition was a delightful surprise. never before had she seen him in so softened, humbled, grateful a mood as now. they talked the matter over, and in the end decided that, subject to lady louvaine's approval, aubrey should go to the bookseller. when the white bear was reached on her return, edith found lady oxford in the parlour. the sternness with which the countess had treated aubrey was quite laid aside. to lady louvaine she showed a graceful and grateful mixture of sympathy and respect, endeavoured to reassure her, hoped there would be no search nor inquiry, thought it was almost too late, highly approved of edith's decision, promised to send over all aubrey's possessions to the white bear, and bade them let her know if she could do them any service. "will you suffer me to ask you one thing?" she said. "if mr louvaine go to oxford, shall you tarry here, or no?" "would it be safe for us to follow him?" "follow him--no! i did but think you might better love to be forth of this smoky town." "amen, with all my heart!" said temperance. "but, madam, and saving your ladyship's presence, crowns bloom not on our raspberry bushes, nor may horses be bought for a groat apiece down this way." mrs louvaine, behind the cambric, was heard to murmur something about a sordid spirit, people whose minds never soared, and old maids who knew nothing of the strength of maternal love. "strength o' fiddlesticks!" said temperance, turning on her. "madam, i ask your ladyship's pardon." "my dear lady, i cannot answer you as now," was lady louvaine's reply. "the pillar of cloud hath not moved as yet; and so long as it tarrieth, so long must i also. it may be, as seemeth but like, that my next home will be the churchyard vault, that let my father judge. if it had been his will, that i might have laid my bones in mine own country, and by the side of my beloved, it had been pleasant to flesh and blood: but i know well that i go to meet him, wherever my dust may lie. i am well-nigh fourscore years old this day; and if the lord say, `go not over this jordan,' let him do as seemeth him good. methinks the glory of the blessed city burst no less effulgent on the vision of moses, because he had seen the earthly canaan but far off. and what i love the best is not here, but there." temperance and edith accompanied lady oxford to her coach. she paused a moment before stepping in. "mrs edith," she said, "methinks your good mother would fain see mr louvaine ere he depart. if so, she shall not be balked thereof. i have made inquiry touching mr marshall's house, and i find there is a little gate from the garden thereof into saint andrew's churchyard. i will call for her as to-morrow in my coach, and carry her to take the air. an ancient servant of mine, that is wedded to the clerk of saint andrew's, dwelleth by the churchyard, and i will stay me there as though to speak with her, sending away the coach upon another errand that i can devise. then from her house my lady may safely win to mr marshall's lodging, and be back again ere the coach return." "your ladyship is most good unto us," responded edith, thankfully. "i am assured it should greatly comfort my dear mother." lady oxford turned with a smile to temperance. "it seems to me, mrs temperance, that your words be something sharp." "well, madam, to tell truth, folks do put me out now and again more than a little. many's the time i long to give faith a good shaking; and i could have laid a stick on aubrey's back middling often,--i'll not say i couldn't: but if the lad sees his blunders and is sorry for 'em, i'll put my stick in the corner." "i think i would leave it tarry there for the present," said lady oxford, with a soft little laugh. "god grant you a good even!" the coach had only just rolled away, and four youthful abbotts, whom it had glued to the window, were still flattening their noses against the diamond panes, when a clear, strong, sweet voice rang out on the evening air in the back road which led by the palings of saint james's park. both edith and temperance knew well whose voice it was. they heard it every night, lifted up in one of the psalms of david, as hans floriszoon came home from his work with the mercer. hans was no longer an apprentice. mr leigh had taken such a fancy to him, and entertained so complete a trust both in his skill and honesty, that six months before he had voluntarily cancelled his indentures, and made him his partner in the business. nothing changed hans floriszoon. he had sung as cheerily in his humble apprenticeship, and would have done so had he been lord mayor of london, as now when he came down the back road, lantern in hand, every evening as regularly as the clock struck four, mrs abbott declared that she set her clock by hans whenever it stopped, which it did frequently, for it was an ancient piece of goods, and suffered from an asthmatic affection. "there's mestur 'ans!" said charity. "see thee, rachel, i'll teem them eggs into th' pan; thou doesn't need to come." rachel sat by the window, trying to finish making a new apron before supper. "that's a good lass," she said. "eh, but it's a dark day; they'll none see a white horse a mile off to-night." [note .] "they'd have better e'en nor me to see it any night," said charity, breaking the eggs into the pan. "hearken to th' lad!" said rachel. "eh, it's gradely [excellent, exactly right] music, is that!" "he sings well, does mestur 'ans." the words were audible now, as the singer unlatched the gate, and turned into the garden. "and in the presence of my foes my table thou shalt spread: thou shalt, o lord, fill full my cup, and eke anoint mine head. "through all my life thy favour is so frankly showed to me, that in thy house for evermore my dwelling-place shall be." hans lifted the latch and came into the kitchen. "here's a clean floor, rachel! tarry a minute, while i pluck off my shoes, and i will run across in my stocking-feet. it shall be `february fill-dyke,' methinks, ere the day break." "he's as good as my lady and mrs edith, for not making work," said charity as hans disappeared. "i would we could set him i' th' garden, and have a crop on him," responded rachel. "he's th' only man i ever knew that 'd think for a woman." "eh, lass, yo' never knew sir aubrey!" was charity's grave comment. there was a good deal for hans to hear that evening, and he listened silently while edith told the tale, and temperance now and then interspersed sarcastic observations. when at last the story was told, hans said quietly-- "say you that you look to see aubrey again to-orrow?" "lady lettice doth, and edith. not i," said temperance. "'tis a case wherein too many cooks might spoil the broth, and the lad shall be all the easier in his mind for his old crusty aunt temperance to tarry at home. but i say, edith, i would you had asked him for a schedule of his debts. `tailors and silkmen' is scarce enough to go to market withal, if we had the means to pay them." "so did i, temperance, and he told me--twenty pounds to mr tom rookwood, and forty to patrick at the irish boy; fifteen to cohen, of the three tuns in knightriders' street; and about ten more to bennett, at the bible in paternoster row." "lancaster and derby! why, however many suits can the lad have in his wardrobe? it should fit me out for life, such a sum as that." "well! i would we could discharge them," said lady louvaine with a sigh. "twenty to tom rookwood, and forty to patrick!" "make your mind easy, madam," came in the quietest tones from hans: "not a penny is owing to either." "what can you mean, hans?" "i am sure of it." "who told you so much?" "nay, ask mr rookwood, and see what he saith." "i'll go this minute," said temperance, rising, "i wis not what bee thou hast in thy bonnet, but i don't believe thee, lad." "maybe you will when you come back," was the calm response. away flashed temperance, and demanded an interview with mr thomas rookwood, if he were at home. mr thomas was at home, and did not express the surprise he felt at the demand. but when the subject of aubrey's debt was introduced, mr thomas's eyebrows went up. "mr louvaine owes me nothing, i do ensure you." "i heard you had lent him twenty pounds?" "i did; but it was repaid a month ago." "by aubrey?" "so i suppose. i understood so much," was the answer, in a slightly puzzled tone. "he repaid it not himself, then?" "himself, nay--he sent it to me; but i gave the quittance as to mr louvaine." "i thank you, mr rookwood. then that ends the matter." out of the golden fish, and into the white bear, ran temperance, with drops of rain lying on her gown and hood. "madam," she announced in a stern voice, "i am that flabbergasted as never was! here's mr tom rookwood saith that aubrey paid him his money a month gone." "why, aubrey told me this afternoon that he owed him twenty pounds," replied edith in a tone of astonished perplexity. "hans, what meaneth this?" "methinks, madam, it means merely that i told you the truth. mr rookwood, you see, bears me out." "he saith aubrey sent the money by a messenger, unto whom he gave the quittance. dear heart, but if he lost it!" "yet aubrey must have known, if he sent the money," said edith in the same tone as before. "the messenger lost not the quittance," said hans. "it is quite safe." he had been out of the room for a minute while temperance was away, and now, passing his hand into his pocket, he took out a slip of paper, which he laid in the hand of lady louvaine. she drew forth her gold spectacles, and was fitting them on, when edith impulsively sprang up, and read the paper over her mother's shoulder. "received of mr aubrey louvaine, gent, the sum of twenty pounds, for moneys heretofore lent by me, this fifteenth of january, the year of our lord god , according to the computation of the church of england. "thomas rookwood." "northumberland, cumberland, westmoreland, and durham!" was the comment from temperance. "hans!" said edith, a light flashing on her, "wert thou the messenger?" "i was not sent," was the placid answer. "hans, thou admirable rascal!" cried temperance, laying her hands on his shoulders, "i do believe thou didst pay this money. if thou own not the truth, i'll shake thee in twenty bits." hans looked up laughingly into her face. "methinks, mrs temperance, you should shake yourself in forty ere you did it." "answer me this minute, thou wicked knave! didst thou pay this money, or no?" "i was there when it was paid." "i'll wager my best boots thou wert! was any else there?" "certainly." "who beside?" "the cat, i believe." temperance gave him a shake, which he stood with complete calm, only looking a little amused, more about his eyes than his lips. "hans, tell me!" said lady louvaine. "is it possible these debts were paid with thy money? how shall i repay thee, my true and dear friend?" hans freed himself from temperance's grasp, and knelt down beside lady louvaine. "nay, madam! do you forget that you paid me first--that i owe unto you mine own self and my very life? from the time we came hither i have seen pretty clearly which way aubrey was going; and having failed to stay him, methought my next duty was to save all i could, that you should not at some after-time be cumbered with his debts. mr rookwood's and patrick's, whereof i knew, have i discharged; and the other, for which i have a sufficiency, will i deal withal to-morrow, so that you can tell aubrey he is not a penny in debt--" "save to thee, my darling boy." "there are no debts between brothers, madam, or should not be." "hans, thou downright angel, do forgive me!" burst from temperance. "dear mrs temperance, i should make a very poor angel; but i will forgive you with all mine heart when i know wherefore i should do it." "why, lad, here have i been, like an old curmudgeon as i am, well-nigh setting thee down as a penny-father, because i knew not what thou didst with thy money. it was plain as a pikestaff what aubrey did with his, for he set it all out on his back; but thy habit is alway plain and decent, and whither thy crowns went could i never tell. eh, but i am sorry i misjudged thee thus! 'tis a lesson for me, and shall be my life long. i do believe thou art the best lad ever trod shoe-leather." "well, 'tis a very proper deed, hans, and i am glad to see in you so right a feeling," said mrs louvaine. "the lord bless thee, my boy!" added lady louvaine, with emotion. "but how may i suffer thee to pay aubrey's debts?" "i scarce see how you shall set about to help it, madam," said hans with a little laugh of pleasure. "i thank god i have just enough to pay all." "and leave thyself bare, my boy?" said edith. "of what, mrs edith?" asked hans with a smile. "`a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.' i am one of the richest men in england, i take it, and my wealth is not of a sort that shall make it hard to enter into the kingdom of god. the corn and wine and oil may be good things, and are such, being god's gifts: yet the gladness which he giveth is a better, and will abide when they are spent." lady oxford kept her word, and his grandmother and aunt edith had a farewell interview with aubrey. his face was a study for a painter when the receipts were shown him. tom rookwood had refused him a second loan only a few weeks earlier, and had pressed him to repay the former: hans floriszoon had paid his debts without even letting him know it. yet he had lent many a gold piece to tom rookwood, while the memory of that base, cruel blow given to hans made his cheek burn with shame. had he not been treasuring the pebble, and flinging away the pearl? "hans has paid my debts!" he said, in an exceedingly troubled voice. "hans! out of his own pocket? may god forgive me! tell him,"--and aubrey's voice was almost choked--"tell him he hath heaped coals of fire on mine head." edith asked no questions, but she gave a shrewd guess which was not far off the truth, and she was confirmed in it by the fact that hans received the message with a smile, and expressed no doubt what it meant. that night there were twenty-two miles between aubrey and london: and the next day he rode into oxford, and delivered mr marshall's letter of recommendation to the bookseller, mr whitstable, whose shop was situated just inside the west gate--namely, in close contiguity to that aristocratic part of the city now known as paradise square. mr whitstable was a white-haired man who seemed the essence of respectability. he stooped slightly in the shoulders, and looked aubrey through and over, with a pair of dark, brilliant, penetrating eyes, in a way not exactly calculated to add to that young gentleman's comfort, nor to restore that excellent opinion of his own virtues which had been somewhat shaken of late. "you are of kin to the writer of this letter, mr marshall?" aubrey admitted it. "and you desire to learn my trade?" "i am afeared i scarce do desire it, master: but i am content, and needs must." "what have you hitherto done?" "master," said aubrey, looking frankly at his questioner, "i fear i have hitherto done nothing save to spend money and make a fool of myself. that is no recommendation, i know." "you have done one other thing, young man," said the old bookseller: "you have told the truth. that is a recommendation. mr marshall tells me not that, yet can i read betwixt the lines. i shall ask you no questions, and as you deal with me, so shall i with you. have you eaten and drunk since you entered the city? good: take this cloth, and dust that row of books. i shall give you your diet, three pound by the year, and a suit of livery." and mr whitstable walked away into the back part of his shop, leaving aubrey to digest what he had just heard. the idea of wearing livery was not in his eyes, what it would be in ours, a part of his humiliation, for it was then customary for gentlemen, as well as servants, to wear the livery of their employers. even ladies did it, when in the service of royal or noble mistresses. this, therefore, was merely what he might expect in the circumstances: and as his own meanest suit was not in keeping with his new position, it was rather a relief than otherwise. but he was slightly disconcerted to find how accurately his master had read him in the first minute. a little wholesome reflection brought aubrey to the conclusion that his best plan--nay, his only plan in present circumstances--was to accommodate himself to them, and to do his very best in his new calling. almost unconsciously, he set hans before him as a suitable example, and dusted the row of books under this influence in a creditable manner. his experiences for the evening were new and strange. now an undergraduate entered for the epistles of casaubon or the paraphrases of erasmus; now a portly citizen demanded the mirrour of magistrates; a labouring man asked for the shepherd's calendar; a schoolmaster required a dozen horn-books, and a lady wanted a handsomely-bound communion book. psalters, at two shillings each; grammars, from sixpence to a shilling; speed's chronicle at fifty shillings, a map of england at thirty, the life of sir philip sidney at fourpence, a "paper book" at sixteen pence, an italian dictionary at fifteen shillings--classics, song-books, prayer-books, chronicles, law-books--aubrey learned to handle them all, and to repeat their prices glibly, in a style which astonished himself. at the end of a week, mr whitstable told him, in his usual grave and rather curt manner, that if he would go on as he had begun, he should be satisfied with him. the going on as he had begun was precisely the difficulty with aubrey. to do some magnificent deed by a sudden spurt of heroism, or behave angelically for a day, might be possible to him; but that quiet daily fulfilment of uninteresting duties--that patient continuance in well-doing, which seemed as if it came naturally to hans, was to aubrey louvaine the hardest thing on earth. had the lesson been a little less sharp, humanly speaking, he would have failed. but aubrey's conscience had been startled into life, and he was beginning to see that it would be too little profit to gain the whole world, if in so doing he lost his own soul, which was himself. men are apt to look on their souls not as themselves, but as a sort of sacred possession, a rich jewel to be worn on sundays, and carefully put up in cotton-wool for the rest of the week--of immense value, theoretically, of course, yet not at all the same thing as the "_me_" which is the centre of sensation to each one, and for which every man will give all that he hath. the mountain was terribly steep, but aubrey climbed it--only god knew with how much inward suffering, and with how many fervent prayers. the aubrey who sold mr whitstable's books that spring in the shop, at the west gate of oxford, was a wholly different youth from my lord oxford's gentleman only a few weeks before. three months had passed by, and no further apprehensions were entertained at the white bear of any government inquiries. if lady oxford still felt any, she kept them to herself. it was a summer evening; hans had come home, and the little family party were seated in the parlour, when a summons of charity to the front door was followed by her appearance before the ladies. "madam," said she, "here's one would have speech of your ladyship, and he'll not take a civil nay, neither. i told him he might ha' come i' daylight, and he said you'd be just as fain of him i' th' dark. he's none aila [bashful], for sure." "well, let him come in, charity," said lady louvaine smiling. charity drew back, and admitted a man of about five-and-twenty years, clad in respectable but not fashionable garments, and with an amused look in his eyes. "i do believe your maid thinks i've come to steal the spoons," said he. "i could scarce win her to let me in. well, does nobody know me? don't you, grandmother?" "why, sure! 'tis never david lewthwaite?" responded lady louvaine in some excitement. "'tis david lewthwaite, the son of your daughter milisent," said he, laughing. "why, who was to know you, my boy?" asked his aunt edith. "we have not seen you but once since we came, and you have changed mightily since then." "when last we saw you," said temperance, "your chin was as smooth as the hearthstone, and now you've got beard enough to fit out a flock of goats." "ah! i'd forgot my beard was new. well, i have been remiss, i own: but i will expound another time the reasons why you saw us not oftener. to-night, methinks, you'll have enough to do to hearken to the cause which has brought me at last." "no ill news, david, i trust?" asked his grandmother, growing a shade paler. "none, madam. and yet i come to bring news of death." "of whose death?" "of the death of oswald louvaine, of selwick hall." there was a cry from edith--"o david, can you possibly mean--is selwick come back to us?" "oswald louvaine died unwedded, and hath left no will. his heir-at-law is my cousin aubrey here." "may the lord help him to use it wisely!" said his grandmother, with emotion. "amen!" said david, heartily. "and now, madam, as i have not stolen the spoons, may i let somebody else in, that i left round the corner?--whom, perchance, you may care rather to see than me." "prithee bring whom thou wilt, david; there shall be an hearty welcome for him." "well, i rather guess there will be," said david, as he walked out of the parlour. "dear heart, but who is talking fast enough to shame a race-horse?" "well, now, you don't say so!" was what met david's ear as he unlatched the gate of the white bear. "and you've come from camberwell, you say? well, that's a good bit o' walking, and i dare be bound you're weary. i'd--" "i cry you mercy,--cumberland," said a silvery voice in amused tones. "dear heart! why, that's a hundred mile off or more, isn't it? and how many days did it take you?--and how did you come--o' horseback?--and be the roads very miry?--and how many of you be there?--and what kin are you to my lady lettice, now? and how long look you to tarry with her?" "my mistress," said david, doffing his hat, "an't like you, i am a lawyer; and to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock, if you desire it, will i be at your service in the witness-box, for two shillings the week and my diet. for to-night, i wish you good even." "lack-a-daisy!" was all that mrs abbott could utter, as david rescued the owner of the silvery voice, and bore her off, laughing, to the white bear. "madam, and my mistresses," he said, as he threw open the door, "i have the honour to announce the most excellent mistress milisent lewthwaite." tears and laughter were mixed for more than one present, as milisent flew into her mother's arms, and then gave a fervent hug to her sister edith. "i would come with robin!" she cried. "it feels like a whole age since i saw one of you!" "my dear heart, such a journey!" said her mother. "and where is the dear robin, then?" "oh, he shall be here anon. he tarried but to see to the horses, and such like; and i set off with davie--i felt as though i could not bear another minute." "madam, i give you to wit," said david, with fun in his eyes, "this mother of mine, that had not seen me for an whole year, spake but three words to me--`how fare you, my boy?' `help me to 'light,' and `now let us be off to westminster.'" "well, i had seen thee in a year," answered milisent, echoing his laugh, "and them not for three years, less a month." a little soft echoing laugh came from lady louvaine. "shall i tell thee, my dear heart, what i think aunt joyce should say to thee? `well done, lettice eden's daughter!'" "ah, mother dear!" said milisent, kissing her mother's hand, "i may be like what you were as a young maid, but never shall i make by one-half so blessed a saint in mine old age." "that must you ask your grandchildren," said temperance. "nay, i will ask somebody that can judge better," replied milisent, laughing. "what sayest thou, robin?" mr lewthwaite had entered so quietly that only his wife's quick eyes had detected his presence. he came forward now, kissed lady louvaine's hand, and then laying his hand on milisent's bright head, he said softly-- "`the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her; she will do him good and not evil all the days of her life. she openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness. her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.'" whether he would have gone further was never to be known, for a sudden rap at the door preceded charity. "madam, here's mistress abbott, and hoo will come in. i cannot keep her out. i've done my best." and they were all feeling so happy, and yet, for various reasons, so humble,--the two are very apt to go together,--that, as edith observed afterwards, there was charity enough and to spare even for silence abbott. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . "on candlemas day, you should see a white horse a mile off," is a proverb in the north, and perhaps elsewhere. chapter fourteen. ends with joyce morrell. "vanished is each bright illusion; they have faded one by one: yet they gaze with happy faces, westwards to the setting sun:-- "talking softly of the future, looking o'er the golden sands, towards a never-fading city, builded not with earthly hands." cyrus thornton. "well, to be sure! my man wouldn't let me come no sooner--'tis his fault, not mine. but i did want to know which of them lads o' ours told his tale the tightest. here's seth will have it you've had a thousand left you by the year, and ben he saith young master floriszoon's to be a lord." "dear! i hope not," said hans. "well! but they're a-saying so much all up and down the king's street, i can tell you." "how could it have crept forth?" said edith. "then 'tis true? eh, but i'm as glad as if i'd had forty shillings left me,--i am, so!" cried mrs abbott; and she was sincere, for a fresh subject for conversation was worth quite that to her. "and is it true, as our seth said, that you've a fine house and a park in northamptonshire come to you, and fifteen hundred head o' red deer and a lake to fish in?" "quite true," said robert lewthwaite, with a grave bow, "allowing, my mistress, of four corrections: there is not a park, it is not in northamptonshire, there be no red deer, and the lake 'longeth not to the house." "and jewels worth ever so many thousands, as our ben saith, for mistress lettice, and ten barbary horses o' th' best, and a caroche fine enough for the king's majesty?" "ah, i would that last were true," said edith. "my mistress, the barbary horses be all there saving ten, and the caroche is a-building in the air: as to the jewels, seeing they be mistress lettice's, i leave her to reply." lettice was in no condition to do it, for she was suffering torments from suppressed laughter. her uncle robert's preternatural gravity, and mrs abbott's total incapacity to see the fun, were barely endurable. "eh, but you will be mortal fine!" said mrs abbott, turning her artillery on the afflicted lettice. "i only wish our mall had such a chance. if she--" "mrs abbott, i cry you mercy, but here comes your caleb," said hans calmly. "i reckon he shall be after you." "i reckon he shall, the caitiff! that man o' mine, he's for ever and the day after a-sending the childer after me." "i rejoice to hear you have so loving an husband," mr lewthwaite was sufficiently inconsiderate to respond. "eh, bless you, there's no love about it. just like them men! they'd shut a woman's mouth up as tight as a fish, and never give her no leave to speak a word, if they had their way. but i'm not one of your meek bag-puddings, that'll take any shape you pinch 'em,--not i, forsooth; and he knows it. i'll have my say, soon or late, and prissy, she's a downright chatterbox. not that i'm that, you know--not a bit of it: but prissy, she is; and i can tell you, when prissy and dorcas and ben they're all at it, the house isn't over quiet, for none on 'em hearkens what t'others are saying, and their father whacks 'em by times--ay, he doth! now, caleb, what's to do?" "nothing particular, mother," said slow, deliberate caleb through the open window: "only there's yon pedlar with the mercery, and he willn't tarry only ten minutes more--" "thou lack-halter rascal, and ne'er told me while i asked thee!" the parlour of the white bear was free in another moment. "there's a deliverance!" said mr lewthwaite. "blessed be the pedlar!-- have you been much pestered by that gadfly?" "there's been a bit of buzzing by times," replied temperance. "now, mother, darling," said milisent, "how are we to carry you down home?" "my dear child!" was the response. "methinks, if you would do that, it should be only in my coffin. i have one journey to go soon, and it is like to be the next." "mother, sweet heart, i won't have it! you shall yet win to selwick, if i carry you every foot of the way." "nay, nay, my dear heart, i cannot hope that at fourscore." "fourscore! ay, or forty score!" cried milisent. "why, old mistress outhwaite journeyed right to the border but just ere we came, and she's four years over the fourscore--and on horseback belike. sure, you might go in a waggon or a caroche!" "where is the caroche, milly?" "well! but at any rate we might find a waggon." "there is a travelling waggon," said hans, "leaves the chequers in holborn for york, once in the month--methinks 'tis the first thursday in every month." "that is three weeks hence. why not? sure, your landlord would suffer you to let this house, and you might leave some behind till it were off your hands. what saith temperance?--or hans?" "that where my lady goeth, i go," was the answer from hans. "is it needful, milly, to settle all our futures ere the clock strike?" humorously inquired mr lewthwaite. "methinks we might leave that for the morrow." milisent laughed, and let the subject drop. mr lewthwaite and temperance happened to be the last up that night. when all the rest had departed, and charity came with the turf to bank up the parlour fire for the night, temperance was saying-- "one thing can i promise you,--which is, if aubrey return to selwick as lord and master, you may trust faith to go withal. as for me, i live but in other lives, and where i am most needed, there will i be, if god be served: but truly, i see not how we shall move my lady lettice. i would fain with all my heart have her back yonder, and so she would herself,--of that am i right sure. but to ride so far on an horse, at her years, and with her often pains--how could she? and though the waggon were safer, it were too long and weary a journey. think you not so?" charity, having now settled her peat-sod to her satisfaction, left the room, with a hearty--"good-night, mrs temperance! good-night, mestur robin!" "truly, i think with you," said mr lewthwaite, when she was gone: "but there is time to consider the matter. let us decide nothing in haste." the next morning, for the first time for many weeks, charity asked for a holiday. it was granted her, and she was out till twelve o'clock, when she came home with a very satisfied face. ways and means were discussed that day, but to little practical purpose. of course aubrey must be informed of the good fortune which had fallen to him: and after some consideration, it was settled that if hans could make arrangements with mr leigh, he should be the messenger in this direction, setting forth when sunday was over. people did not rush off by the next train in those days, and scald their tongues with hot coffee in order to be in time. the saturday evening came, and with it the calm quiet which most puritan families loved to have on the eve of the lord's day. while it was not necessary, it was nevertheless deemed becoming to lay aside secular occupations, and to let worldly cares rest. there was therefore some astonishment in the parlour when a sudden rap came on the door, and charity's face and cap made their appearance. "if you please, madam, when'll you be wanting your coach, think you?" "my coach, charity!" said lady louvaine in amazement. everybody was staring at charity. "it's ready, madam," said that damsel with much placidity. "he's only got to put the horses to, hasn't 'zekiel, and they're at tomkins' stable yon, by th' tilt yard--spring gardens, i reckon they call it." "charity, lass, are you in your right senses, think you?" demanded temperance. "well, mrs temperance, i reckon you'll be best judge o' that," said charity coolly. "seems to me i am: but that scarce makes sure, i count." "but, charity!--what ezekiel?" "'zekiel cavell, mrs edith. he's i' th' kitchen: you can see him if you've a mind." "ezekiel cavell! aunt joyce's coachman! where on earth has he come from?" "well, i rather think it was somewhere on earth," answered the calm charity, "and i expect it was somewhere i' oxfordshire. howbeit, here he is, and so's th' coach, and so's th' horses: and he says to me, `charity,' says he, `will you ask my lady when she'll be wanting th' coach?' so i come." everybody looked at everybody else. "is it possible?" cried edith. "has dear aunt joyce sent her coach to carry down mother home?" "nay, it's none hers, it's my lady's," said charity, "and nobry else's; and if she's a mind to bid me chop it up for firewood, i can, if mestur 'ans 'll help me. we can eat th' horses too, if she likes; but they mun be put in salt, for we's ne'er get through 'em else. there's six on 'em. shall i tell rachel to get th' brine ready?" "charity, what have you been doing?" said hans, laughing. "i've done nought, mestur 'ans, nobut carry a letter where it belonged, and serve 'zekiel his four-hours." they began to see light dawning on the mystery. "a letter to whom, charity? and who writ it?" "to mestur marshall: and mrs joyce morrell writ it--leastwise her man did, at her bidding." "what said it?" "i didn't read it, sir," responded charity, demurely. "come, i reckon you know what was in it," said mr lewthwaite. "out with it, charity." "come forward into the room, charity, and tell your tale like a man," said temperance. "i amn't a man, mrs temperance," answered charity, doing as she was bid: "but i'll tell it like a woman. well, when i were with mrs joyce, afore we came hither, hoo gave me a letter,--let's see! nay, it were two letters, one lapped of a green paper, and one of a white. and hoo said, as soon as yo' geet [got] here, i were to ask my way to shoe lane, just outside o' th' city gate, and gi'e th' letter i' th' white paper to mestur marshall. and th' green un i were to keep safe by me, till it came--if it did come--that my lady lacked a coach either to journey home or to minster lovel, and when i heard that, i were to carry it to mestur marshall too. so i did as i were bid. what were i' th' letters i cannot tell you, but mestur marshall come to see you as soon as he geet th' white un, and when he geet th' green un come 'zekiel wi' th' coach and th' tits. mrs joyce, hoo said hoo were feared nobry'd tell her if a coach were wanted, and that were why she gave me th' letter. so now you know as much as i know: and i hope you're weel pleased wi' it: and if you please, what am i to say to 'zekiel?" "dear aunt joyce!" said edith under her breath. "make ezekiel comfortable, charity," said lady louvaine, as she drew off her glasses and wiped them: "and on monday we will talk over the matter and come to some decision thereupon." the decision unanimously come to on the monday was that hans should ride down to oxford and see aubrey before anything else was settled. lady louvaine would have liked dearly to return home to selwick, but aubrey was its master, and was of age, and he might be contemplating matrimony when he could afford it. if so, she would make a long visit--possibly a life-long one--to her beloved joyce at minster lovel, accompanied by edith. temperance and lettice were to return to keswick: faith must please herself. that faith would please herself, and would not much trouble herself about the pleasing of any one else, they were tolerably convinced: and of course aubrey's own mother had a greater claim on him than more distant relatives. she would probably queen it at selwick, unless aubrey provided the hall with a younger queen in her place. it was on a lovely summer afternoon that hans rode into oxford by the water gate or little gate, from which a short street led up northwards to christ church and saint aldate's. just beyond these, he passed through the city portal of south gate, and turning to the left down brewers' street, he soon came to mr whitstable's shop under the shadow, of west gate. just on the eastern side was a livery-stable, where hans put up his horse: and then, wishing to see aubrey before he should be recognised, he walked straight into the shop. at the further end, aubrey was showing some solid-looking tomes to two solid-looking dons, while mr whitstable himself was just delivering a purchase to a gentleman in canonicals. hans stepped up to the bookseller, and in a low tone asked him for a book of articles. this meant the famous thirty-nine, then sold separate from the prayer-book at a cost of about sixpence. mr whitstable laid three copies on the counter, of which hans selected one, and then said, still speaking low-- "may i, with your good leave, tarry till my brother yonder is at liberty, and have speech of him? i have ridden from london to see him." the keen eyes examined hans critically. "you--brothers?" was all the reply of the old bookseller. "not by blood," said hans with a smile, "nor truly by nation: but we were bred up as brothers from our cradles." "you may tarry. pray you, sit." hans complied, and sat for a few minutes watching aubrey. he perceived with satisfaction that his costume was simple and suitable, entirely devoid of frippery and foppery; that his mind seemed to be taken up with his employment; that he was looking well, and appeared to understand his business. at last the grave and reverend signors had made their choice; bullinger's decades, at nine shillings, was selected, and beza's new testament, at sixteen: aubrey received the money, gave the change, and delivered the books. he was following his customers down the shop when his eyes fell on hans. whether on this occasion he was welcome or not, hans was not left to doubt. every feature of aubrey's face, every accent of his voice, spoke gratification in no measured tones. "hans, my dear brother!" he said as they clasped hands. "when came you? and have you had to eat since? how left you all at home?" mr whitstable was looking on, with eyes that saw. "i came but now, and have left all well, god be thanked," said hans. "i have not yet eaten, for i wished to see you first. i will now go and break bread, and we can meet in the evening, when you are at large." there was a momentary look of extreme disappointment, and then aubrey said-- "that is right, as you alway are. where meet we? under west gate?" mr whitstable spoke. "methinks, mr louvaine, it were pity to snatch the crust from an hungry man. go you now with your brother, until he make an end of his supper; then return here in time to make up accounts and close. if this gentleman be the steady and sober man that his looks and your words promise, you can bring him hither to your chamber for the night." "i thank you right heartily, master. he is sober as mr vice-chancellor, and good as an angel," said aubrey. hans followed him, with an amused look, to the golden lion, where they supped on chicken and banbury cakes, and aubrey heard all the news--the one item excepted which hans had come especially to tell. the tongues went fast, but no sooner had the hour rung out from the clock of saint ebbe's than aubrey sprang up and said he must return. "thou canst wander forth for an hour, only lose not thyself," he said to hans, "and when my work is done, i will join thee beneath the arch of west gate." hans obeyed with amused pleasure. this was an altered aubrey. when had he cared to keep promises and be in time for work? they met presently under west gate, and aubrey played cicerone until dusk set in, when he took hans to his own quiet little chamber at the bookseller's shop. it was very plainly furnished, and hans quickly saw that on the drawers lay a bible which bore evidence of being used. "thou little wist," said hans affectionately, when they were thus alone, "how glad i am to see thee, aubrey, and to perceive thy good welfare in this place." he did not add "good conduct," but he meant it. "how much richer shouldst thou have been, hans, if thou hadst never beheld me?" was the answer. "i should have been poorer, by the loss of the only brother i ever had." there was more feeling in aubrey's look than hans was wont to see, and an amount of tenderness in his tone which he had no idea how it astonished hans to hear. "my brother," he said, "you have had your revenge, and it is terrible." hans looked, as he felt, honestly surprised. it was his nature to remember vividly benefits received, but to forget those which he conferred. "dost thou not know?" said aubrey, reading the look. "after my unworthy conduct toward thee, that thou shouldst take my debts upon thine own--" "prithee, shut thy mouth," answered hans with a laugh, "and make me not to blush by blowing the trumpet over that which but gave me a pleasure. i ensure thee, my brother," he added more gravely, "that i had a sufficiency to cover all was a true contentment unto me. as to revenge, no such thought ever crossed my mind for a moment." "the revenge had been lesser if it were designed," was the reply. "and how goeth it with thee here?" asked hans, not sorry to change the subject. "art thou content with thy work?--and doth mr whitstable entreat thee well?" "mr whitstable is the manner of master good for me," responded aubrey with a smile: "namely, not unkindly, but inflexibly firm and just. i know that from him, if i deserve commendation, i shall have it; and if i demerit blame, i am evenly sure thereof: which is good for me. as to content--ay, i am content; but i can scarce go further, and say i find a pleasure in my work. that were more like thee than me." "and if it so were, aubrey, that the lord spake unto thee and me, saying, `work thus no more, but return unto the old life as it was ere ye came to london town,'--how shouldst thou regard that?" the momentary light of imagination which sprang to aubrey's eyes was succeeded and quenched by one of wistful uncertainty. "i cannot tell, hans," said he. "that i were glad is of course: that i were wise to be glad is somewhat more doubtful. i am afeared i might but slip back into the old rut, and fall to pleasing of myself. riches and liberty seem scarce to be good things for me; and i have of late,"-- a little hesitation accompanied this part of the sentence--"i have thought it best to pray god to send me that which he seeth good, and not to grant my foolish desires. truly, i seem to know better, well-nigh every day, how foolish i have been, and how weak i yet am." there was a second of silence before hans said-- "aubrey, what god sees good for thee, now, is the old home at selwick hall. may he bless it to thee, and fit thee for it!" "what mean you?" asked the bewildered aubrey. a few minutes put him in possession of the facts. nothing which had passed convinced hans of a radical change in aubrey's heart, so completely as the first sentence with which he greeted the news of his altered fortune. "then my dear old grandmother can go home!" "thou wilt be glad to hear," added hans, quietly, "that mrs joyce morrell hath sent her a caroche and horses wherein to journey at her ease. mrs temperance and lettice go back to keswick." "not if i know it!" was the hearty response. "i lack aunt temperance to keep me straight. otherwise i should have nought save soft south-west airs playing around me, and she is a cool north breeze that shall brace me to my duty. but how quick, hans, canst thou get free of mr leigh? for we must not tarry grandmother at her years, and in this summer weather when journeying were least weariful." "wilt thou have me, then, aubrey?" "hans, that is the worst cut thou hast ever given me. i have a mind to say i will not turn back without thee." hans smiled. "i thank thee, my dear brother. i dare say that i can be quit with mr leigh as soon as thou canst shake thee free of mr whitstable." mr whitstable smiled rather cynically when the matter was laid before him. "well, young gentleman!" said he to aubrey. "methinks you shall make a better country squire than you should have done three months gone, and maybe none the worse for your tarrying with the old bookseller." "mr whitstable, i con you hearty thanks for your good and just entreatment of me," said aubrey, "and if ever your occasions call you into cumberland, i promise you a true welcome at selwick hall." that night, aubrey seemed to be in a brown study, and the sagacious hans let him alone till his thoughts should blossom forth into words of themselves. they came at last. "hans, thou wist it is customary for chaplains to be entertained in great houses?" "ay," said hans, smiling to himself. "i desire not to ape the great: but--thinkest thou we might not have a prophet's chamber in some corner at selwick--the chamber over the east porch, belike?" "truly, if the prophet were to hand," said hans, looking as grave as if he were not secretly amused. "the prophet is to hand rather than the chamber," was the answer. "couldst thou not guess i meant mr marshall?" hans had guessed it some seconds back. "a good thought, truly," he replied. "that will i ask my grandmother," said aubrey. it was the evening after aubrey's return to the white bear when that proposal was suggested to lady louvaine. a light of gladness came to the dim blue eyes. "my dear lad, how blessed a thought!" said she. "but what should come of mrs agnes, then?" suggested temperance. "oh, she could easily be fitted with some service," answered mrs louvaine, who for once was not in a complaining mood. "hans, you might ask of mr leigh if he know of any such, or maybe of some apprenticeship that should serve her. she can well work with the needle, and is a decent maid, that should not shame her mistress, were she not over high in the world." "mother!" the indignant tone of that one word brought the handkerchief instantly out of mrs louvaine's pocket. "well, really, aubrey, i do think it most unreasonable! such a way to speak to your poor mother, and she a widow! when i have but one child, and he--" "he is sorry, mother, if he spake to you with disrespect," said aubrey in a different tone. "but suffer me to say that if mr marshall come with us, so must mrs agnes." "now, faith, do be quiet! i've been counting on mrs agnes to see to things a bit, and save edith,--run about for my lady lettice, see you, and get our lettice into her good ways." "you don't say, to spare _me_," wailed mrs louvaine. "no, my dear, i don't," replied temperanoe, significantly. "i'll spare you when you need sparing; don't you fear." mr marshall and agnes were as glad as they were astonished--and that was no little--to hear of the provision in store for them. to pass from those three rooms in shoe lane to the breezy hills and wide chambers of selwick hall--to live no more from hand to mouth, with little in either, but to be assured, as far as they could be so, among the changes and chances of this mortal life, of bread to eat and raiment to put on--to be treated as beloved and honoured friends instead of meeting with scornful words and averted looks--this was glad news indeed. mr marshall rejoiced for his daughter, and agnes for her father. hers was a nature which could attain its full happiness only in serving god and man. to have shut herself up and occupied herself with her own amusement would have been misery, not pleasure. the idea of saving trouble to lady louvaine and edith, of filling in some slight degree the empty place of that beloved friend whom selwick hall called "cousin bess" and agnes "aunt elizabeth"--this opened out to agnes marshall a prospect of unadulterated enjoyment. to her father, whose active days were nearly over, and who was old rather with work, hardship, and sorrow, than by the mere passage of time, the lot offered him seemed equally happy. the quiet rest, the absence of care, the plenitude of books, the society of chosen friends who were his fellow-pilgrims, zionward,--to contemplate such things was almost happiness enough in itself. and if he smothered a sigh in remembering that his eleanor slept in that quiet churchyard whence she could never more be summoned to rejoice with him, it was followed at once by the happier recollection that she had seen a gladder sight than this, and that she was satisfied with it. it was but natural that the journey home should be of the most enjoyable character. the very season of the year added to its zest. the five ladies and two girls travelled in the coach--private carriages were much more roomy then than now, and held eight if not ten persons with comfort--mr lewthwaite, aubrey, hans, and the two maids, were on horseback. so they set forth from the white bear. "farewell to thee!" said charity to that stolid-looking animal, as she rode under it for the last time. "rachel, what dost thou mean, lass?-- art thou crying to leave yon beast or mistress abbott?" "nay, nother on 'em, for sure!" said rachel, wiping her eyes; "i've nobut getten a fly into my eye." mrs abbott, however, was not behindhand. she came out to her gate to see the cavalcade depart, followed by a train of youthful abbotts, two or three talking at once, as well as herself. what reached the ears of the ladies in the coach, therefore, was rather a mixture. "fare you well, lady louvaine, and all you young gentlewomen--and i hope you'll have a safe journey, and a pleasant; i'm sure--" "i'll write and tell you the new modes, mrs lettice," said prissy; "you'll have ne'er a chance to--" "be stuck in the mud ere you've gone a mile," came in seth's voice. "and where tarry you to-night, trow?" demanded mrs abbott. "is it to be at saint albans or--" "up atop of yon tree," screamed hester; "there she was with a kitten in her mouth, and--" "all the jewels you could think of," dorcas was heard to utter. the words on either side were lost, but nobody--except, perhaps, the speakers--thought the loss a serious one. under way at last, the coach rumbled with dignity up king street, through the court gates, past charing cross and along the strand--a place fraught with painful memories to one at least of the party--past the strand cross, through temple bar, up fetter lane, over holborn bridge and snow hill, up aldersgate street, along the barbican, and by the fields to shoreditch, into the saint alban's road. as they came out into the shoreditch road, a little above bishopsgate, they were equally surprised and gratified to find lady oxford's groom of the chambers standing and waiting for their approach. as he recognised the faces, he stepped forward. in his hand was a very handsome cloak of fine cloth, of the shade of brown then called meal-colour, lined with crimson plush, and trimmed with beaver fur. "madam, my lady bids you right heartily farewell, and prays you accept this cloak to lap you at night in your journey, with her loving commendations: 'tis of her ladyship's own wearing." it was considered at that time to add zest to a gift, if it had been used by the giver. lady louvaine returned a message suited to the gratitude and pleasure which she felt at this timely remembrance, and the coach rolled away, leaving london behind. "weel, god be wi' thee and all thine!" said charity, looking back at the great metropolis: "and if i ne'er see thee again, it'll none break my heart." "nay, nor mine nother!" added rachel. "i can tell thee, lass, i'm fair fain to get out o' th' smoke and mire. th' devil mun dwell i' london, i do think." "i doubt it not," said hans, who heard the remark, "but he has country houses, rachel." "well!" said that damsel, in a satisfied tone: "at any rate, we shalln't find him at selwick!" "maybe not, if the house be empty," was hans's reply: "but he will come in when we do, take my word for it." "yo're reet, mestur 'ans," said charity, gravely. four days' travelling brought them to the door of the hill house at minster lovel. they had had no opportunity of sending word of their coming. "how amazed aunt joyce will be, and rebecca!" said edith, with a happy laugh. "i reckon they'll have some work to pack us all in," answered temperance. "let be, children," was the response of lady louvaine. "the hill house is great enough to hold every one of us, and aunt joyce's heart is yet bigger." for a coach and six to draw up before the door of a country house was then an event which scarcely occurred so often as once a year. it was no great wonder, therefore, if old rebecca looked almost dazed as she opened the door to so large a party. "we are going home, rebecca!" cried edith's bright, familiar voice. "how fares my aunt?" "eh, you don't mean it's you, mine own dear child?" cried the old servant lovingly. "and your ladyship belike! well, here is a blessed even! it'll do the mistress all the good in the world. well, she's very middling, my dear--very middling indeed: but i think 'tis rather weariness than any true malady, and that'll flee afore the sight of you like snow afore the warm sun. well, there's a smart few of you!--all the better, my dear, all the better!" "you can hang one or two of us up in a tree, if you can't find us room," said aubrey as he sprang from his saddle. "there's room enough for such good stuff, and plenty to spare," answered old rebecca. "if you was some folks, now, i might be glad to have the spare chambers full of somewhat else--i might! come in, every one of you!" "we'll help you to make ready, all we can," said rachel, as she trudged after rebecca to the kitchen. "ay, we will," echoed charity. warmer and tenderer yet was the welcome in the credence chamber, where aunt joyce lay on her couch, looking as though not a day had passed since she bade them farewell. she greeted each of them lovingly until aubrey came to her. then she said, playfully yet meaningly,--"who is this?" "aunt joyce," replied aubrey, as he bent down to kiss her, "shall i say, `a penitent fool?'" "nay, my lad," was the firm answer. "a fool is never a penitent, nor a penitent a fool. the fool hath been: let the penitent abide." "this is our dear, kind friend, mr marshall, joyce," said lady louvaine. "he is so good as to come with us, and be our chaplain at selwick: and here is his daughter." "i think mrs joyce can guess," said the clergyman, "that the true meaning of those words is that her lady ship hath been so good as to allow of the same, to our much comfort." "very like you are neither of you over bad," said aunt joyce with her kindly yet rather sarcastic smile. "i am glad to see you, mr marshall; hitherto we have known each other but on paper. is this your daughter? why, my maid, you have a look of the dearest and blessedest woman of all your kin--dear old cousin bess, that we so loved. may god make you like her in the heart, no less than the face!" "indeed, mistress, i would say amen, with all mine heart," answered agnes, with a flush of pleasure. there was a long discussion the next day upon ways and means, which ended in the decision that aubrey and hans, faith and temperance, with the two maids, should go forward to selwick after a few days' rest, to get things in order; lady louvaine, edith, lettice, agnes, and mr marshall, remaining at minster lovel for some weeks. "and i'm as fain as i'd be of forty shillings," said old rebecca to edith. "eh, but the mistress just opens out when you're here like a flower in the sunlight!" "now, don't you go to want faith to tarry behind," observed temperance, addressing the same person: "the dear old gentlewomen shall be a deal happier without her and her handkerchief. it shall do her good to bustle about at selwick, as she will if she's mistress for a bit, and i'll try and see that she does no mischief, so far as i can." aunt joyce, who was the only third person present, gave an amused little laugh. "how long shall she be mistress, temperance?" "why, till my lady lettice comes," said temperance, with a rather perplexed look. "for `lady lettice,' read `mrs agnes marshall,'" was the answer of aunt joyce. "aunt joyce!" cried edith. "you never mean--" "don't i? but i do, mistress bat's-eyes." "well, i never so much as--" "never so much as saw a black cow a yard off, didst thou? see if it come not true. now, my maids, go not and meddle your fingers in the pie, without you wish it not to come true. methinks aubrey hath scarce yet read his own heart, and agnes is innocent as driven snow of all imagination thereof: nevertheless, mark my words, that agnes marshall shall be the next lady of selwick hall. and i wouldn't spoil the pie, were i you; it shall eat tasty enough if you'll but leave it to bake in the oven. it were a deal better so than for the lad to fetch home some fine town madam that should trouble herself with his mother and grandmother but as the cuckoo with the young hedge-sparrows in his foster-mother's nest. she's a downright good maid, agnes, and she is bounden to your mother and yon, and so is her father: and though, if selwick were to turn you forth, your home is at minster lovel, as my child here knows,"--and aunt joyce laid her hand lovingly on that of edith--"yet while we be here in this short wilderness journey, 'tis best not to fall out by the way. let things be, children: god can take better care of his world and his church than you or i can do it." "eh, i'll meddle with nought so good," responded temperance, heartily. "if the lad come to no worse than that, he shall fare uncommon well, and better than he deserveth. as for the maid, i'm not quite so sure: but i'll hope for the best." "the best thing you can do, my dear. `we are saved by hope'--not as a man is saved by the rope that pulleth him forth of the sea, but rather as he is saved by the light that enableth him to see and grasp it. he may find the rope in the dark; yet shall he do it more quicklier and with much better comfort in the light. `hope thou in god,' `have faith in god,' `fear not,'--all those precepts be brethren; and one or other of them cometh very oft in scripture. for a man cannot hope without some faith, and he shall find it hard to hope along with fear. faith, hope, love--these do abide for ever." the party for selwick had set off, with some stir, in the early morning, and the quiet of evening found the friends left at the hill house feeling as those left behind usually do,--enjoying the calm, yet with a sense of want. perhaps mr marshall was the least conscious of loss of any of the party, for he was supremely happy in the library over the works of bishop jewell. in the gallery upstairs, lettice and agnes sat in front of the two portraits which had so greatly interested the former on her previous visit, and talked about "aunt anstace" and "cousin bess," and the blessed sense of relief and thankfulness which pervaded agnes's heart. and lastly, in the credence chamber, aunt joyce lay on her couch, and lady louvaine sat beside her in the great cushioned chair, while edith, on a low stool at the foot of the couch, sat knitting peacefully, and glancing lovingly from time to time at those whom she called her two mothers. "joyce, dear," lady louvaine was saying, "'tis just sixty years since i came over that sunshine afternoon from the manor house, to make acquaintance with thee and anstace. sixty years! why, 'tis the lifetime of an old man." "and it looks but like sixty days, no doth it?" was the rejoinder. "thou and i, lettice, by reason of strength have come to fourscore years; yet is our life but a vapour that vanisheth away. i marvel, at times, how our anstace hath passed her sixty years in heaven. what do they there?" "dost thou mind, joyce, aubrey's once saying that we are told mainly what they do _not_ there? out of that, i take it, we may pick what they do. there shall be no night--then there must be eternal light; no curse--then must there be everlasting blessedness; no tears--then is there everlasting peace; no toil--then is there perpetual rest and comfort." "go on, lettice--no sickness, therefore perfect health; no parting, therefore everlasting company and eternal love." "ay. what a blessed forecast! who would not give all that he hath, but to be sure he should attain it? and yet men will fling all away, but to buy one poor hour's sinful pleasure, one pennyworth of foolish delight." "and howsoe'er often they find the latter pall and cloy upon their tongues, yet shall they turn to it again with never-resting eagerness, as the sow to her wallowing in the mire. there is a gentleman dwells a matter of four miles hence, with whose wife and daughters i am acquaint, and once or twice hath he come with them to visit me. he hath got hold of a fancy--how, judge you--that man is not a fallen creature; indiscreet at times, maybe, and so forth, yet not wholly depraved. how man comes by this indiscretion, seeing god made him upright, he is discreet enough not to reveal. `dear heart!' said i, `but how comes it, if so be, that man shall sell his eternal birthright for a mess of sorry pottage, as over and over again you and i have seen him do? call you this but indiscretion? methinks you should scarce name it thus if mrs aletheia yonder were to cast away a rich clasp of emeralds for a piece of a broken bottle of green glass. if you whipped her not well for such indiscretion, i were something astonied.' well, see you, he cannot perceive it." "man's perceptions be fallen, along with all else." "surely: and then shall this blind bat reckon, poor fool, that he could devise out of his disordered imagination a better god than the real. wot you what this mr watkinson said to me once when we fell to talking of the sacrifice of isaac? oh, he could not allow that a loving and perfect god could demand so horrible a sacrifice; and another time, through christ had we won the right notion of god. `why,' said i, `how know you that? are you god, that you are able to judge what god should be? through christ, in very deed, have we won to know god; but that is by reason of the knowledge and authority of him that revealed him, not by the clear discernment and just judgment of us that received that revelation.' i do tell thee, lettice--what with this man o' the one side with his philosophical follies, and parson turnham on the other, with his heathenish fooleries, i am at times well-nigh like old elias, ready to say, `now then, o lord, take me out of this wicked world, for i cannot stand it any longer.'" "he will take thee, dear joyce, so soon as thou shalt come to the further end of the last of those good works which he hath prepared for thee to walk in." "well!--then must edith do my good works for me. when our father calls this child in out of the sun and wind, and bids her lie down and fall asleep, must that child see to it that my garden-plots be kept trim, and no evil insects suffered to prey upon the leaves. ay, my dear heart: thou wilt be the lady of the hill house, when old aunt joyce is laid beneath the mould. may god bless thee in it, and it to thee! but whensoever the change come, i shall be the gainer by it, not thou." "not i, indeed!" said edith in a husky voice. "`as a watch in the night!'" said joyce morrell solemnly. "`as a vapour that vanisheth away!' what time have we for idle fooleries? only time to learn the letters that we shall spell hereafter--to form the strokes and loops wherewith we shall write by and bye. here we know but the alphabet of either faith or love." "and how often are we turned back in the very alphabet of patience!" "ay, we think much to tarry five minutes for god, though he may have waited fifty years for us. i reckon it takes god to bear with this poor thing, man, that even at his best times is ever starting aside like a broken bow,--going astray like a lost sheep. thank god that he hath laid on the only man that could bear them the iniquities of us all, and that he hath borne them into a land not inhabited, where the lord himself can find them no more." "and let us thank god likewise," said lady lettice, "that our blessed duty is to abide in him, and that when he shall appear, we may have confidence, and not be ashamed before him at his coming." chapter fifteen. appendix. robert catesby. he was a descendant of another infamous catesby, sir john, the well-known minister of richard the third, satirised in the distich-- "the _cat_, the bat, and lovel the dog, govern all england under the hog." this gentleman fought with his master at bosworth, and was beheaded three days after the battle. his son george, who died in - , was father of sir richard, who died in , and who was succeeded by his grandson sir william, then aged six years, having been born at barcheston in . he was perverted by campion in , and developed into a famous recusant; was cited before the star chamber in , chiefly on the confession of campion, for being a harbourer of jesuits and a hearer of mass; married at ashby, th june , anne, daughter of sir robert throckmorton of coughton, warwickshire; and died in . the eldest of his children (four sons and two daughters) was robert catesby, the conspirator, born at lapworth, warwickshire, in . at the age of thirteen--for boys went up to college then at a much earlier age than now--he matriculated, october th, , at gloucester hall (now worcester college), oxford, a house "much suspected," many of its undergraduates being privately roman catholics. it was probably during his residence in oxford that he became a protestant; and his change of religion being evidently of no moral value, he also led a dissipated and extravagant life. in he married a protestant wife, katherine, daughter of sir thomas leigh of stoneleigh abbey, warwickshire; she died before . his talents were considerable, his will inflexible, and he possessed that singular power of attraction inherent in some persons. a portrait reputed to be his exists at brockhall, near ashby. "he was very wise," writes gerard, "and of great judgment, though his utterance not so good. besides, he was so liberal and apt to help all sorts, as it got him much love. he was of person above two yards high, and though slender, yet as well-proportioned to his height as any man one should see." greenway adds that "his countenance was singularly noble and expressive, his power of influencing others very great." in , on the death of his grandmother, he came into possession of chastleton, near chipping norton, county oxford, where he resided until , when, in consequence of foolishly joining (like many other romanists) the insurrection of lord essex, he sold chastleton for pounds to pay the fine of pounds imposed on him for treason. he had in returned to his original faith, in defence of which he was thenceforward very zealous. nine days before the death of queen elizabeth, catesby, undeterred by his past experiences, and "hunger-starved for innovations," joined sir edward baynham and the wrights in a second plot, for which he suffered imprisonment. the gunpowder plot was his third treasonable venture; and to him principally is due the inception of this fearful project, though john wright, and afterwards thomas winter, joined him at a very early stage. until easter, , catesby himself "bore all the charge" of the mine. during the summer, he was very busy gathering volunteers, arms, and ammunition, in the country, ostensibly for the service of the archduke albrecht in flanders, but in reality for the purpose of creating a general commotion at the time of the intended explosion. about september, , he met percy at bath, when they agreed to take into the plot two or three moneyed men, as their own means were fast failing. these were digby and tresham; robert winter, rookwood, and grant followed a little later. catesby, however, never ceased to regret the admission of tresham. (see tresham.) in london he had three lodgings: a chamber in percy's house in holborn; apartments in the house of william patrick, tailor, at the "herishe boy" in the strand; and also "in the house of one powell, at paddle wharf." on the th of october, catesby dined at the "mighter" in bread street, with lord mordaunt, sir josceline percy, and others; the last-named was a brother of lord northumberland, and a frequent visitor of catesby. after this he met his servant william pettye, "in a field called the common garden in london, by druerye lane." the story of the flight to holbeach is given in the tale, and embraces many little details not before in print. catesby was only thirty-three years of age at death. he left two sons, william and robert, the latter of whom was with his father in london when the plot was discovered; they were subsequently sent in mrs rookwood's coach, under charge of a lady not named, to their grandmother at ashby. robert alone lived to grow up, and married one of percy's daughters; but he left _no_ issue. "his posterity was cut off; and in the generation following, their name was blotted out." sir everard digby. this weak and bigoted young man, who was only twenty-four at death, had really little part in the gunpowder plot. he was the son of everard digby, of drystoke, county rutland, and mary, daughter and co-heir of francis nele, of heythorpe, county leicester. he was born in , and lost his father, a romanist, in . his mother married again (to sampson erdeswick, of landon, county stafford, who was a protestant), and young digby was brought up in a protestant atmosphere. until his majority, he was much at court, where he was noted for "graceful manners and rare parts," says greenway and gerard adds that "he was very little lower [in height] than mr catesby, but of stronger making... skilful in all things that belonged unto a gentleman, a good musician, and excelled in all gifts of mind." he is also described as "of goodly personage, and of a manly aspect." he was always strongly inclined to his father's religion, but did not openly profess it until he reached manhood. sir everard married, in , mary, daughter and heir of william mulsho of goathurst, county buckingham, who survived him, and by whom he left a son, the famous sir kenelm digby, who was little more than two years old at his father's death. if her piteous letter to lord salisbury may be believed, lady digby was treated with unnecessary harshness. she complains that the sheriff has not left her "the worth of one peni belonging to the grounds, house, or within the walls; nor so much as great tables and standing chests that could not be removed without cutting and sawing apeses. he permitted the base people to ransack all, so much as my closet, and left me not any trifle in _it_... he will not let me have so much as a suit of apparel for mr digby [the little kenelm], nor linens for my present wearing about my bodi." she implores to be allowed to retain goathurst, her own inheritance, during the imprisonment of her husband, for whose life she would give hers or would beg during life. (_burghley papers_, additional manuscript , folio .) guy fawkes. guy fawkes, whom his horrified contemporaries termed "the great devil of all" the conspirators, but who was simply a single-eyed fanatic, owes his reputation chiefly to the fact that he was the one selected to set file to the powder. his responsibility was in reality less than that of catesby, percy, or thomas winter. his father, edward fawkes,--in all probability a younger son of the old yorkshire family of fawkes of farnley,--was a notary at york, and registrar of the consistory court of the minster. he could not of course have filled such as office, unless he had been a protestant. edward fawkes died in , and was buried january th in the church of saint michael-le-belfry, york. his widow, whose maiden name was edith jackson, is said by some to have subsequently married a zealous roman catholic, mr denis bainbridge, of scotton; but sir w. wade gives the name of her second husband as "one foster, within three miles of york." she was living at the time of the plot. guy, who was baptised in saint michael's church, april th, , and educated at the free school in the horse fair, did not become a professed papist until he was about sixteen years of age. he had a step-brother of whom no more is known than that he belonged to one of the inns of court in . guy was not eight years old when he lost his father, who left him no patrimony beyond a small farm worth about pounds per annum; he soon ran through this, sold the estate, and at the age of twenty-three went abroad, living in flanders for eight years, during which time he was present at the taking of calais by the archduke albrecht. in he returned to england, with the reputation of one "ready for any enterprise to further the faith." he now entered, along with the winters and the wrights, into negotiations with spain for a fresh invasion of england, which was put a stop to by elizabeth's death, since the king of spain declined to take up arms against his old ally, king james. fawkes's own statements in his examinations have been proved to consist of such a mass of falsehood, that it is scarcely possible to sift out the truth: and all that can be done is to accept as fact such portions of his narrative as are either confirmed by other witnesses, or seem likely to be true from circumstantial evidence. his contradictions of his own previous assertions were perpetual, and where confirmation is accessible, it sometimes proves the original statement, but sometimes, and more frequently, the contradiction. this utter disregard for truth prepares us to discount considerably the description given of fawkes by greenway, as "a man of great piety, of exemplary temperance, of mild and cheerful demeanour, an enemy of broils and disputes, a faithful friend, and remarkable for his punctual attendance upon religious observances." so far as facts can be sifted from fiction, they seem to be that thomas winter, who had known fawkes from childhood, came to him in flanders to acquaint him with the plot, and subsequently introduced him to catesby and percy; that fawkes was in the service of anthony browne, lord montague, about ; that in the summer of that year, when the mine was stopped on account of the prorogation of parliament, he went to flanders, returning about the st of september. during the progress of the mine, he served as sentinel, passing by the name of john johnson, mr percy's man; and he was the only one of the conspirators allowed to be seen about the house, his face being unknown in london. he said that he "prayed every day that he might perform that which might be for the advancement of the catholic faith, and the saving of his own soul." fawkes provided the greater part of the gunpowder, and stowed it in the cellar, as is described in the story. his lodging when in london was at the house of mrs herbert, a widow, at the back of saint clement's inn. mrs herbert disliked fawkes, suspecting him to be a priest. on his return from flanders, he took up his quarters in the house at westminster, where the mine had been, and brought in the remainder of the gunpowder. at the end of october, he went to white webbs, whence he was sent to town on the th, to make sure of the safety of the cellar and its dangerous contents. he returned at night to report all safe, but came back to town not later than the rd, when he was present at the last meeting of the conspirators: but as to the exact day he made three varying statements. the circumstances of his arrest are told in the story. it is difficult, however, to reconcile some of the details. according to greenway, fawkes was taken as he opened the door of the vault; according to the official report, he was "newly come out of the vault;" while according to fawkes himself, when he heard the officers coming to apprehend him, he threw the match and touchwood "out of the window in his chamber, near the parliament house, towards the water,"--which can only refer to the room in percy's house. the one certainty is that he was not apprehended inside the vault. he said himself that if this had been the case, he would at once have fired the match, "and have blown up all." the lantern (now in the bodleian library) was found lighted behind the door; the watch which percy had sent by keyes was upon the prisoner. fawkes originally assumed an appearance of rustic stupidity; for sir w. wade writes to lord salisbury a little later that he "appeareth to be of better understanding and discourse than, before, either of us conceived him to be." (additional manuscript , folio .) that fawkes was tortured there can be no doubt, from the king's written command, and the tacit evidence of fawkes's handwriting. garnet says he was half-an-hour on the rack; sir edward hoby, that he "was never on the rack, but only suspended by his arms upright." nothing could induce him to betray his companions until he was satisfied that all was known: and with a base treachery and falsehood only too common in the statecraft of that day, he was deceived into believing them taken before they were discovered. lying is wickedness in all circumstances; but the prisoner's falsehood was based on a worthier motive than the lies which were told to him. there was, indeed, in the fearless courage and unflinching fidelity of guy fawkes, the wreck of what might have been a noble man; and he certainly was far from being the vulgar ruffian whom he is commonly supposed to have been. in person he was tall and dark, with brown hair and auburn beard. henry garnet. if catesby be regarded as the most responsible of the gunpowder conspirators, and fawkes as the most courageous, garnet may fairly be considered the most astute. like the majority of his companions, he was a pervert. his father, brian garnet, was a schoolmaster at nottingham, and his mother's maiden name was alice jay. he was born in , educated at winchester college, in the protestant faith, and was to have passed thence to new college, oxford. this intention was never carried into effect: his romish biographers say, because he had imbibed at winchester a distaste to the protestant religion; adding that "he obtained the rank of captain [of the school], and by his modesty and urbanity, his natural abilities and quickness in learning, so recommended himself to the superiors, that had he" entered at oxford, "he might safely have calculated on attaining the highest academical honours. but he resolved, by the grace of god, upon embracing the catholic faith, although his old professors at winchester, stemp and johnson, themselves catholic in heart, together with another named bilson, at first favourable, but afterwards hostile to catholicity, made every exertion to persuade him to remain." unhappily for this rosy narrative, the "other named bilson," afterwards bishop of worcester and winchester, has left on record his account of the matter: namely, that garnet when at winchester was a youth of such incorrigible wickedness, that the warden dissuaded his going to the university, for the sake of the young men who might there be corrupted by his evil example. the reader can accept which version he may see good. on leaving school, garnet proceeded to london, where for about two years he was employed as corrector of the press by the celebrated law-printer, tottel. at the end of this time, he was received into the church of rome, and subsequently travelled abroad, first to spain, and afterwards to rome, where on th september, , he entered the society of jesus. in the jesuit college at rome he studied diligently, under bellarmine and others: and he was before long made professor of hebrew, and licenced to lecture on mathematics. in , on the recommendation of parsons, he was appointed to the jesuit mission to england, where he landed on july th. it is said that he was so remarkably amiable and gentle that aquaviva, the general of the jesuits, objected to his appointment on the ground that the post required a man of sterner and more unyielding character. bellarmine records that his sanctity of life was incomparable; but jesuits are apt to entertain peculiar notions of sanctity. as was then usual, garnet on coming to his native country adopted a string of aliases--walley, darcy, mease, roberts, parmer, and phillips. walley, however, was the name by which he was best known. two years after he joined the mission, he was promoted to be its superior. for some years he lived in the neighbourhood of london, following various occupations to disguise his real calling, but chiefly that of a horse-dealer. that he was implicated in the intrigues with spain before the death of elizabeth, he never attempted to deny: but during the lull in the penal legislation which followed the accession of james, garnet purchased a general pardon for all past political offences. he was frequently at harrowden, the house of lord vaux, whose daughter anne travelled everywhere with him, passing as his sister, mrs perkins. about , as "mr mease, a berkshire man," he took the house in enfield chase, named white webbs, for the meetings of the romanists, after which he was "seldom absent from it for a quarter of a year together." (examination of james johnson, servant in charge of white webbs, _gunpowder plot book_, article .) this house was ostensibly taken for anne vaux, and was maintained at her expense; her sister eleanor, with her husband mr brooksby (whose alias was jennings, and who is described as "of low stature, red beard, and bald head"), being often with her. catesby was a frequent visitor. anne vaux had also a house at wandsworth, where she and garnet occasionally resided. these details, gathered from the evidence of anne vaux herself, james johnson, and others, do not, however, agree with some statements of gerard. he asserts that mrs brooksby was a widow, and was the real mistress of the house; and he compares the two to the sisters of lazarus, "the two women who received our lord"! it is impossible to avoid seeing the tacit further comparison as to garnet. when a queen's messenger arrived, gerard writes, "rosaries, etcetera, all signs of piety [!] are thrown into a cavern; the mistress is hidden away: on these occasions the younger sister, the unmarried one, passed for the mistress of the house." (gerard to aquaviva, quoted by foley, _records of the english province of the society of jesus_, volume , page .) all the evidence, apart from this, tends to show that brooksby was alive, and that he and eleanor were only visitors--though very constant ones--at white webbs, where anne was the real mistress. in , garnet was returned as living "with mrs brooksby, of leicestershire, at arundell house. he hath lodgings of his own in london." (_domestic state papers_, james the first, volume , article .) these lodgings were in thames street. a large house at erith was also a frequent meeting-place of the recusants. that garnet was acquainted with the gunpowder plot from its very beginning is a moral certainty, notwithstanding his earnest efforts to show the contrary. he not only made assertions which he afterwards allowed to be false; but he set up at different times two lines of defence which were inconsistent. he had been told nothing: yet, he had tried to dissuade catesby and his colleagues from the execution of the plot. if the first allegation were true, the other must have been false. but garnet's distinctly avowed opinions on the question of equivocation make it impossible to accept any denial from him. he believed that while, "in the common intercourse of life, it is not lawful to use equivocation," yet "where it becomes necessary to an individual for his defence, or for avoiding any injustice or loss, or for obtaining any important advantage, without danger or mischief to any other person, there equivocation is lawful." he held, as some do at the present day, that "if the law be unjust, then is it, _ipso facto_, void and of no force:" so that "the laws against recusants--are to be esteemed as no laws by such as steadfastly believe these [romish rites] to be necessary observances of the true religion... that is no treason at all which is made treason by an unjust law." in other words, the subject is to be the judge of the justice of the law, and if in his eyes it be unjust, he is released from the necessity of obeying it! this is simply to do away with all law at once; for probably no law was ever made which did not appear unjust to somebody: and it lays down the grand and ancient principle that every man shall do what is right in his own eyes. we have heard a good deal of this doctrine lately; it is of jesuit origin, and a distinct contradiction of that book which teaches that "the powers that be are ordained of god, and whosoever resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of god." those who set up such claims, however they may disavow it, really hold that christ's kingdom _is_ of this world, since they place it in rivalry to the secular authority. "if thou judge the law, thou art not a doer of the law, but a judge." one great distinction of the antichrist is that he is _ho anomos_, the lawless one. even further than this, garnet was prepared to go, and did go at his last examination. "in all cases," he said, "where simple equivocation is allowable, it is lawful if necessary to confirm it by an oath. this i acknowledge to be according to my opinion, and the opinion of the schoolmen; and our reason is, for that in cases of lawful equivocation, the speech by equivocation being saved from a lie, the same speech may be without perjury confirmed by oath, or by any other usual way, though it were by receiving the sacrament, if just necessity so require." (_domestic state papers_, james the first, volume , article .) garnet asserted that catesby did him much wrong, by saying that in queen elizabeth's time he had consulted him as to the lawfulness of the "powder action," which was "most untrue;" but after the preceding extracts, who could believe their writer on his oath? poor anne vaux, who undoubtedly meant to excuse and save him, urged that he used to say to the conspirators in her hearing, "good gentlemen, be quiet; god will do all for the best:" and garnet's own last confession admitted that "partly upon hope of prevention, partly for that i would not betray my friend, i did not reveal the general knowledge of mr catesby's intention which i had by him." (_domestic state paper_, volume , article .) he allowed also that about a year before the queen's death, he had received two briefs from rome, bidding him not consent to the accession of any successor to her who would not submit to the pope: he had shown them to catesby, and then burned them. catesby, said garnet, considered himself authorised to act as he did by these briefs; but he had tried vainly to dissuade him from so doing, since the pope had forbidden the action. (_ibidem_, volume , articles , .) in september, , garnet led a pilgrimage of roman catholics to saint winifred's well, in returning from which, he and anne vaux visited rushton, the seat of francis tresham. sir thomas, his father, was then just dead, and the widowed lady tresham "kept her chamber" accordingly. they stayed but one night (examination of anne vaux, _gunpowder plot book_, article ), and then returned to goathurst, where they remained for some weeks, until on the th of october they removed, with the digbys and brooksbys, to coughton, the house of mr thomas throckmorton, which sir everard had borrowed, on account of its convenient proximity to dunchurch, the general rendezvous for the conspirators after the execution of the plot. this journey to coughton was considered strong evidence against garnet; and his meaning has never been solved, in writing that "all catholics know it was necessary." (_domestic state papers_, volume , article .) at coughton was the reverend oswald greenway, another jesuit priest, who has left a narrative of the whole account, wherein he describes the conspirators and their doings with a pen dipped in honey. in the night between november th and th, bates arrived at coughton with digby's letter, which afterwards told heavily against garnet. garnet remained at coughton until about the th of december, when at the instigation of his friend edward hall (alias oldcorne) he removed to hendlip hall. garnet and hall made up between them an elaborate story describing their arrival at hendlip, and immediate hiding, on sunday night, january th; but this was afterwards confessed both by hall and owen to be false, and garnet was overheard to blame hall for not having kept to the text of his lesson in one detail. nicholas owen, garnet's friend and servant, committed suicide in the tower, on march nd, from fear of further torture. mr abington, who had "voluntarily offered to die at his own gate, if any such were to be found in his house or in that sheire," was condemned to death, but afterwards pardoned on condition of never again quitting the county. made wiser by adversity, he spent the rest of his life in innocent study of the history and antiquities of worcestershire. the remainder of garnet's story is given in the tale, and is almost pure history as there detailed. in his conferences with hall, he made no real profession of innocence, only perpetual assurances that he "trusted to wind himself out" of the charges brought against him; and when lord salisbury said--"mr garnet, give me but one argument that you were not consenting to it [the plot], that can hold in any indifferent man's ear or sense, besides your bare negative,"--garnet made no answer. he persistently continued to deny any knowledge of white webbs, until confronted with johnson; and all acquaintance with the plot before his receipt of digby's letter at coughton, until shown the written confession of hall, and the testimony of forset and locherson concerning his own whispered admissions. when at last he was driven to admit the facts previously denied with abundant oaths, he professed himself astonished that the council were scandalised at his reckless falsehoods. "what should i have done?" he writes. "why was i to be denied every lawful [!] means of escape?" that the government did not deal fairly with garnet--that, as is admitted by the impartial dr jardine, "few men came to their trial under greater disadvantages," and that "he had been literally surrounded by snares,"--may be allowed to the full; but when all is said for him that honesty can say, no doubt remains that he was early acquainted with and morally responsible for the gunpowder plot. the evidence may be found in jardine's narrative of the plot; to produce it here would be to swell the volume far beyond its present dimensions. one point, however, must not be omitted. there have been two raids on the public record office, two acts of abstraction and knavery with respect to these gunpowder plot papers; and it can be certainly stated, from the extracts made from them by dr abbott and archbishop bancroft, that the stolen papers were precisely those which proved garnet's guilt most conclusively. a manuscript letter from dr jardine to mr robert lemon, attached to the _gunpowder plot book_, states that mr lemon's father had "often observed to me that `those fellows the jesuits, in the time of the powder plot (not the gunpowder plot) had stolen away some of the most damning proofs against garnet.' that thievery of some kind abstracted such documents as the treatise of equivocation, with garnet's handwriting on it--the most important of the interlocutions between garnet and hall in the tower--and all the examinations of garnet respecting the pope's breves, is quite clear. _the first thievery i have proved to have been made by archbishop laud_; the others probably occurred in the reigns of charles the second and james the second, when jesuits and `jesuited persons' had free access to the state paper office." an old proverb deprecates "showing the cat the way to the cream;" but there is one folly still more reprehensible--placing the cat in charge of the dairy. let us beware it is not done again. john grant. of this conspirator very little is known apart from the plot. his residence was at norbrook, a few miles south of warwick,--a walled and moated house, of which nothing remains save a few fragments of massive stone walls, and the line of the moat may be distinctly traced, while "an ancient hall, of large dimensions, is also apparent among the partitions of a modern farmer's kitchen." before may, , he married dorothy winter, the sister of two of the conspirators. he had been active in the essex insurrection, for which he was fined; and with his brother-in-law, robert winter, he was sent for by catesby, in january, , for the purpose of being initiated into the conspiracy: but he was not sworn until march . greenway describes him as "a man of accomplished manners, but of a melancholy and taciturn disposition;" gerard tells us that "he was as fierce as a lion, of a very undaunted courage," which he was wont to exhibit "unto poursuivants and prowling companions" when they came to ransack the house--by which dubious expression is probably intended not burglars but officers of the law. "he paid them so well for their labour, not with crowns of gold, but with cracked crowns sometimes, and with dry blows instead of drink and good cheer, that they durst not visit him any more, unless they brought great store of help with them." mr grant appears to have anticipated some tactics of modern times. all else that is known of him will be found in the tale. his wife dorothy seems to have been a lady of a cheerful and loquacious character, to judge by the accounts of sir e. walsh and sir r. verney, who thought she had no knowledge of the conspiracy. (_gunpowder plot book_, articles , .) it is, however, possible that mrs dorothy was as clever as her brothers, and contrived to "wind herself out of" suspicion better than she deserved. john grant had at least two brothers, walter and francis, the latter of whom was apprenticed to a silk-man; the relationship of ludovic grant is less certain. he had also two married sisters, mrs bosse, and anne, wife of his bailiff robert higgins. (_gunpowder plot book_, articles , , , .) his mother, and (then unmarried) sister mary were living in . robert keyes. this man, who appears to have been one of the most desperate and unscrupulous of the conspirators, was the son of a protestant clergyman in derbyshire, who is supposed to have been the reverend edward kay of stavely, a younger son of john kay of woodsam, yorkshire. his name is variously rendered as keyes, keis, and kay; he himself signs robert key. his mother was a daughter of sir robert tyrwhitt of kettleby, a very opulent roman catholic gentleman of lincolnshire, and through her he was cousin of mrs rookwood. the opulence of the grandfather did not descend to his grandson, whose indigence was a great cause of his desperate character. he lived for a time at glatton, in huntingdonshire, but afterwards entered the service of lord mordaunt as keeper of his house at turvey, his wife being the governess of his lordship's children. he is described as "a young man with no hair on his face." (additional manuscript , folio .) it was about june, , when keyes was taken into the plot, and his chief work thereafter was the charge of the house at lambeth "sometimes called catesby's, afterwards mr terrett's, since rookwood's," (_ibidem_, folio ), where the powder was stored. his only other service was the bringing of the watch from percy to fawkes just before the discovery of the plot. keyes left one son, robert (foley's _records_, volume , page ), who was living about , and was then a frequent visitor of his relatives the rookwoods (_domestic state papers_, charles the first, , ). humphrey and stephen littleton. these cousins belonged to the family of the present baron. sir john littleton of hagley had with other issue two sons, of whom gilbert, the eldest, was the father of humphrey, while sir george littleton of holbeach, the third son, was the father of stephen. humphrey was known as red humphrey, to distinguish him from another of his name, and one of these two was a university man, of broadgate hall, oxford, where he took his b.a. degree th january , and his m.a., nd july, . his cousin stephen was born in . with the plot humphrey at least was but partially acquainted, for catesby "writ to mr humphrey littleton [from huddington] to meet him at dunchurch, but he, being then destitute of a horse, returned written answer that he could not then meet him, in regard of his unfurnishment before remembered: whereupon mr robert winter sent a good gelding to mr humphrey littleton, whereon he rode away to dunchurch, and (saith himself) demanding of the matter in hand, and what it might be, mr catesby told him that it was a matter of weight, but for the especial good of them all, which was all he would then disclose to him." (harl. manuscript .) the account given in the text, from this volume, of the escape and wanderings of robert winter and stephen littleton is somewhat varied by another narrative in the same manuscript, according to which humphrey "bade the officers begone, or he would fetch that should send them packing." he affirmed in his confession, th january , that he "had intention to apprehend" the refugees, "in regard of the odiousness of their treasons and the horribleness of the offence, which this partie in his heart detested," and that he deferred doing so "out of love to his cousin and affection to their religion," until he should be able to obtain counsel of hall. (_ibidem_.) mrs john littleton, the lady of hagley park, was muriel, daughter of sir thomas bromley, and a protestant; though renowned for her hospitality and benevolence, she contrived to pay off pounds of debt left by her father-in-law and husband. william parker, lord monteagle. lord monteagle was of very distinguished and ancient race, being the eldest son of edward third baron morley of his line (heir of a younger branch of the lovels of tichmersh) and elizabeth, only daughter and heir of william stanley, lord monteagle. born in , he succeeded his mother as lord monteagle, and his father in as lord morley. his wife was elizabeth, daughter of sir thomas tresham, and his sister mary was the wife of mr thomas abington of hendlip hall. the chief interest attaching to lord monteagle concerns the famous letter: and the two questions requiring answer are--who wrote it? and, was the recipient a party to the plot? the second question, which may be first dealt with, must be answered almost certainly in the affirmative. nay, more, lord monteagle was not only a party to the gunpowder plot, but there is strong reason to believe that in conjunction with lord salisbury and others, he got up a counter-plot for its discovery. the laying of the letter before lord salisbury on the night of october th [note ], was probably not the first intimation which salisbury had received, and assuredly not the first given to lord monteagle. the whole catena of circumstances, when carefully studied, shows that the episode of the letter was a cleverly-devised countermarch, designed at once to inform the public and at the same time to give a warning to the conspirators. the party got up at hoxton, where lord monteagle was not living; the mysterious delivery of the letter; the placing of it in the hands of thomas ward, a known confidant of the conspirators: these and other circumstances all tend to one conclusion--that monteagle was acting a part throughout, and that it was in reality he who gave warning to them, not they to him. if the conspirators had taken his warning, they might all have escaped with their lives; for the vessel designed to bear fawkes abroad as soon as he should have fired the mine was lying in the river, and there was abundant time for them all to have made good their escape, had they not foolishly tried to retrieve their loss at dunchurch. this is made more certain by the fact that the government were, as garnet remarked, "determined to save lord monteagle," and that any reference in the confessions of the prisoners which tended to implicate him was diligently suppressed. in one examination, the original words ran, "being demanded what other persons were privy [to the plot] beside _the lord mounteagle_, catesby," etcetera. the three words in italics have been rendered illegible, by a slip of paper being pasted over them, and a memorandum in red ink made on the back. time, however, has faded the red ink, and the words are again visible. (criminal trials, page .) garnet, too, confessed that "catesby showed the [pope's] breves to my lord mounteagle at the time when mr tresham was with him at white webbs." (additional manuscript , folio .) these facts raise a doubt whether the whole story of tresham's anxiety to warn lord monteagle was not false, and a mere blind to cover something else, which perhaps is not now to be revealed. it remains to inquire, who wrote the letter? it has been ascribed to three persons beside tresham: percy, mrs abington, and anne vaux. if it really were a part of the government counterplot, as is very probable, it was not likely to be any of them. if not so, tresham seems the most likely, though it is customary to charge mrs abington with it. lord monteagle would at once have recognised his sister's writing, and perhaps that of her intimate friend, his wife's cousin, anne vaux. why percy should be supposed to have written it is a mystery. the handwriting is undoubtedly very like that of anne vaux; indeed, for this reason i suspected her as the writer on the first investigation, and before i knew that she had ever been charged with it. dr jardine votes decidedly in favour of tresham. the real truth respecting this matter will in all probability never be known in this world. lord monteagle was in the essex rebellion, for which he was fined and imprisoned until the end of ; but he was in high favour with king james, probably owing to his strenuous efforts to secure his succession. he died in , leaving three sons and three daughters. a characteristic letter from this nobleman is yet extant, which shows his style and tone, and has not, i believe, been printed. it is that summoning catesby to bath, and if it were written in , rather confirms the supposition that the writer was an accomplice. dr jardine and others suppose it, i know not why, to belong rather to . it runs as follows:-- "to my loving kinsman, rob catesbye esquire, give these. lipyeat. if all creatures born under the moons sphere cannot endure without the elements of aier and fire in what languishment have we led our life since we departed from the dear robin whose conversation gave us such warmth as we needed no other heat to maintain our healths: since therefore it is proper to all to desire a remedy for their disease i do by these bind the by the laws of charity to make thy present aparance here at the bath and let no watery nimpes divert you, who can better live with[out] the air and better forbear the fire of your spirit and vigour then we who accumpts thy person the only sone that must ripen our harvest. and thus i rest. even fast tied to your friendshipp, william mounteagle." (cott. manuscript titus, b. , folio .) thomas percy. the exact place of this conspirator in the northumberland pedigree has been the subject of much question. he is commonly said to have been a near relative of the earl; but gerard thinks that "he was not very near in blood, although they called him cousin." among the various suggestions offered, that appears to be the best-founded which identifies him not with the percys of scotton, but as the son of edward percy of beverley, whose father, joscelyn, was a younger son of the fourth earl. the wife of joscelyn was margaret frost; the wife of edward, and mother of the conspirator, was elizabeth, daughter of sir thomas waterton of walton, yorkshire--of the family of the famous naturalist, charles waterton, of whom it was said that he felt tenderly towards every living thing but two--a poacher and a protestant. the character of percy, as sketched by one of the jesuit narrators, is scarcely consistent with that given by the other. greenway writes of him, "he was about forty-six years of age, though from the whiteness of his head, he appeared to be older; his figure was tall and handsome, his eyes large and lively, and the expression of his countenance pleasing, though grave; and notwithstanding the boldness of his mind, his manners were gentle and quiet." gerard says, "he had been very wild in his youth, more than ordinary, and much given to fighting--so much so that it was noted in him and in mr john wright... that if they heard of any man in the country more valiant than the others, one or other of them would pick a quarrel to make trial of his valour... he had a great wit, and a very good delivery of his mind, and so was able to speak as well as most in the things wherein he had experience. he was tall, and of a very comely face and fashion; of age near fifty, as i take it, for his head and beard was much changed white." the proclamation for his apprehension describes him as "a tall man, with a great broad beard, a good face, the colour of his beard and head mingled with white hairs, but his head more white than his beard. he stoupes somewhat in the shoulders, well coloured in face, longe foted, smale legged." percy was steward and receiver of rents to his kinsman the earl, whose rents he appropriated to the purposes of the plot--without the owner's knowledge, if his earnest denial may be trusted. percy married martha, sister of john and christopher wright, by whom he had three children: elizabeth, who died young, and was buried at alnwick, nd february ; a daughter (name unknown), who married young robert catesby; and robert percy, of taunton, who married emma meade at wivelscomb, nd october , and was the founder of the line of percy of cambridge. percy's widow lived privately in london after his execution. ambrose rookwood. second son of robert rookwood of stanningfield, by his second wife dorothy, daughter of sir william drury of hawkstead; he became eventually the heir of his father. ambrose was born in , and was educated in flanders as a roman catholic. according to greenway, he was "beloved by all who knew him;" gerard describes him as "very devout, of great virtue and valour, and very secret; he was also of very good parts as for wit and learning." he was remarkable for his stud of fine horses. coldham hall, his family mansion, built by his father in , is still standing, and is a picturesque house, about four miles from bury saint edmunds. very reluctant at first to join the plot, (march st, ), when arrested he "denied all privity, on his soul and conscience, and as he was a catholic." he was drawn into it by catesby, with whom he had long been acquainted, and whom he said that he "loved and respected as his own life." objecting that "it was a matter of conscience to take away so much blood," catesby replied that he was "resolved that in conscience it might be done," whereon rookwood, "being satisfied that in conscience he might do it, confessed it neither to any ghostly father nor to any other." (exam, of rookwood, _gunpowder plot book_, article .) sir william wade writes that "rookwood can procure no succour from any of his friends in regard of the odiousness of his actions," (additional manuscript , folio ). he seems to have been fond of fine clothes, for he not only had a "fair scarf" embroidered with "ciphres," but "made a very fair hungarian horseman's cote, lyned all with velvet, and other apparel exceeding costly, not fyt for his degree," (_ibidem_, folio ). his wife, who was "very beautiful" and "a virtuous catholic," was the daughter of robert tyrwhitt, esquire, of kettleby, county lincoln. they had three children: sir robert rookwood, who warmly espoused the cause of charles the first, and was buried th june, ; he married mary, daughter of sir robert townsend of ludlow, and left issue: henry: and elizabeth, wife of william calverley, esquire. the rookwoods of the golden fish, in the story, are all fictitious persons. the real brother of ambrose was the reverend thomas rookwood of claxton, the correspondent of garnet. francis tresham. sir thomas tresham, the father of francis, had suffered much in the cause of rome. perverted by campion in , he was repeatedly imprisoned for recusancy and harbouring jesuits, but remained the more resolutely devoted to the faith of which he speaks as "his beloved, beautiful, and graceful rachel," for whom his "direst adversity" seemed "but a few days for the love he had to her." by his wife muriel, daughter of sir robert throckmorton, he had two sons, of whom francis was the elder. he was educated at gloucester hall; and having been very actively participant in the rebellion of essex, was on his trial extremely insolent to the lord chancellor. his life was saved only by the intercession of lady catherine howard, whose services were purchased apparently for pounds. catesby never ceased to regret the admission of tresham to the conspiracy: but if as is probable (see _ante_, monteagle), lord monteagle were himself a party to the plot, the much-vaunted earnestness of tresham to save him is in all probability a fiction, and a mere piece of the machinery. gerard says that he was "of great estate, esteemed to be worth pounds a year. he had been wild in his youth, and even till his end was not known to be of so good example as the rest." jardine says, "he was known to be mean, treacherous, and unprincipled." he vehemently denied, however, the charge of having sent the warning letter to lord monteagle, of which he was always suspected by his brother conspirators. catesby and thomas winter had determined to "poniard him on the spot" if he had shown any hesitation in this denial. he escaped the gallows by dying of illness in the tower on the rd of november. lord salisbury has been accused of poisoning tresham because he knew too many state secrets. but why then did he not poison lord monteagle for the same reason? the fact that tresham's wife and servant were admitted into his prison, and allowed to nurse him till he died, is surely sufficient answer. by his wife, anne, daughter of sir john tufton, tresham left no issue. he "showed no remorse, but seemed to glory in it as a religious act, to the minister that laboured with him to set his conscience straight at his end: had his head chopped of and sent [to] be set up at northampton, his body being tumbled into a hole without so much ceremony as the formalitye of a grave." (_domestic state papers_, ; .) robert, thomas, and john winter. the winters of huddington are a family of old standing in worcestershire; and anne winter, sister of the great grandfather of these brothers, was the mother of edward underhill, the "hot gospeller." his grandson, george winter of huddington and droitwich, was a "recusant," yet was high sheriff of his county in . he married, first, jane, daughter of sir william ingleby of ripley, in yorkshire, and secondly, elizabeth, daughter of sir john bourne. by the first marriage he had issue two sons--robert and thomas; by the second, john, dorothy, and elizabeth. robert, the eldest son, was born in or soon after . gerard describes him as "a gentleman of good estate in worcestershire, about a thousand marks a year ( pounds, shillings pence)--an earnest catholic, though not as yet generally known to be so. he was a wise man, and of grave and sober carriage, and very stout (i.e., courageous), as all of that name have been esteemed." he joined the conspirators, march st, ; but he, like others, objected at first to the "scandal to the catholic cause," and was a half-hearted accomplice to the end. he is said to have been terrified by a horrible dream on the night of november th, which made him more willing to desert the cause. he married gertrude, daughter of sir john talbot (of the shrewsbury line) and of katherine petre, by whom he had four children,--john, who died in , leaving issue; helen, of cooksey, died th may ; mary, a nun; and catherine, died before . all the daughters were unmarried. thomas winter, one of the chief actors in the plot, was probably born about , and seems to have died a bachelor. he may have been the "thomas or william wynter," apparently of bradgate hall, oxford, who took his b.a. degree on th january . he had served in the dutch army against spain, and quitted it on account of religious scruples, but so long afterwards as , he is spoken of as captain winter (additional manuscript , folio ). after this he was secretary to lord monteagle. he was, says greenway, "an accomplished and able man, familiarly conversant with several languages, the intimate friend and companion of catesby, and of great account with the catholic party generally, in consequence of his talents for intrigue, and his personal acquaintance with ministers of influence in foreign courts." gerard adds that his "elder brother, and another younger, were also brought into the action by his means. he was a reasonable good scholar, and able to talk in many matters of learning, but especially in philosophy or histories, very well and judicially. he could speak both latin, italian, spanish, and french. he had been a soldier, both in flanders, france, and i think against the turk, and could discourse exceeding well of those matters; and was of such a wit, and so fine carriage, that he was of so pleasing conversation, desired much of the better sort, but an inseparable friend to mr robert catesby. he was of mean stature, but strong and comely, and very valiant, about thirty-three years or more. his means were not great, but he lived in good sort, and with the best. he was very devout and zealous in his faith, and careful to come often to the sacraments, and of very grave and discreet carriage, offensive to no man, and fit for any employment." his "living was eight score pound by the year, by report of his man," (_gunpowder plot book_, article ); namely, his annual income was about pounds. several letters of his are still extant; three have been published in notes and queries ( rd series, one; ), and are all addressed to grant. one written to catesby has not seen the light hitherto, and as it is characteristic, i append it. (cott. manuscript titus, b. two; folio .) "to my loving friend, mr robert catesby. "though all you malefactors flock to london, as birds in winter to a dunghill, yet do i, honest man, freely possess the sweet country air: and to say truth, would fain be amongst you, but cannot as yet get money to come up. i was at asbye to have met you, but you were newly gone; my business and your uncertain stay made me hunt no further. i pray you commend me to other friends. and when occasion shall require, send down to my brother's or mr talbott's; within this month i will be with you at london. so god keep you this th of october. your loving friend, thomas wintour." john winter, the youngest brother, seems to have had very little share in the plot, and most fervently denied any knowledge of it whatever. gerard (see _ante_) asserts that he was engaged in it, and gertrude winter bore witness that he came to huddington with the other conspirators on november th. his own amusing narrative is to the effect that grant asked him on the th of november, if he would go to a horse-race, and he answered that he would if he were well; that on the th, he went to "a little town called rugby," where he and others supped and played cards; that a messenger came to them and said, "the gentlemen were at dunchurch, and desired their company to be merry;" that at holbeach he "demanded of mr percy and the rest, being most of them asleep, what they meant to do," and they answered that they would go on now; and shortly afterwards he left them. (_gunpowder plot book_, article ). john winter was imprisoned, but released. there is no evidence to show that he was married. john and christopher wright. concerning the parentage of these brothers, i can find no more than that they were of the family of wright of plowland, in holderness, yorkshire. they were cousins of robert winter, perhaps through his mother; were both schoolfellows of guy fawkes, and "neighbours' children." john wright originally lived at twigmore, in lincolnshire, and removed to lapworth, in warwickshire, when he became a party to the plot. he was the first layman whom catesby took into his confidence, thomas winter being the second, and fawkes the third. like so many of the others, the brothers were involved in essex's rebellion. they were perverts, and since their perversion john had been "harassed with persecutions and imprisonment." greenway says he was one of the best swordsmen of his time. gerard describes him as "a gentleman of yorkshire, not born to any great fortune, but lived always in place and company of the better sort. in his youth, very wild and disposed to fighting... he grew to be staid and of good, sober carriage after he was catholic, and kept house in lincolnshire, where he had priests come often, both for his spiritual comfort and their own in corporal helps. he was about forty years old, a strong and a stout man, and of a very good wit, though slow of speech: much loved by mr catesby for his valour and secrecy in carriage of any business." of christopher he says that "though he were not like him [john] in face, as being fatter, and a lighter-coloured hair, and taller of person, yet was he very like to the other in conditions and qualities, and both esteemed and tried to be as stout a man as england had, and withal a zealous catholic, and trusty and secret in any business as could be wished." but little is known of the relatives of these brothers. john wright's wife was named dorothy, and she was "sister-in-law of marmaduke ward of newby, yorkshire, gentleman;" they had a daughter who was eight or nine years old in , and probably one or more sons, as descendants of john wright are said still to exist christopher's wife was called margaret, but nothing is known of his children. the brothers had two sisters,--martha, the wife of their co-traitor, percy; and another who was the mother of a certain william ward, spoken of as wright's nephew. (_gunpowder plot book_, articles , , , .) by greenway, gerard, or both, it is asserted of nearly every one of the conspirators that they were very wild in youth, and became persons of exemplary virtue after their perversion to popery. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . "thursday, th october," (not th, as usually stated), is the endorsement on the letter itself (_gunpowder plot book_, article ), and also the date given in the official account (_ibidem_, article ). the end. transcriber's notes: text in italics is enclosed by underscore characters. where small capitals were used, text has been presented in uppercase. abbreviations use superscript; the caret, ^, is used before superscript characters. where multiple superscript characters are used they are enclosed in curly braces, {}. a small number of macron diacritical marks are used in the text and appear as an overlined letter. these marks are indicated by [=a] where a is the overlined character. this text makes extensive use of archaic spellings in quoted material which has not been amended or modernized. where typographic errors have been repaired, they are detailed in further transcribers' notes at the end of the text. [illustration: the powder plot] what was the gunpowder plot? the traditional story tested by original evidence by john gerard, s.j. [illustration] london osgood, mcilvaine & co. , albemarle street, w. preface. the following study of the gunpowder plot has grown out of the accidental circumstance that, having undertaken to read a paper before the historical research society, at archbishop's house, westminster, as the day on which it was to be read chanced to be the th of november,[ ] i was asked to take the famous conspiracy for my subject. it was with much reluctance that i agreed to do so, believing, as i then did, that there was absolutely nothing fresh to say upon this topic, that no incident in our annals had been more thoroughly threshed out, and that in regard of none, so far, at least, as its broader outlines are concerned, was the truth more clearly established. when, however, i turned to the sources whence our knowledge of the transaction is derived, and in particular to the original documents upon which it is ultimately based, i was startled to find how grave were the doubts and difficulties which suggested themselves at every turn, while, though slowly and gradually, yet with ever gathering force, the conviction forced itself upon me, that, not merely in its details is the traditional story unworthy of credit, but that all the evidence points to a conclusion fundamentally at variance with it. nothing contributed so powerfully to this conviction as to find that every fresh line of reasoning or channel of information which could be discovered inevitably tended, in one way or another, towards the same result. in the following pages are presented to the reader the principal arguments which have wrought this change of view in my own mind.[ ] i cannot pretend to furnish any full or wholly satisfactory answer to the question which stands upon the title-page. the real history of the plot in all its stages we shall, in all probability, never know. if, however, we cannot satisfy ourselves of the truth, it will be much to ascertain what is false; to convince ourselves that the account of the matter officially supplied, and almost universally accepted, is obviously untrue, and that the balance of probability lies heavily against those who invented it, as having been the real plotters, devising and working the scheme for their own ends. neither have i any wish to ignore, or to extenuate, the objections which militate against such a conclusion, objections arising from considerations of a general character, rather than from any positive evidence. why, it may reasonably be asked, if the government of the day were ready to go so far as is alleged, did they not go further? why, being supremely anxious to incriminate the priests, did they not fabricate unequivocal evidence against them, instead of satisfying themselves with what appears to us far from conclusive? why did they encumber their tale with incidents, which, if they did not really occur, could serve only to damage it, inasmuch as we, at this distance of time, can argue that they are impossible and absurd? how is it, moreover, that the absurdity was not patent to contemporaries, and was not urged by those who had every reason to mislike and mistrust the party in power? considerations such as these undoubtedly deserve all attention, and must be fully weighed, but while they avail to establish a certain presumption in favour of the official story, i cannot but think that the sum of probabilities tells strongly the other way. it must be remembered that three centuries ago the intrinsic likelihood or unlikelihood of a tale did not go for much, and the accounts of plots in particular appear to have obtained general credence in proportion as they were incredible, as the case of squires a few years earlier, and of titus oates somewhat later, sufficiently testify. it is moreover as difficult for us to enter into the crooked and complex methods of action which commended themselves to the statesmen of the period, as to appreciate the force of the cumbrous and abusive harangues which earned for sir edward coke the character of an incomparable pleader. on the other hand, it appears certain that they who had so long played the game must have understood it best, and, whatever else may be said of them, they always contrived to win. in regard of father garnet, for example, we may think the evidence adduced by the prosecution quite insufficient, but none the less it in fact availed not only to send him to the gallows, but to brand him in popular estimation for generations, and even for centuries, as the arch-traitor to whose machinations the whole enterprise was due. in the case of some individuals obnoxious to the government, it seems evident that downright forgery was actually practised. the question of father garnet's complicity, though usually considered as the one point in connection with the plot requiring to be discussed, is not treated in the following pages. it is doubtless true that to prove the conspiracy to have been a trick of state, is not the same thing as proving that he was not entangled in it; but, at the same time, the first point, if it can be established, will deprive the other of almost all its interest. nevertheless, father garnet's case will still require to be fully treated on its own merits, but this cannot be done within the limits of such an inquiry as the present. it is not by confining our attention to one isolated incident in his career, nor by discussing once again the familiar documents connected therewith, that we can form a sound and satisfactory judgment about him. for this purpose, full consideration must be given to what has hitherto been almost entirely ignored, the nature and character of the man, as exhibited especially during the eighteen years of his missionary life in england, during most of which period he acted as the superior of his brother jesuits. there exist abundant materials for his biography, in his official and confidential correspondence, preserved at stonyhurst and elsewhere, and not till the information thus supplied shall have been duly utilized will it be possible to judge whether the part assigned to him by his enemies in this wild and wicked design can, even conceivably, represent the truth. it may, i trust, be possible at no distant date to attempt this work, but it is not possible now, and to introduce this topic into our present discussion would only confuse the issue which is before us. except in one or two instances, i have judged it advisable, for the sake of clearness, to modernize the spelling of documents quoted in the text. in the notes they are usually given in their original form. i have to acknowledge my indebtedness in many particulars to mr. h.w. brewer, who not only contributes valuable sketches to illustrate the narrative, but has furnished many important notes and suggestions, based upon his exhaustive knowledge of ancient london. i have to thank the marquis of salisbury for permission to examine mss. in the hatfield collection, and his lordship's librarian, mr. gunton, for information supplied from the same source. through the courtesy of the deputy-keeper of the public records, every facility has been afforded me for consulting the precious documents contained in the "gunpowder plot book." the dean of corpus christi college, oxford, has kindly given me access to an important ms. in the college library; and i have been allowed by the rector of stonyhurst to retain in my hands father greenway's ms. history of the plot during the whole period of my work. the proprietors of the _daily graphic_ have allowed me to use two sketches of the interior of "guy faukes' cellar," and one of his lantern, originally prepared by mr. brewer for that journal. footnotes: [ ] . [ ] some of these have been partially set forth in a series of six articles appearing in _the month_, december -may, . contents. chap. page i. the state of the question disclosure of the plot--arrest of guy faukes--flight of his associates--their abortive insurrection--their fate--the crime charged on catholics in general--garnet and other jesuits proclaimed as the ringleaders--capture of garnet--efforts to procure evidence against him--his execution--previous history of the plot as traditionally narrated; proceedings and plans of the conspirators--manner of the discovery. reasons for suspecting the truth of this history--previous plots originated or manipulated by the government--suspicious circumstances respecting the gunpowder plot in particular--essential points of the inquiry. ii. the persons concerned robert cecil, earl of salisbury--his character variously estimated--discreditable incidents of his career--contemporary judgments of him--his unpopularity--his political difficulties largely dissipated in consequence of the plot. his hatred of and hostility towards the catholics--their numbers and importance--their hopes from king james, and their disappointment--the probability that some would have recourse to violence--the conspirators known as men likely to seek such a remedy--their previous history--difficulties and contradictions in regard of their character. iii. the opinion of contemporaries and historians the government at once suspected of having contrived or fomented the plot--persistence of these suspicions, to which historians for more than a century bear witness--no fresh information accounts for their disappearance. iv. the traditional story the old house of lords and its surroundings--house hired by the conspirators--they attempt to dig a mine beneath the peers' chamber--difficulties and improbabilities of the account--the "cellar" hired--its position and character--the gunpowder bought and stored--further problems concerning it--the conspirators' plans--contradictions respecting them--their wild and absurd character--impossibility of the supposition that the proceedings escaped the notice of the government. v. the government intelligence department evidence that the government were fully aware of what was in progress--various intelligence supplied to them--cecil's uneasiness on account of the spread of catholicity, and the king's communication with the pope--his evident determination to force on james a policy of intolerance--he intimates that a great move is about to be made, and acknowledges to information concerning the conspirators and their schemes--his political methods illustrated. vi. the "discovery" importance of the letter received by lord monteagle--extraordinary prominence given to it--monteagle's character--he receives the letter--suspicious circumstances connected with its arrival--it is shown to cecil--hopeless contradictions of the official narrative as to what followed--impossibility of ascertaining what actually occurred--the french version of the story--the conduct of the government at variance with their own professions--their inexplicable delay in making the discovery--they take no precautions against the recurrence of danger--the mystery of the gunpowder--incredibility of the official narration. vii. percy, catesby, and tresham probability that the government had an agent among the conspirators--suspicious circumstances regarding percy--his private life--his alleged intercourse with cecil--his death. catesby and tresham likewise accused of secret dealings with cecil--catesby's falsehood towards his associates and father garnet--tresham's strange conduct after the discovery--his mysterious death. alleged positive evidence against the government. viii. the government's case a monopoly secured for the official narrative, which is admittedly untruthful--suspicions suggested by such a course, especially in such a case--the confessions of faukes and winter, on which this narrative is based, deserve no credit--nor does the evidence of bates against greenway--indications of foul play in regard of robert winter--the case of owen, baldwin and cresswell; assertions made respecting them of which no proof can be produced--efforts to implicate sir walter raleigh and others--falsification of evidence--the service of forgers employed. catholic writers have drawn their accounts from the sources provided by the government. ix. the sequel cecil well informed as to the real nature of the conspiracy, and apprehends no danger from it--at once turns it to account by promoting anti-catholic legislation--honour and popularity resulting to him--ruin of the earl of northumberland--cecil's manifesto--his alleged attempt to start a second plot. the popular history of the plot, and how it was circulated--singular suitability of the fifth of november for the "discovery." summary of the argument. appendix a. notes on the illustrations appendix b. sir everard digby's letter to salisbury appendix c. the question of succession appendix d. the spanish treason appendix e. site of percy's lodging appendix f. enrolment of conspirators appendix g. henry wright the informer appendix h. monteagle's letter to king james appendix i. epitaph on peter heiwood appendix k. the use of torture appendix l. myths and legends of the plot appendix m. memorial inscriptions in the tower appendix n. guy faukes' published confession index list of illustrations. page . medal commemorative of the gunpowder plot _title-page_ . the gunpowder plot. i. _frontispiece_ . " " " ii. . " " " iii. . " " " iv. . " " " v. . discovery of the gunpowder plot . monteagle and letter . arrest of faukes . guy faukes' lantern . group of conspirators . thomas percy . houses of parliament in - . ground plan of the same . house of lords in . interior of house of lords, . interior of "cellar" . arches from "cellar" . vault under painted chamber . cell adjoining painted chamber . facsimile of part of winter's confession, nov. . signatures of faukes and oldcorne . facsimile of part of faukes' confession of nov. "quis hæc posteris sic narrare poterit, ut facta non ficta esse videantur?" "ages to come will be in doubt whether it were a fact or a fiction." _sir edw. coke on the trial of the conspirators._ what was the gunpowder plot? chapter i. the state of the question. on the morning of tuesday, the th of november, , which day was appointed for the opening of a new parliamentary session, london rang with the news that in the course of the night a diabolical plot had been discovered, by which the king and legislature were to have been destroyed at a blow. in a chamber beneath the house of lords had been found a great quantity of gunpowder, and with it a man, calling himself john johnson, who, finding that the game was up, fully acknowledged his intention to have fired the magazine while the royal speech was being delivered, according to custom, overhead, and so to have blown king, lords, and commons into the air. at the same time, he doggedly refused to say who were his accomplices, or whether he had any. this is the earliest point at which the story of the gunpowder plot can be taken up with any certainty. of what followed, at least as to the main outlines, we are sufficiently well informed. johnson, whose true name was presently found to be guy, or guido, faukes,[ ] proved, it is true, a most obstinate and unsatisfactory witness, and obstinately refused to give any evidence which might incriminate others. but the actions of his confederates quickly supplied the information which he withheld. it was known that the "cellar" in which the powder was found, as well as a house adjacent, had been hired in the name of one thomas percy, a catholic gentleman, perhaps a kinsman, and certainly a dependent, of the earl of northumberland. it was now discovered that he and others of his acquaintance had fled from london on the previous day, upon receipt of intelligence that the plot seemed at least to be suspected. not many hours later the fugitives were heard of in warwickshire, worcestershire, and staffordshire, the native counties of several amongst them, attempting to rally others to their desperate fortunes, and to levy war against the crown. for this purpose they forcibly seized cavalry horses[ ] at warwick, and arms at whewell grange, a seat of lord windsor's. these violent proceedings having raised the country behind them, they were pursued by the sheriffs with what forces could be got together, and finally brought to bay at holbeche, in staffordshire, the residence of one stephen littleton, a catholic gentleman. there proved to have been thirteen men in all who had undoubtedly been participators in the treason. of these faukes, as we have seen, was already in the hands of justice. another, francis tresham, had not fled with his associates, but remained quietly, and without attempting concealment, in london, even going to the council and offering them his services; after a week he was taken into custody. the eleven who either betook themselves to the country, or were already there, awaiting the issue of the enterprise, and prepared to co-operate in the rising which was to be its sequel, were robert catesby, thomas percy, robert and thomas winter, john and christopher wright, john grant, robert keyes, ambrose rokewood, sir everard digby, and thomas bates. all were catholics, and all, with the exception of bates, catesby's servant, were "gentlemen of blood and name," some of them, notably robert winter, rokewood, digby, and tresham, being men of ample fortune. [illustration: the conspirators, from a print published at amsterdam.] on friday, november th, three days after the discovery, sir richard walsh, sheriff of worcestershire, attacked holbeche. catesby, percy, and the two wrights were killed or mortally wounded in the assault. the others were taken prisoners on the spot or in its neighbourhood, with the exception of robert winter, who, accompanied by their host, stephen littleton, contrived to elude capture for upwards of two months, being at last apprehended, in january, at hagley hall, worcestershire. all the prisoners were at once taken up to london, and being there confined, were frequently and diligently examined by the council, to trace, if possible, farther ramifications of the conspiracy, and especially to inculpate the catholic clergy.[ ] torture, it is evident, was employed with this object. meanwhile, on november th, king james addressed to his parliament a speech, wherein he declared that the abominable crime which had been intended was the direct result of catholic principles, popery being "the true mystery of iniquity." in like manner chichester, the lord deputy in ireland, was informed by cecil, earl of salisbury, his majesty's secretary of state, that the plot was an "abominable practice of rome and satan,"[ ] while the monarch himself sent word to sir john harington that "these designs were not formed by a few," that "the whole legion of catholics were consulted," that "the priests were to pacify their consciences, and the pope confirm a general absolution for this glorious deed."[ ] then follows an interval during which we know little of the course of events which were proceeding in the seclusion of the council-room and torture-chamber; but on december th we find cecil complaining that he could obtain little or no evidence against the really important persons: "most of the prisoners," he writes,[ ] "have wilfully forsworn that the priests knew anything in particular, and obstinately refuse to be accusers of them, yea, what torture soever they be put to." on january th, - , a proclamation was issued declaring that the jesuit fathers, john gerard, henry garnet, and oswald greenway, or tesimond, were proved to have been "peculiarly practisers" in the treason, and offering a reward for their apprehension. on the st of the same month parliament met, having been prorogued immediately after the king's speech of november th, and four days later an act was passed for the perpetual solemnization of the anniversary of the projected crime, the preamble whereof charged its guilt upon "many malignant and devilish papists, jesuits, and seminary priests, much envying the true and free possession of the gospel by the nation, under the greatest, most learned, and most religious monarch who had ever occupied the throne."[ ] in consequence of this act, was introduced into the anglican liturgy the celebrated fifth of november service, in the collect of which the king, royal family, nobility, clergy, and commons are spoken of as having been "by popish treachery appointed as sheep to the slaughter, in a most barbarous and savage manner, beyond the examples of former ages;" while the day itself was marked in the calendar as the "papists' conspiracy." it will thus be seen that the powder plot was by this time officially stigmatized as the work of the catholic body in general, and in particular of their priests; thus acquiring an importance and a significance which could not be attributed to it were it but the wild attempt of a few turbulent men. as a natural corollary we find parliament busily engaged upon measures to insure the more effectual execution of the penal laws.[ ] on january th the surviving conspirators, robert and thomas winter, faukes, grant, rokewood, keyes, digby, and bates,[ ] were put upon their trial. in the indictment preferred against them, it was explicitly stated that the plot was contrived by garnet, gerard, greenway, and other jesuits, to whose traitorous persuasions the prisoners at the bar had wickedly yielded. all were found guilty, digby, robert winter, grant, and bates being executed at the west end of st. paul's church, on january the th, and the rest on the following day in old palace yard. on the very day upon which the first company suffered, father garnet, whose hiding-place was known, and who had been closely invested for nine days, was captured, in company with another jesuit, father oldcorne. the latter, though never charged with knowledge of the plot, was put to death for having aided and abetted garnet in his attempt to escape. garnet himself, being brought to london, was lodged first in the gatehouse and afterwards in the tower. as we have seen, he had already been proclaimed as a traitor, and "particular practiser" in the conspiracy, and had moreover been officially described as the head and front of the treason. of the latter charge, after his capture, nothing was ever heard. of his participation, proofs, it appeared, still remained to be discovered, for on the rd of march cecil still spoke of them as in the future.[ ] in order to obtain the required evidence of his complicity, garnet was examined three-and-twenty times before the council, and, in addition, various artifices were practised which need not now be detailed. on the th of march, , he was brought to trial, and on may rd he was hanged at st. paul's. the gunpowder conspirators were thenceforth described in government publications as "garnet, a jesuit, and his confederates." such is, in outline, the course of events which followed the discovery of november th, all circumstances being here omitted which are by possibility open to dispute. it will probably be maintained, as our best and most circumspect historians appear to have assumed, that we are in possession of information enabling us to construct a similar sketch of what preceded and led up to these events,--whatever obscurity there may be regarding the complicity of those whose participation would invest the plot with the significance which has been attributed to it. if it were indeed but the individual design of a small knot of men, acting for themselves and of themselves, then, though they were all catholics, and were actuated by a desire to aid the catholic cause, the crime they intended could not justly be charged upon the body of their co-religionists. it would be quite otherwise if catholics in general were shown to have countenanced it, or even if such representative men as members of the priesthood were found to have approved so abominable a project, or even to have consented to it, or knowingly kept silence regarding it. of the complicity of catholics in general or of their priesthood as a body there is no proof whatever, nor has it ever been seriously attempted to establish such a charge. as to the three jesuits already named, who alone have been seriously accused, there is no proof, the sufficiency of which may not be questioned. but as to the fact that they who originated the plot were catholics, that they acted simply with the object of benefiting their church, and that the nation most narrowly escaped an appalling disaster at their hands, can there be any reasonable doubt? is not the account of their proceedings, to be read in any work on the subject, as absolutely certain as anything in our history? this account is as follows. about a year after the accession of james i.,[ ] when it began to be evident that the hopes of toleration at his hands, which the catholics had entertained, were to be disappointed, robert catesby, a man of strong character, and with an extraordinary power of influencing others, bethought him in his wrath of this means whereby to take summary vengeance at once upon the monarch and the legislators, under whose cruelty he himself and his fellows were groaning. the plan was proposed to john wright and thomas winter, who approved it. faukes was brought over from the low countries, as a man likely to be of much service in such an enterprise. shortly afterwards percy joined them,[ ] and somewhat later keyes and christopher wright were added to their number.[ ] all the associates were required to take an oath of secrecy,[ ] and to confirm it by receiving holy communion.[ ] these are the seven "gentlemen of blood and name," as faukes describes them, who had the main hand in the operations which we have to study. at a later period six others were associated with them, robert winter, elder brother of thomas, and grant, both gentlemen of property, bates, catesby's servant, and finally, rokewood, digby, and tresham, all rich men, who were brought in chiefly for the sake of their wealth, and were enlisted when the preparations for the intended explosion had all been completed, in view of the rising which was to follow.[ ] commencing operations about the middle of december, , these confederates first endeavoured to dig a mine under the house of lords, and afterwards hired a large room, described as a cellar, situated beneath the peers' chamber, and in this stored a quantity of gunpowder, which faukes was to fire by a train, while the king, lords, and commons, were assembled above. their enemies being thus destroyed, they did not contemplate a revolution, but were resolved to get possession of one of the king's sons, or, failing that, of one of his daughters, whom they would proclaim as sovereign, constituting themselves the guardians of the new monarch. they also contrived a "hunting match" on dunsmoor heath, near rugby, which was to be in progress when the news of the catastrophe in london should arrive; the sportsmen assembled for which would furnish, it was hoped, the nucleus of an army. meanwhile, as we are assured--and this is the crucial point of the whole story--the government of james i. had no suspicion of what was going on, and, lulled in false security, were on the verge of destruction, when a lucky circumstance intervened. on october th, ten days before the meeting of parliament, a catholic peer, lord monteagle, received an anonymous letter, couched in vague and incoherent language, warning him to absent himself from the opening ceremony. this document monteagle at once took to the king's prime minister, robert cecil, earl of salisbury, who promptly divined its meaning and the precise danger indicated, although he allowed king james to fancy that he was himself the first to interpret it, when it was shown to him five days later.[ ] not for four other days were active steps taken, that is, till the early morning of the fatal fifth. then took place the discovery of which we have already heard. such is, in brief, the accepted version of the history, and of its substantial correctness there is commonly assumed to be no room for reasonable doubt. as mr. jardine writes,[ ] "the outlines of the transaction were too notorious to be suppressed or disguised; that a design had been formed to blow up the parliament house, with the king, the royal family, the lords and commons, and that this design was formed by catholic men and for catholic purposes, could never admit of controversy or concealment." in like manner, while acknowledging that in approaching the question of father garnet's complicity, or that of other priests, we find ourselves upon uncertain ground, mr. gardiner has no hesitation in declaring that "the whole story of the plot, as far as it relates to the lay conspirators, rests upon indisputable evidence."[ ] nevertheless there appear to be considerations, demanding more attention than they have hitherto received, which forbid the supposition that, in regard of what is most vital, this official story can possibly be true; while the extreme care with which it has obviously been elaborated, suggests the conclusion that it was intended to disguise facts, to the concealment of which the government of the day attached supreme importance. as has been said, the cardinal point of the tale, as commonly told, is that the plot was a secret and dangerous conspiracy, conducted with so much craft as to have baffled detection, but for a lucky accident; that the vigilance of the authorities was completely at fault; and that they found themselves suddenly on the very brink of a terrible catastrophe of which they had no suspicion.[ ] if, on the contrary, it should appear that they had ample information of what was going on, while feigning absolute ignorance; that they studiously devised a false account of the manner in which it came to their knowledge; and that their whole conduct is quite inconsistent with that sense of imminent danger which they so loudly professed--the question inevitably suggests itself as to whether we can rely upon the authenticity of the opening chapters of a history, the conclusion of which has been so dexterously manipulated. a french writer has observed[ ] that the plots undertaken under elizabeth and james i. have this feature in common, that they proved, one and all, extremely opportune for those against whom they were directed. to this law the gunpowder plot was no exception. whatever be the true history of its origin, it certainly placed in the hands of the king's chief minister a most effective weapon for the enforcement of his favourite policy, and very materially strengthened his own position. without doubt the sensational manner of its "discovery" largely contributed to its success in this respect; and if this were ingeniously contrived for such a purpose, may it not be that a like ingenuity had been employed in providing the material destined to be so artistically utilized? there can be no question as to the wide prevalence of the belief that previous plots had owed their origin to the policy of the statesmen who finally detected them, a belief witnessed to by lord castlemaine,[ ] who declares that "it was a piece of wit in queen elizabeth's days to draw men into such devices," and that "making and fomenting plots was then in fashion; nor can it be denied that good grounds for such an opinion were not lacking". the unfortunate man squires had been executed on the ridiculous charge that he had come over from spain in order to poison the pommel of queen elizabeth's saddle. dr. parry, we are informed by bishop goodman, whose verdict is endorsed by mr. brewer,[ ] was put to death by those who knew him to be guiltless in their regard, they having themselves employed him in the business for which he suffered. concerning babington's famous plot, it is absolutely certain that, whatever its origin, it was, almost from the first, fully known to walsingham, through whose hands passed the correspondence between the conspirators, and who assiduously worked the enterprise, in order to turn it to the destruction of the queen of scots. as to lopez, the jewish physician, it is impossible not to concur in the verdict that his condemnation was at least as much owing to political intrigue as to the weight of evidence.[ ] concerning this period mr. brewer says: "the roman catholics seem to have made just complaints of the subtle and unworthy artifices of leicester and walsingham, by whom they were entrapped into the guilt of high treason. 'and verily,' as [camden] expresses it, there were at this time crafty ways devised to try how men stood affected; counterfeit letters were sent in the name of the queen of scots and left at papists' houses; spies were sent up and down the country to note people's dispositions and lay hold of their words; and reporters of vain and idle stories were credited and encouraged."[ ] under king james,[ ] as bishop goodman declares, the priest watson was hanged for treason by those who had employed him.[ ] it must farther be observed that the particular plot which is our subject was stamped with certain features more than commonly suspicious. even on the face of things, as will be seen from the summary already given, it was steadily utilized from the first for a purpose which it could not legitimately be made to serve. that the catholics of england, as a body, had any connection with it there is not, nor ever appeared to be, any vestige of a proof; still less that the official superiors of the church, including the pope himself, were concerned in it. yet the first act of the government was to lay it at the door of all these, thus investing it with a character which was, indeed, eminently fitted to sustain their own policy, but to which it was no-wise entitled. even in regard of father garnet and his fellow jesuits, whatever judgment may now be formed concerning them, it is clear that it was determined to connect them with the conspiracy long before any evidence at all was forthcoming to sustain the charge. the actual confederates were, in fact, treated throughout as in themselves of little or no account, and as important only in so far as they might consent to incriminate those whom the authorities wished to be incriminated. the determined manner in which this object was ever kept in view, the unscrupulous means constantly employed for its attainment, the vehemence with which matters were asserted to have been proved, any proof of which was never even seriously attempted--in a word, the elaborate system of falsification by which alone the story of the conspiracy was made to suit the purpose it so effectually served, can inspire us with no confidence that the foundation upon which such a superstructure was erected, was itself what it was said to be. on the other hand, when we examine into the details supplied to us as to the progress of the affair, we find that much of what the conspirators are said to have done is well-nigh incredible, while it is utterly impossible that if they really acted in the manner described, the public authorities should not have had full knowledge of their proceedings. we also find not only that the same authorities, while feigning ignorance of anything of the kind, were perfectly well aware that these very conspirators had something in hand, but that long before the "discovery," in fact, at the very time when the conspiracy is said to have been hatched, their officials were working a catholic plot, by means of secret agents, and even making arrangements as to who were to be implicated therein. these are, in brief, some of the considerations which point to a conclusion utterly at variance with the received version of the story, the conclusion, namely, that, for purposes of state, the government of the day either found means to instigate the conspirators to undertake their enterprise, or, at least, being, from an early stage of the undertaking, fully aware of what was going on, sedulously nursed the insane scheme till the time came to make capital out of it. that the conspirators, or the greater number of them, really meant to strike a great blow is not to be denied, though it may be less easy to assure ourselves as to its precise character; and their guilt will not be palliated should it appear that, in projecting an atrocious crime, they were unwittingly playing the game of plotters more astute than themselves. at the same time, while fully endorsing the sentiment of a catholic writer,[ ] that they who suffer themselves to be drawn into a plot like fools, deserve to be hanged for it like knaves, it is impossible not to agree with another when he writes:[ ] "this account does not excuse the conspirators, but lays a heavy weight upon the devils who tempted them beyond their strength." the view thus set forth will perhaps be considered unworthy of serious discussion, and it must be fully admitted, that there can be no excuse for making charges such as it involves, unless solid grounds can be alleged for so doing. that any such grounds are to be found historians of good repute utterly deny. mr. hallam roundly declares:[ ] "to deny that there was such a plot, or, which is the same thing, to throw the whole on the contrivance and management of cecil, as has sometimes been done, argues great effrontery in those who lead, and great stupidity in those who follow." similarly, mr. gardiner,[ ] while allowing that contemporaries accused cecil of inventing the plot, is content to dismiss such a charge as "absurd." whether it be so or not we have now to inquire. footnotes: [ ] so he himself always wrote it. [ ] also described as "great horses," or "horses for the great saddle." [ ] "the great object of the government now was to obtain evidence against the priests."--gardiner, _history of england_, i. . ed. . [ ] see his despatch in reply. _irish state papers_, vol. , . cornwallis received cecil's letter on november nd. [ ] see harington's account of the king's message, _nugæ antiquæ_, i. . [ ] to favat. (copy) brit. mus. mss. add. , fol. . [ ] statutes: anno ^o jacobi, c. . [ ] this work was taken in hand by the commons, when, in spite of the alarming circumstances of the time, they met on november th, and was carried on at every subsequent sitting. the lords also met on the th, but transacted no business. _journals of parliament._ [ ] tresham had died in the tower, december nd. although he had not been tried, his remains were treated as those of a traitor, his head being cut off and fixed above the gates of northampton (_dom. james i._ xvii. .) [ ] "that which remaineth is but this, to assure you that ere many daies you shall hear that father garnet ... is layd open for a principall conspirator even in the particular treason of the powder."--_to sir henry bruncard, p.r.o. ireland_, vol. , march rd, - . also (calendar) _dom. james i._ xix. . [ ] in lent, - . easter fell that year on april th. [ ] "about the middle of easter term."--_thomas winter's declaration_, of november rd, . [ ] "keyes, about a month before michaelmas."--_ibid._ about christopher wright there is much confusion, faukes (november th, ) implying that he was introduced before christmas, and thomas winter (november rd, ) that it was about a fortnight after the following candlemas, _i.e._, about the middle of february. [ ] the form of this oath is thus given in the official account: "you shall swear by the blessed trinity, and by the sacrament you now propose to receive, never to disclose directly or indirectly, by word or circumstance, the matter that shall be proposed to you to keep secret, nor desist from the execution thereof until the rest shall give you leave." it is a singular circumstance that the form of this oath, which was repeated in official publications, with an emphasis itself inexplicable, occurs in only one of the conspirators' confessions, viz., the oft-quoted declaration of t. winter, november rd, . this--as we shall see, a most suspicious document--was one of the two selected for publication, on which the traditional history of the plot depends. curiously enough, however, the oath, with sundry other matters, was omitted from the published version of the confession. [published in the "king's book:" copy, or draft, for publication, in the record office: original at hatfield. copy of original brit. mus. add. mss., , .] [ ] t. winter says: "having upon a primer given each other the oath of secrecy, in a chamber where no other body was, we went after into the next room and heard mass, and received the blessed sacrament upon the same."--_declaration_, november rd, . [ ] digby was enlisted "about michaelmas, ;" rokewood about a month before the th of november. tresham gives october th as the date of his own initiation. _examination_, november th, . [ ] this is clear from a comparison of cecil's private letter to cornwallis and others (winwood, _memorials_, ii. ), with the official account published in the _discourse of the manner of the discovery of the gunpowder plot_. [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. . [ ] _history of england_, i. ( ). [ ] "we had all been blowne up at a clapp, if god out of his mercie and just reuenge against so great an abomination, had not destined it to be discovered, though very miraculously, even some twelve houres before the matter should have been put in execution."--_cecil to cornwallis_, november th, . winwood, _memorials_, ii. . [ ] m. l'abbé destombes, _la persécution en angleterre sous le règne d'elizabeth_, p. . [ ] _catholique apology_, third edition, p. . [ ] goodman's _court of king james_, i. . [ ] mr. sidney lee, _dictionary of national biography_, _sub nom._ [ ] goodman's _court of king james_, i. . ed. j.s. brewer. [ ] _court of king james_, p. . [ ] of this affair,--the "bye" and the "main,"--goodman says, "[this] i did ever think to be an old relic of the treasons in q. elizabeth's time, and that george brooks was the contriver thereof, who being brother-in-law to the secretary, and having great wit, small means, and a vast expense, did only try men's allegiance, and had an intent to betray one another, but were all taken napping and so involved in one net. this in effect appears by brooks' confession; and certainly k. james ... had no opinion of that treason, and therefore was pleased to pardon all save only brooks and the priests."--_court of king james_, i. . [ ] _a plain and rational account of the catholick faith_, etc. rouen, , p. . [ ] dodd, _church history of england_, brussels, , i. . [ ] _constitutional history_, i. , note, seventh edition. in the same note the historian, discussing the case of father garnet, speaks of "the damning circumstance that he was taken at hendlip in concealment along with the other conspirators." he who wrote thus can have had but a slight acquaintance with the details of the history. none of the conspirators, except robert winter, who was captured at hagley hall, were taken in concealment, and none at hendlip, where there is no reason to suppose they ever were. father garnet was discovered there, nearly three months later, in company with another jesuit, father oldcorne, on the very day when the conspirators were executed in london, and it was never alleged that he had ever, upon any occasion, been seen in company with "the other conspirators." [ ] _history_, i. , note. chapter ii. the persons concerned. at the period with which we have to deal the chief minister of james i. was robert cecil, earl of salisbury,[ ] the political heir of his father, william cecil, lord burghley,[ ] and of walsingham, his predecessor in the office of secretary. it is clear that he had inherited from them ideas of statesmanship of the order then in vogue, and from nature, the kind of ability required to put these successfully in practice. sir robert naunton thus describes him:[ ] "this great minister of state, and the staff of the queen's declining age, though his little crooked person[ ] could not provide any great supportation, yet it carried thereon a head and a headpiece of vast content, and therein, it seems, nature was so diligent to complete one, and the best, part about him, as that to the perfection of his memory and intellectuals, she took care also of his senses, and to put him in _lynceos oculos_, or to pleasure him the more, borrowed of argus, so to give him a perfective sight. and for the rest of his sensitive virtues, his predecessor had left him a receipt, to smell out what was done in the conclave; and his good old father was so well seen in the mathematicks, as that he could tell you throughout spain, every part, every ship, with their burthens, whither bound, what preparation, what impediments for diversion of enterprises, counsels, and resolutions." the writer then proceeds to give a striking instance to show "how docible was this little man." of his character, as estimated by competent judges, his contemporaries, we have very different accounts. mr. gardiner, who may fairly be chosen to represent his apologists, speaks thus:[ ] "although there are circumstances in his life which tell against him, it is difficult to read the whole of the letters and documents which have come down to us from his pen, without becoming gradually convinced of his honesty of intention. it cannot be denied that he was satisfied with the ordinary morality of his time, and that he thought it no shame to keep a state secret or to discover a plot by means of a falsehood. if he grasped at power as one who took pleasure in the exercise of it, he used it for what he regarded as the true interests of his king and country. nor are we left to his own acts and words as the only means by which we are enabled to form a judgment of his character. of all the statesmen of the day, not one has left a more blameless character than the earl of dorset. dorset took the opportunity of leaving upon record in his will, which would not be read till he had no longer injury or favour to expect in this world, the very high admiration in which his colleague was held by him." this, it must be allowed, is a somewhat facile species of argument. though wills are not formally opened until after the testators' deaths, it is not impossible for their contents to be previously communicated to others, when there is an object for so doing.[ ] but, however this may be, it can scarcely be said that the weight of evidence tends in this direction. not to mention the fact that, while enjoying the entire confidence of queen elizabeth, cecil was engaged in a secret correspondence with king james, which she would have regarded as treasonable--and which he so carefully concealed that for a century afterwards and more it was not suspected--there remains the other indubitable fact, that while similarly trusted by james, and while all affairs of state were entirely in his hands, he was in receipt of a secret pension from the king of spain,[ ] the very monarch any communication with whom he treated as treason on the part of others.[ ] it is certain that the earl of essex, when on his trial, asserted that cecil had declared the spanish infanta to be the rightful heir to the crown, and though the secretary vehemently denied the imputation, he equally repudiated the notion that he favoured the king of scots.[ ] we know, moreover, that one who as spanish ambassador had dealings with him, pronounced him to be a venal traitor, who was ready to sell his soul for money,[ ] while another intimated[ ] that it was in his power to have charged him with "unwarrantable practices." similarly, we hear from the french minister of the ingrained habit of falsehood which made it impossible for the english secretary to speak the truth even to friends;[ ] and, from the french ambassador, of the resolution imputed to the same statesman, to remove from his path every rival who seemed likely to jeopardize his tenure of power.[ ] what was the opinion of his own countrymen, appeared with startling emphasis when, in , the earl died. on may nd we find the earl of northampton writing to rochester that the "little man" is dead, "for which so many rejoice, and so few even seem to be sorry."[ ] five days later, chamberlain, writing[ ] to his friend dudley carleton, to announce the same event, thus expresses himself: "as the case stands it was best that he gave over the world, for they say his friends fell from him apace, and some near about him, and however he had fared with his health, it is verily thought he would never have been himself again in power and credit. i never knew so great a man so soon and so openly censured, for men's tongues walk very liberally and freely, but how truly i cannot judge." on june th he again reports: "the outrageous speeches against the deceased lord continue still, and there be fresh libels come out every day, and i doubt his actions will be hardly censured in the next parliament, if the king be not the more gracious to repress them." moreover, his funeral was attended by few or none of the gentry, and those only were present whose official position compelled them. his own opinion chamberlain expresses in two epigrams and an anagram, which, although of small literary merit, contrive clearly to express the most undisguised animosity and contempt for the late minister.[ ] there is abundant proof that such sentiments were not first entertained when he had passed away, though, naturally, they were less openly expressed when he was alive and practically all powerful. cecil seems, in fact, to have been throughout his career a lonely man, with no real friends and many enemies, desperately fighting for his own hand, and for the retention of that power which he prized above all else, aspiring, as a contemporary satirist puts it, to be "both shepherd and dog."[ ] since the accession of james he had felt his tenure of office to be insecure. goodman tells us[ ] that "it is certain the king did not love him;" osborne,[ ] "that he had forfeited the love of the people by the hate he expressed to their darling essex, and the desire he had to render justice and prerogative arbitrary."[ ] sir anthony weldon speaks of him[ ] as "sir robert cecil, a very wise man, but much hated in england by reason of the fresh bleeding of that universally beloved earl of essex, and for that clouded also in the king's favour." de la boderie, the french ambassador, tells us[ ] that the nobility were exceedingly jealous of his dignity and power, and[ ] that he in his turn was jealous of the growing influence of prince henry, the heir apparent, who made no secret of his dislike of him. meanwhile there were rivals who, it seemed not improbable, might supplant him. one of these, sir walter raleigh, had already been rendered harmless on account of his connection with the "main," the mysterious conspiracy which inaugurated the reign of james. there remained the earl of northumberland, and it may be remarked in passing that one of the effects of the gunpowder plot was to dispose of him likewise.[ ] even the apologists of the minister do not attempt to deny either the fact that he was accustomed to work by stratagems and disguises, nor the obloquy that followed on his death;[ ] while by friends and foes alike he was compared to ulysses of many wiles.[ ] but amongst those whom he had to dread, there can be no doubt that the members of the catholic party appeared to the secretary the most formidable. it was known on all hands, nor did he attempt to disguise the fact, that he was the irreconcilable opponent of any remission of the penal laws enacted for the purpose of stamping out the old faith.[ ] the work, however, had as yet been very incompletely done. at the beginning of the reign of king james, the catholics formed at least a half, probably a majority,[ ] of the english people. there were amongst them many noblemen, fitted to hold offices of state. moreover, the king, who before his accession had unquestionably assured the catholics at least of toleration,[ ] showed at his first coming a manifest disposition to relieve them from the grievous persecution under which they had groaned so long.[ ] he remitted a large part of the fines which had so grievously pressed upon all recusants, declaring that he would not make merchandise of conscience, nor set a price upon faith;[ ] he invited to his presence leading catholics from various parts of the country, assuring them, and bidding them assure their co-religionists, of his gracious intentions in their regard;[ ] titles of honour and lucrative employments were bestowed on some of their number;[ ] one professed catholic, henry howard, presently created earl of northampton, being enrolled in the privy council; and in the first speech which he addressed to his parliament james declared that, as to the papists, he had no desire to persecute them, especially those of the laity who would be quiet.[ ] the immediate effect of this milder policy was to afford evidence of the real strength of the catholics, many now openly declaring themselves who had previously conformed to the state church. in the diocese of chester alone the number of catholics was increased by a thousand.[ ] it is scarcely to be wondered at that men who were familiar with the political methods of the age should see in all this a motive sufficient to explain a great stroke for the destruction of those who appeared to be so formidable, devised by such a minister as was then in power, "the statesman," writes lord castlemaine,[ ] "who bore (as everybody knew) a particular hatred to all of our profession, and this increased to hear his majesty speak a little in his first speech to the two houses against persecution of papists, whereas there had been nothing within those walls but invectives and defamations for above forty years together." this much is certain, that, whatever its origin, the gunpowder plot immensely increased cecil's influence and power, and, for a time, even his popularity, assuring the success of that anti-catholic policy with which he was identified.[ ] of no less importance is it to understand the position of the catholic body, and the character of the particular catholics who engaged in this enterprise. we have seen with what hopes the advent of king james had been hailed by those who had suffered so much for his mother's sake, and who interpreted in a too sanguine and trustful spirit his own words and deeds. their dream of enjoying even toleration at his hands was soon rudely dispelled. after giving them the briefest of respites, the monarch, under the influence, as all believed, of his council, and especially of his chief minister,[ ] suddenly reversed his line of action and persecuted his catholic subjects more cruelly than had his predecessor, calling up the arrears of fines which they fancied had been altogether remitted, ruining many in the process who had hitherto contrived to pay their way,[ ] and adding to the sense of injury which such a course necessarily provoked by farming out wealthy recusants to needy courtiers, "to make their profit of," in particular to the scots who had followed their royal master across the border. soon it was announced that the king would have blood; all priests were ordered to leave the realm under pain of death, and the searches for them became more frequent and violent than ever. in no long time, as goodman tells us,[ ] "a gentlewoman was hanged only for relieving and harbouring a priest; a citizen was hanged only for being reconciled to the church of rome; besides the penal laws were such and so executed that they could not subsist." father gerard says:[ ] "this being known to catholics, it is easy to be seen how first their hopes were turned into fears, and then their fears into full knowledge that all the contrary to that they had hoped was intended and prepared for them", and, as one of the victims of these proceedings wrote, "the times of elizabeth, although most cruel, were the mildest and happiest in comparison with those of king james."[ ] in such circumstances, the catholic body being so numerous as it was, it is not to be wondered at that individuals should be found, who, smarting under their injuries, and indignant at the bad faith of which they considered themselves the dupes, looked to violent remedies for relief, and might without difficulty be worked upon to that effect. their case seemed far more hopeless than ever. queen elizabeth's quarrel with rome had been in a great degree personal; and moreover, as she had no direct heir, it was confidently anticipated that the demise of the crown would introduce a new era. king james's proceedings, on the other hand, seemed to indicate a deliberate policy which there was no prospect of reversing, especially as his eldest son, should he prove true to his promise, might be expected to do that zealously, and of himself, which his father was held to do under the constraint of others.[ ] as sir everard digby warned cecil, in the remarkable letter which he addressed to him on the subject:[ ] "if your lordship and the state think fit to deal severely with the catholics, within brief space there will be massacres, rebellions, and desperate attempts against the king and the state. for it is a general received reason among catholics, that there is not that expecting and suffering course now to be run that was in the queen's time, who was the last of her line, and last in expectance to run violent courses against catholics; for then it was hoped that the king that now is, would have been at least free from persecuting, as his promise was before his coming into this realm, and as divers his promises have been since his coming. all these promises every man sees broken."[ ] it must likewise be remembered that if stratagems and "practices" were the recognized weapons of ministers, turbulence and arms were, at this period, the familiar, and indeed the only, resource of those in opposition, nor did any stigma attach to their employment unless taken up on the losing side. not a little of this kind of thing had been done on behalf of james himself. as is well known, he succeeded to the throne by a title upon which he could not have recovered at law an acre of land.[ ] elizabeth had so absolutely forbidden all discussion of the question of the succession as to leave it in a state of utter confusion.[ ] there were more than a dozen possible competitors, and amongst these the claim of the king of scots was technically not the strongest, for though nearest in blood his claims had been barred by a special act of parliament, excluding the scottish line. as professor thorold rogers says, "for a year after his accession james, if acts of parliament are to go for anything, was not legally king."[ ] nevertheless the cause of james was vigorously taken up in all directions, and promoted by means which might well have been styled treason against the authority of parliament. thus, old sir thomas tresham, father of francis tresham, the gunpowder conspirator, who had been an eminent sufferer for his religion, at considerable personal risk, and against much resistance on the part of the local magistrates and the populace, publicly proclaimed the new king at northampton, while francis tresham himself and his brother lewis, with lord monteagle, their brother-in-law, supported the earl of southampton in holding the tower of london on his behalf.[ ] in london indeed everybody took to arms as soon as the queen's illness had been known; watch and ward were kept in the city; rich men brought their plate and treasure from the country, and placed them where they would be safest,[ ] and the approaches were guarded. cecil himself related in open court, in praise of the londoners, how, when he himself, attended by most of the peers and privy councillors of the kingdom, wished to enter the city to proclaim the new sovereign, they found the gates closed against them till they had publicly declared that they were about to proclaim james and no one else.[ ] in times when statesmen could approve such methods of political action, it was inevitable that violent enterprises should have come to be considered the natural resource of those out of power, and it is very clear that there were numerous individuals, of whom no one party had the monopoly, who were ready at any moment to risk everything for the cause they served, and such men, although their proclivities were well known, did not suffer much in public esteem. the gunpowder conspirators were eminently men of this stamp, and notoriously so. so well was their character known, that when, in , eight years before the commencement of the plot, queen elizabeth had been unwell, the lords of the council, as a precautionary measure arrested some of the principal amongst them, catesby, the two wrights, tresham, and others, as being persons who would certainly give trouble should a chance occur.[ ] since that time they had not improved their record. all those above-named, as well as thomas winter, christopher wright, percy, grant, and perhaps others, had been engaged in the ill-starred rebellion of essex, on which occasion catesby was wounded, and both he and tresham came remarkably near being hanged.[ ] they had likewise been variously implicated in all the seditious attempts which had since been made--catesby and tresham being named by sir edward coke as being engaged with watson in the "bye." thomas winter, christopher wright, and faukes, had, if we may believe the same authority, been sent to spain on treasonable embassies.[ ] grant made himself very conspicuous by frequently resisting the officers of the law when they appeared to search his house.[ ] john wright and percy had, at least till a very recent period, been notorious bravoes, who made a point of picking a quarrel with any man who was reported to be a good swordsman, they being both expert with the weapon.[ ] it is evident that men of this stamp were not unlikely to prove restive under such treatment as was meted out to the catholics, from which moreover, as gentlemen, they themselves suffered in a special degree. lord castlemaine remarks that loose people may usually be drawn into a plot when statesmen lay gins, and that it was no hard thing for a secretary of state, should he desire any such thing, to know of turbulent and ambitious spirits to be his unconscious instruments,[ ] and it is obvious that no great perspicacity would have been required to fix upon those who had given such evidence of their disposition as had these men. it must, at the same time, be confessed that the character of the plotters is one of the most perplexing features of the plot. the crime contemplated was without parallel in its brutal and senseless atrocity. there had, it is true, been powder-plots before, notably that which had effected the destruction of the king's own father, lord darnley, a fact undoubtedly calculated to make much impression upon the timorous mind of james. but what marked off our gunpowder plot from all others, was the wholesale and indiscriminate slaughter in which it must have resulted, and the absence of any possibility that the cause could be benefited which the conspirators had at heart. it was at once reprobated and denounced by the catholics of england, and by the friends and near relatives of the conspirators themselves.[ ] it might be supposed that those who undertook such an enterprise were criminals of the deepest dye, and ruffians of a more than usually repulsive type. in spite, however, of the turbulent element in their character of which we have seen something, such a judgment would, in the opinion of historians, be altogether erroneous. far from their being utterly unredeemed villains, it appears, in fact, that apart from the one monstrous transgression which has made them infamous, they should be distinguished in the annals of crime as the least disreputable gang of conspirators who ever plotted a treason. on this point we have ample evidence from those who are by no means their friends. "atrocious as their whole undertaking was," writes mr. gardiner,[ ] "great as must have been the moral obliquity of their minds before they could have conceived such a project, there was at least nothing mean or selfish about them. they boldly risked their lives for what they honestly believed to be the cause of god and of their country. theirs was a crime which it would never have entered into the heart of any man to commit who was not raised above the low aims of the ordinary criminal." similarly mr. jardine, a still less friendly witness, tells us[ ] that "several at least of the conspirators were men of mild and amiable manners, averse to tumults and bloodshed, and dwelling quietly amidst the humanities of domestic life," a description which he applies especially to rokewood and digby; while of guy faukes himself he says[ ] that, according to the accounts which we hear of him, he is not to be regarded as a mercenary ruffian, ready for hire to do any deed of blood; but as a zealot, misled by misguided fanaticism, who was, however, by no means destitute either of piety or of humanity. moreover, as mr. jardine farther remarks, the conspirators as a body were of the class which we should least expect to find engaged in desperate enterprises, being, as sir e. coke described them, "gentlemen of good houses, of excellent parts, and of very competent fortunes and estates," none of them, except perhaps catesby, being in pecuniary difficulties, while several--notably robert winter, rokewood, digby, tresham, and grant--were men of large possessions. it has also been observed by a recent biographer of sir everard digby,[ ] that, for the furtherance of their projects after the explosion, the confederates were able to provide a sum equal at least to £ , of our money--a sufficient proof of their worldly position. that men of such a class should so lightly and easily have adopted a scheme so desperate and atrocious as that of "murdering a kingdom in its representatives," is undoubtedly not the least incomprehensible feature of this strange story. at the same time it must not be forgotten that there is another, and a very different account of these men, which comes to us on the authority of a catholic priest living in england at the time,[ ] who speaks of the conspirators as follows: "they were a few wicked and desperate wretches, whom many protestants termed papists, although the priests and the true catholics knew them not to be such.... they were never frequenters of catholic sacraments with any priest, as i could ever learn; and, as all the protestant courts will witness, not one of them was a convicted or known catholic or recusant."[ ] similarly cornwallis, writing from madrid,[ ] reported that the king and estate of spain were "much grieved that they being atheists and devils in their inward parts, should paint their outside with catholicism." in view of evidence so contradictory, it is difficult, if not impossible, to form a confident judgment as to the real character of those whose history we are attempting to trace; but, leaving aside what is matter of doubt, the undisputed facts of their previous career appear to show unmistakably that they were just the men who would be ready to look to violence for a remedy of existing evils, and to whom it would not be difficult to suggest its adoption. footnotes: [ ] when james came to the throne cecil was but a knight. he was created baron cecil of essendon, may th, ; viscount cranborne, august th, ; earl of salisbury, may th, . [ ] robert, as the second son, did not succeed to his father's title, which devolved upon thomas, the eldest, who was created earl of exeter on the same day on which robert became earl of salisbury. [ ] _fragmenta regalia_, . ed. . [ ] he was but little above five feet in height, and, in the phrase of the time, a "crouchback." king james, who was not a man of much delicacy in such matters, was fond of giving him nicknames in consequence. cecil wrote to sir thomas lake, october th, : "i see nothing y^t i can doe, can procure me so much favor, as to be sure one whole day what title i shall have another. for from essenden to cranborne, from cranborne to salisbury, from salisbury to beagle, from beagle to thom derry, from thom derry to parret which i hate most, i have been so walked, as i think by y^t i come to theobalds, i shall be called tare or sophie." (r.o. _dom. james i._ xv. .) [ ] _history_, i. . [ ] in the same document james i. is spoken of as "the most judycious, learned, and rareste kinge, that ever this worlde produced." (r.o. _dom. james i._ xxviii. .) [ ] digby to the king, s. p., _spain_, aug. . gardiner, _history_, ii. . [ ] at the trial of essex, cecil exclaimed, "i pray god to consume me where i stand, if i hate not the spaniard as much as any man living." (bruce, _introduction to secret correspondence of sir r. cecil_, xxxiii.) of the spanish pension mr. gardiner, after endeavouring to show that originally cecil's acceptance of it may have been comparatively innocent, thus continues (_history of england_, i. ): "but it is plain that, even if this is the explanation of his original intentions, such a comparatively innocent connection with spain soon extended itself to something worse, and that he consented to furnish the ambassadors, from time to time, with information on the policy and intentions of the english government.... of the persistence with which he exacted payment there can be no doubt whatever. five years later, when the opposition between the two governments became more decided, he asked for an increase of his payments, and demanded that they should be made in large sums as each piece of information was given." at the same time it appears highly probable that he was similarly in the pay of france. _ibid._ [ ] queen elizabeth regarded as treasonable any discussion of the question of the succession. [ ] gardiner, i. . [ ] _chamberlain to carleton_, july th, , r.o. [ ] "tout ce que vous a dit le comte de salisbury touchant le mariage d'espagne est rempli de deguisements et artifices à son accoutumée.... toutefois, je ne veux pas jurer qu'ils négocient plus sincerement et de meilleur foi avec lesdites espagnols qu'avec nous. ils corromproient par trop leur naturel, s'ils le faisoient, pour des gens qui ne leur scauroient guère de gré."--le fèvre de la boderie, _ambassade_, i. . [ ] (of the earl of northumberland.) "on tient le comte de salisbury pour principal auteur de sa persécution, comme celui qui veut ne laisser personne en pied qui puisse lui faire tête." de la boderie. _ibid._ . [ ] r.o. _dom. james i._ lxix. . [ ] _ibid._, may , . bishop goodman, no enemy of cecil, is inclined to believe that at the time of the secretary's death there was a warrant out for his arrest. _court of king james_, i. . [ ] the first of these epigrams, in latin, concludes thus: sero, recurve, moreris sed serio; sero, jaces (bis mortuus) sed serio: sero saluti publicæ, serio tuæ. the second is in english: whiles two rr's, both crouchbacks, stood at the helm, the one spilt the blood royall, the other the realm. a marginal note explains that these were, "richard duke of gloster, and robert earl of salisburie;" the anagram, of which title is "a silie burs." he also styles the late minister a monkey (_cercopithecus_) and hobgoblin (_empusa_). [ ] osborne, _traditional memoirs_, p. (ed. ). [ ] _court of king james_, i. . [ ] _traditional memoirs_, . [ ] this feeling was expressed in lampoons quoted by osborne, e.g.: "here lies hobinall, our pastor while here, that once in a quarter our fleeces did sheare. for oblation to pan his custom was thus, he first gave a trifle, then offer'd up us: and through his false worship such power he did gaine, as kept him o' th' mountain, and us on the plaine." again, he is described as "little bossive robin that was so great, who seemed as sent from ugly fate, to spoyle the prince, and rob the state, owning a mind of dismall endes, as trappes for foes, and tricks for friends." (_ibid._ .) oldmixon (_history of queen elizabeth_, p. ) says of the earl of essex, "'twas not likely that cecil, whose soul was of a narrow size, and had no room for enlarged sentiments of ambition, glory, and public spirit, should cease to undermine a hero, in comparison with whom he was both in body and mind a piece of deformity, if there's nothing beautiful in craft." [ ] _court and character of king james_, § . [ ] _ambassade_, i. . [ ] _ibid._ . [ ] against northumberland nothing was proved (_vide_ de la boderie, _ambassade_, i. ), except that he had admitted thomas percy amongst the royal pensioners without exacting the usual oath. he in vain demanded an open trial, but was prosecuted in the star chamber, and there sentenced to a fine of £ , (equal to at least ten times that sum in our money), and to be imprisoned for life. mr. gardiner considers that, in regard both of raleigh and of northumberland, cecil acted with great moderation. it must, however, be remembered that in his secret correspondence with king james, before the death of the queen, he had strenuously endeavoured to poison the mind of that monarch against these his rivals. thus he wrote, december th, (as usual through lord henry howard): "you must remember that i gave you notice of the diabolical triplicity, that is, cobham, raleigh, and northumberland, that met every day at durham-house, where raleigh lies, in consultation, which awaked all the best wits of the town ... to watch what chickens they could hatch out of these cockatrice eggs that were daily and nightly sitten on." (_secret correspondence of sir robert cecil with james vi., king of scotland_, edinburgh, , p. .) coming after this, the speedy ruin of all these men appears highly suspicious. [ ] sir walter cope in his _apology_ (gutch, _collectanea curiosa_, i. no. ) says: "when living, the world observed with all admiration and applause; no sooner dead, but it seeketh finally to suppress his excellent parts, and load his memory with all imputations of corruption." among such charges are enumerated "his falsehood in friendship.--that he often made his friends fair promises, and underhand laid rubs to hinder their preferment.--the secret passage of things i know not.... great counsellors have their private and their publique ends...." etc. [ ] lord castlemaine after mentioning the chief features of the gunpowder plot, goes on: "but let it not displease you, if we ask whether ulysses be no better known?" (_catholique apology_, p. .) francis herring in his latin poem, _pietas pontificia_ (published ), speaking of monteagle (called "morleius," from his father's title), who took the celebrated letter to cecil, writes thus: "morleius regis de consultoribus unum, (quem norat veteri nil quicquam cedere ulyssi, juditio pollentem acri, ingenioque sagaci) seligit, atque illi rem totam ex ordine pandit." [ ] this is so evident that it appears unnecessary to occupy space with proofs in detail. de la boderie remarks (_ambassade_, i. ) on the extraordinary rancour of the minister against catholics, and especially against jesuits, and that "he wishes to destroy them everywhere." of this a remarkable confirmation is afforded by the instructions given to sir thomas parry when he was sent as ambassador, "leiger," to paris, in , at the head of which stood these extraordinary articles: . "to intimate to the french king the jealousy conceived in england upon the revocation of the jesuits, against former edicts. . "to inform the french king that the english were disgusted at the maintenance allowed to the french king's prelates and clergy, to priests and jesuits that passed out of his dominions into england, scotland, and ireland, to do bad offices." (p.r.o. _france_, bundle , f. .) [ ] jardine, _gunpowder plot_, p. . strype says of the time of elizabeth: "the faction of the catholics in england is great, and able, if the kingdom were divided into three parts, to make two of them." (_annals_, iii. , quoted by butler, _historical memoirs_, ii. .) at the execution of father oldcorne, , a proof was given of their numbers which is said to have alarmed the king greatly. the father having from the scaffold invited all catholics to pray with him, almost all present uncovered. [ ] of this there can be no doubt, in spite of james's subsequent denial. father garnet wrote to parsons (april th, ): "there hath happened a great alteration by the death of the queen. great fears were, but all are turned into greatest security, and a golden time we have of unexpected freedom abroade.... the catholicks have great cause to hope for great respect, in that the nobility all almost labour for it, and have good promise thereof from his majesty." (stonyhurst mss. _anglia_, iii. .) goodman says: "and certainly they [the catholics] had very great promises from him." (_court of king james_, i. .) [ ] "the penal laws, a code as savage as any that can be conceived since the foundation of the world."--lord chief justice coleridge. (_to lord mayor knill_, nov. , .) [ ] gardiner, i. . [ ] jardine, _gunpowder plot_, . [ ] _ibid._ . [ ] gardiner, i. . [ ] green, _history of the english people_, iii. . mr. green adds: "rumours of catholic conversions spread a panic which showed itself in an act of the parliament of confirming the statutes of elizabeth; and to this james gave his assent. he promised, indeed, that the statute should remain inoperative." in may, , the catholics boasted that they had been joined by , converts. (gardiner, _hist_. i. .) [ ] _catholique apology_, . [ ] salisbury, in reward of his services on this occasion, received the garter, may th, , and was honoured on the occasion with an almost regal triumph. of the proceedings subsequent to the plot we are told: "in passing these laws for the security of the protestant religion, the earl of salisbury exerted himself with distinguished zeal and vigour, which gained him great love and honour from the kingdom, as appeared in some measure, in the universal attendance on him at his installation with the order of the garter, on the th of may, , at windsor." (birch, _historical view_, p. .) [ ] this belief is so notorious that one instance must suffice as evidence for it. a paper of informations addressed to cecil himself, april, , declares that the catholics hoped to see a good day yet, and that "his majesty would suffer a kinde of tolleracyon, for his inclynacyon is good, howsoever the councell set out his speeches." (s.p.o. _dom. james i._ vii. .) [ ] mr. gardiner (_hist._ i. , note) says that arrears were never demanded in the case of the fine of £ per lunar month for non-attendance at the parish church. father gerard, however, a contemporary witness, distinctly states that they were. (_narrative of the gunpowder plot_, ed. morris, p. .) [ ] _court of king james_, i. . [ ] _narrative_, p. . [ ] stonyhurst mss., _anglia_, iii. . [ ] of the prince of wales it was prophesied: "the eighth henry did pull down monks and their cells, the ninth will pull down bishops and their bells." [ ] concerning this letter see appendix b, _digby's letter to salisbury_. [ ] r.o. _dom. james i._ xvii. . [ ] hallam, _constitutional hist._ i. ( rd ed.). [ ] see appendix c, _the question of succession_. [ ] _agriculture and prices_, v. . [ ] jardine, _gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] gardiner, _hist._ i. . [ ] trial of father garnet (cobbett's _state trials_, ii. ). [ ] camden, the historian, to sir r. cotton, march th, . (birch, _original letters_, nd series, iii. p. .) various writers erroneously suppose this transaction to have occurred in march, , on occasion of elizabeth's last illness. the correct date, , given by sir henry ellis, is supplied by a statement contained in the letter, that this was her majesty's "climacterick year," that is, her sixty-third, this number, as the multiple of the potent factors seven and nine, being held of prime importance in human life. elizabeth was born in . from garnet's examination of march th, - (_dom. james i._ xix. ), we learn that catesby was at large at the time of the queen's demise. for cecil's description of the men, see winwood's _memorials_, ii. . [ ] catesby purchased his life for a fine of , marks, and tresham of , . mr. jessopp says that the former sum is equivalent at least to £ , at the present day. (_dict. nat. biog., catesby_.) [ ] but see appendix d, _the spanish treason_. [ ] father gerard says of him that "he paid them [the pursuivants] so well for their labour not with crowns of gold, but with cracked crowns sometimes, and with dry blows instead of drink and other good cheer, that they durst not visit him any more unless they brought store of help with them." (_narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. .) [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] _catholique apology_, p. . [ ] _e.g._, by mr. talbot of grafton, father-in-law of robert winter, who drove their envoys away with threats and reproaches (jardine, _gunpowder plot_, p. ), and by sir robert digby, of coleshill, cousin to sir everard, who assisted in taking prisoners. (r.o. _gunpowder plot book_, .) [ ] _history_, i. . [ ] _gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] _life of a conspirator, by one of his descendants_, p. . [ ] _english protestants' plea and petition for english priests and papists._ the author of this book (published ) describes himself as a priest who has been for many years on the english mission. his title indicates that he draws his arguments from protestant sources. [ ] p. . [ ] november th, , _stowe mss._ , . chapter iii. the opinion of contemporaries and historians. we have now for so long a period been accustomed to accept the official story regarding the gunpowder plot, that most readers will be surprised to hear that at the time of its occurrence, and for more than a century afterwards, there were, to say the least, many intelligent men who took for granted that in some way or other the actual conspirators were but the dupes and instruments of more crafty men than themselves, and in their mad enterprise unwittingly played the game of ministers of state. from the beginning the government itself anticipated this, as is evidenced by the careful and elaborate account of the whole affair drawn up on the th of november, --two days after the "discovery"--seemingly for the benefit of the privy council.[ ] this important document, which is in the handwriting of levinus munck, cecil's secretary, with numerous and significant emendations from the hand of cecil himself, speaks, amongst other things, of the need of circumspection, "considering how apt the world is nowadays to think all providence and intelligences to be but practices." the result did not falsify the expectation. within five weeks we find a letter written from london to a correspondent abroad,[ ] wherein it is said: "those that have practical experience of the way in which things are done, hold it as certain that there has been foul play, and that some of the council secretly spun the web to entangle these poor gentlemen, as did secretary walsingham in other cases," and it is clear that the writer has but recorded an opinion widely prevalent. to this the government again bear witness, for they found it advisable to issue an official version of the history, in the _true and perfect relation_, and the _discourse of the manner of the discovery of the gunpowder plot_, the appearance of which was justified expressly on the ground that "there do pass from hand to hand divers uncertain, untrue, and incoherent reports and relations," and that it is very important "for men to understand the birth and growth of the said abominable and detestable conspiracy." the accounts published with this object are, by the common consent of historians, flagrantly untruthful and untrustworthy.[ ] we likewise find secretary cecil writing to instruct sir e. coke, the attorney-general, as to his conduct of the case against the conspirators, in view of the "lewd" reports current in regard of the manner in which it had been discovered.[ ] the same minister, in the curious political manifesto which he issued in connection with the affair,[ ] again bears witness to the same effect, when he declares that the papists, after the manner of nero, were throwing the blame of their crime upon others. clearly, however, it was not to the papists alone that such an explanation commended itself. the puritan osborne[ ] speaks of the manner in which the "discovery" was managed as "a neat device of the treasurer's, he being very plentiful in such plots." goodman, anglican bishop of gloucester, another contemporary, is even more explicit. after describing the indignation of the catholics when they found themselves deceived in their hopes at the hands of james, he goes on: "the great statesman had intelligence of all this, and because he would show his service to the state, he would first contrive and then discover a treason, and the more odious and hateful the treason were, his service would be the greater and the more acceptable."[ ] another notable witness is quoted by the jesuit father martin grene, in a letter to his brother christopher, january st, - :[ ] "i have heard strange things, which, if ever i can make out, will be very pertinent: for certain, the late bishop of armagh, usher, was divers times heard to say, that if papists knew what he knew, the blame of the gunpowder treason would not lie on them." in like manner we find it frequently asserted on the authority of lord cobham and others,[ ] that king james himself, when he had time to realize the truth of the matter, was in the habit of speaking of the fifth of november as "cecil's holiday." such a belief must have been widely entertained, otherwise it could not have been handed on, as it was, for generations. it is not too much to say that historians for almost a century and a half, if they did not themselves favour the theory of the government's complicity, at least bore witness how widely that idea prevailed. thus, to confine ourselves at present to protestant writers, sanderson,[ ] acknowledging that the secretary was accused of having manipulated the transaction, says no word to indicate that he repudiates such a charge. welwood[ ] is of opinion that cecil was aware of the plot long before the "discovery," and that the famous letter to monteagle was "a contrivance of his own." oldmixon writes[ ] "notwithstanding the general joy, ... there were some who insinuated that the plot was of the king's own making, or that he was privy to it from first to last." carte[ ] does not believe that james knew anything of it, but considers it "not improbable" that cecil was better informed. burnet[ ] complains of the impudence of the papists of his day, who denied the conspiracy, and pretended it was an artifice of the minister's "to engage some desperate men into a plot, which he managed so that he could discover it when he pleased." fuller[ ] bears witness to the general belief, but considers it inconsistent with the well-known piety of king james. bishop kennet, in his fifth of november sermon at st. paul's, in , talks in a similar strain. so extreme, indeed, does the incredulity and uncertainty appear to have been, that the puritan prynne[ ] is inclined to suspect bancroft, the archbishop of canterbury, of having been engaged in the conspiracy; while one of the furious zealots who followed the lead of titus oates, mournfully testified that there were those in his day who looked upon the powder treason "as upon a romantic story, or a politic invention, or a state trick," giving no more credence to it than to the histories of the "grand cyrus, or guy of warwick, or amadis de gaul,"--or, as we should now say, jack the giant killer. the general scope and drift of such suspicions are well indicated by bevil higgons, "this impious design," he writes[ ] of the plot, "gave the greatest blow to the catholic interest in england, by rendering that religion so odious to the people. the common opinion concerning the discovery of the plot, by a letter to the lord mounteagle, has not been universally allowed to be the real truth of the matter, for some have affirmed that this design was first hammered in the forge of cecil, who intended to have produced this plot in the time of queen elizabeth, but prevented by her death he resumed his project in this reign, with a design to have so enraged the nation as to have expelled all roman catholics, and confiscated their estates. to this end, by his secret emissaries, he enticed some hot-headed men of that persuasion, who, ignorant whence the design first came, heartily engaged in this execrable powder treason.... though this account should not be true," he continues, "it is certain that the court of england had notice of this plot from france and italy long before the pretended discovery; upon which cecil ... framed that letter to the lord mounteagle, with a design to make the discovery seem the more miraculous, and at the same time magnify the judgment of the king, who by his deep penetration was to have the honour of unravelling so ambiguous and dark a riddle." it may be added that amongst modern historians who have given special attention to this period, several, though repudiating the notion that cecil originated the plot, are strongly of opinion that as to the important episode of the "discovery," the traditional story is a fabrication. thus, mr. brewer[ ] declares it to be quite certain that cecil had previous knowledge of the design, and that the "discovery" was a fraud. lodge[ ] is of the same opinion, and so is the author of the _annals of england_.[ ] jardine[ ] inclines to the belief that the government contrived the letter to monteagle in order to conceal the means by which their information had in reality been obtained. mr. gardiner, though dismissing the idea as "absurd," acknowledges that his contemporaries accused cecil of inventing the whole plot.[ ] so much for the testimony of protestants. as for those who had to suffer in consequence of the affair, there is no need to multiply testimonies. lord castlemaine tells us[ ] that "the catholics of england, who knew cecil's ways of acting and their own innocence, suspected him from the beginning, as hundreds still alive can testify." father henry more, s.j., a contemporary, speaks to the same effect.[ ] father john gerard, who was not only a contemporary, but one of those accused of complicity, intimates[ ] his utter disbelief of the official narrative concerning the discovery, and his conviction that those who had the scanning of the redoubtable letter were "well able in shorter time and with fewer doubts to decipher a darker riddle and find out a greater secret than that matter was." one floyde, a spy, testified in [ ] to having frequently heard various jesuits say, that the government were aware of the plot several months before they thought fit to "discover" it. the catholic view is expressed with much point and force by an anonymous writer of the eighteenth century:[ ] "i shall touch briefly upon a few particulars relating to this plot, for the happy discovery whereof an anniversary holiday has now been kept for above a hundred years. is it out of pure gratitude to god the nation is so particularly devout on this occasion? if so, it is highly commendable: for we ought to thank god for all things, and therefore i cannot deny but there is all the reason in the world to give him solemn thanks, for that the king and parliament never were in any danger of being hurt by the powder plot.... i am far from denying the gunpowder plot. nay, i believe as firmly that catesby, with twelve more popish associates, had a design to blow up k. james, as i believe that the father of that same king was effectually blown up by the earls of murray, morton, bothwell, and others of the reformed church of scotland. however ... i humbly conceive i may say the king and parliament were in no danger of being hurt by it, and my reason is because they had not less a man than the prime minister of state for their tutelar angel; a person deeply read in politics; who had inherited the double spirit of his predecessor walsingham, knew all his tricks of legerdemain, and could as seasonably discover plots as contrive them.... this much at least is certain, that the letter written to my lord mounteagle, by which the plot was discovered, had not a fool, but a very wise sophister for its author: for it was so craftily worded, that though it was mysterious enough on the one hand to prevent a full evidence that it was written on purpose to discover the plot, yet it was clear enough on the other to be understood with the help of a little consideration, as the event soon showed. indeed, when it was brought to secretary cecil, he, poor gentleman, had not penetration enough to understand the meaning of it, and said it was certainly written by a madman. but there, i fear, he wronged himself. for the secretary was no madman. on the contrary, he had too much wit to explain it himself, and was too refined a politician to let slip so favourable an occasion of making his court to the king, who was to have the compliment made him of being the only solomon wise enough to unfold this dark mystery. which while his majesty was doing with a great deal of ease, the secretary was all the while at his elbow admiring and applauding his wonderful sagacity.... so that, in all probability, the same man was the chief underhand contriver and discoverer of the plot; and the greatest part of the bubbles concerned in it were trapanned into it by one who took sure care that none but themselves should be hurt by it.... but be that as it will, there is no doubt but that they who suffer themselves to be drawn into a plot like fools, deserve to be hanged for it like knaves." the opinion of dodd, the historian, has already been indicated, which in another place he thus emphasizes and explains:[ ] "some persons in chief power suspecting the king would be very indulgent to catholics, several stratagems were made use of to exasperate him against them, and cherishing the gunpowder plot is thought to be a masterpiece in this way."[ ] it would not be difficult to continue similar citations, but enough has now been said to show that it is nothing new to charge the chief minister of james i. with having fostered the conspiracy for his own purposes, or even to have actually set it a-going. it appears perfectly clear that from the first there were not a few, and those not catholics only, who entertained such a belief, and that the facts of the case are inadequately represented by historians, who imply, like mr. jardine, that such a theory was first broached long afterwards, and adopted by catholics alone.[ ] it is moreover apparent that if in recent times historians have forgotten that such a view was ever held, or consider it too preposterous for serious discussion, this is not because fuller knowledge of the details of the conspiracy have discredited it. the official version of the story has remained in possession of the field, and it has gradually been assumed that this must substantially be true. in consequence, as it seems, writers of history, approaching the subject with this conviction, have failed to remark many points suggested even by the documentary evidence at our disposal, and still more emphatically by the recorded facts, which cannot but throw grave doubt upon almost every particular of the traditional account, while making it impossible to believe that, as to what is most essential, the plot was in reality what has for so long been supposed. that long before the "discovery" the plot must have been, and in fact was, known to the government; that this knowledge was artfully dissimulated, in order to make political capital out of it; that for the same purpose the sensational circumstances of its discovery were deliberately arranged; and that there are grave reasons for suspecting the beginnings of the desperate enterprise, as well as its catastrophe, to have been dexterously manipulated for state purposes;--such are the conclusions, the evidence for which will now be considered. footnotes: [ ] _gunpowder plot book_, . printed in _archæologia_, xii. *. [ ] r.o. _roman transcripts_ (bliss), no. , december th, (italian). [ ] mr. jardine writes (_criminal trials_, ii. p. ), "_the true and perfect relation_ ... is certainly not deserving of the character which its title imports. it is not _true_, because many occurrences on the trial are wilfully misrepresented; and it is not _perfect_, because the whole evidence, and many facts and circumstances which must have happened, are omitted, and incidents are inserted which could not by possibility have taken place on the occasion. it is obviously a false and imperfect relation of the proceedings; a tale artfully garbled and misrepresented, like many others of the same age, to serve a state purpose, and intended and calculated to mislead the judgment of the world upon the facts of the case." of the _discourse_ he speaks in similar terms. (_ibid._, p. .) [ ] r.o. _dom. james i._ xix. . printed by jardine, _criminal trials_, ii. (note). [ ] _answere to certaine scandalous papers, scattered abroad under colour of a catholic admonition._ (published in january, - .) [ ] _traditional memoirs_, . of this writer lord castlemaine says, "he was born before this plot, and was also an inquisitive man, a frequenter of company, of a noted wit, of an excellent family, and as protestant a one as any in the whole nation." [ ] _court of king james_ ( ), i. . [ ] stonyhurst mss., _anglia_, v. . [ ] _e.g._, in the _advocate of conscience liberty_ ( ), p. . [ ] _history of mary queen of scots and james i._, p. . bishop kennet, in his fifth of november sermon, , boldly declares that sanderson speaks not of cecil the statesman, but of cecil "a busy romish priest" (and, he might have added, a paid government spy). the assertion is utterly and obviously false. [ ] _memoirs_, p. . [ ] _history of england, royal house of stuart_, p. . [ ] _general history of england_, iii. . [ ] _history of his own times_, i. . [ ] _church history_, book x. § . [ ] _antipathie of the english lordly prelacie, to the regall monarchie and civill unity_, p. . [ ] _a short view of the english history_, p. . [ ] note to _fuller's church history_, x. § , and to the _student's hume_. [ ] _illustrations_, iii. . [ ] parker and co. this author says of cecil and his rival raleigh, "both were unprincipled men, but cecil was probably the worst. he is suspected not only of having contrived the strange plot in which raleigh was involved, but of being privy to the proceedings of catesby and his associates, though he suffered them to remain unmolested, in order to secure the forfeiture of their estates" (p. ). [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. . [ ] _history of england_, i. , note. [ ] _catholique apology_, p. . [ ] _hist. prov. angl. s.j._, p. . [ ] _condition of catholics under james i._, p. . [ ] r.o. _dom. james i._, lxxxi. , august th, . [ ] _a plain and rational account of the catholick faith_, rouen, , p. . [ ] _certamen utriusque ecclesiæ_, james i. [ ] the author of the _english protestants' plea_ ( ) says: "old stratagems and tragedies of queene elizabeth's time must needs be renewed and playde againe, to bring not only the catholikes of england, but their holy religion into obloquy" (p. ). peter talbot, bishop of dublin, in the _polititian's catechisme_ ( ) writes: "that cecil was the contriver, or at least the fomenter of [the plot,] was testified by one of his own domestick gentlemen, who advertised a certain catholike, by name master buck, two months before, of a wicked designe his master had against catholikes" (p. ). [ ] a writer, signing himself "architect," in an article describing the old palace of westminster (_gentleman's magazine_, july, , p. ), having occasion to mention the gunpowder plot, observes: "this plot is now pretty well understood not to have been hatched by the papists, but by an inveterate foe of the catholicks of that day, the famous minister of james.... all well-informed persons at present laugh at the whole of this business." chapter iv. the traditional story. the history of the gunpowder plot prior to its discovery, as related with much circumstantiality by the government of the day, has, in all essential particulars, been accepted without demur by the great majority of modern writers. we have already seen that those who lived nearer to the period in question were less easily convinced; it remains to show that the internal evidence of the story itself is incompatible with its truthfulness. the point upon which everything turns is the secret, and therefore dangerous, character of the conspiracy, which, as we are told, completely eluded the vigilance of the authorities, and was on the very verge of success before even a breath of suspicion was aroused, being balked only by a lucky accident occurring at the eleventh hour, in a manner fitly described as miraculous. on the other hand, however, many plain and obvious considerations combine to show that such an account cannot be true. it is not easy to believe that much which is said to have been done by the conspirators ever occurred at all. it is clear that, if such things did occur, they can by no possibility have escaped observation. there is evidence that the government knew of the plot long before they suddenly "discovered" it. finally, the story of the said "discovery," and the manner in which it took place, is plainly not only untrue, but devised to conceal the truth; while the elaborate care expended upon it sufficiently indicates how important it was held that the truth should be concealed. there are, moreover, arguments, which appear to deserve consideration, suggesting the conclusion that the plot was actually set on foot by the secret instigation of those who designed to make it serve their ends, as in fact it did. for our purpose, however, it is not necessary to insist greatly upon these. it will be enough to show that, whatever its origin, the conspiracy was, and must have been, known to those in power, who, playing with their infatuated dupes, allowed them to go on with their mad scheme, till the moment came to strike with full effect; thus impressing the nation with a profound sense of its marvellous deliverance, and winning its confidence for those to whose vigilance and sagacity alone that deliverance appeared due. that we may rightly follow the details of the story told to us, we must in the first place understand the topography of the scene of operations, which, with the aid of the illustrations given, will not be difficult. [illustration: houses of parliament in the time of james i.] [illustration: index. parliament houses in the time of james i. a. the house of lords. b. chamber under the house of lords, called "guy faukes' cellar." c. the prince's chamber. d. the painted chamber. e. the "white hall" or court of requests. f. the house of commons (formerly st. stephen's chapel). g. westminster hall. h. st. stephen's cloisters, converted into houses for the tellers of the exchequer. i. garden of the old palace (afterwards called "cotton garden"). j. house built on the site of the chapel of "our lady of the pew" (called later "cotton house"). k k k. houses built upon ruins of the walls of the old palace. l. vault under the painted chamber. m. yard or court into which a doorway opened from guy faukes' cellar. n. passage leading from the same yard or court into parliament place. o. parliament place. p. parliament stairs (formerly called "the queen's bridge"). q q. the river thames. r. old palace yard. s. westminster abbey. t. st. margaret's church. u v w. buildings of the old palace, called "heaven" (or "paradise"), "hell," and "purgatory." x. new palace yard. y. bell tower of st. stephen's. z. the speaker's garden.] the old house of lords[ ] was a chamber occupying the first floor of a building which stood about fifty yards from the left bank of the thames, to which it was parallel, the stream at this point running almost due north. beneath the peers' chamber, on the ground floor, was a large room, which plays an important part in our history. this had originally served as the palace kitchen,[ ] and though commonly described as a "cellar" or a "vault" was in reality neither, for it stood on the level of the ground outside, and had a flat ceiling, formed by the beams which supported the flooring of the lords' apartment above.[ ] it ran beneath the said peers' chamber from end to end, and measured feet in length, by feet inches in width. at either end, the building abutted upon another running transversely to it; that on the north being the "painted chamber," probably erected by edward the confessor, and that on the south the "prince's chamber," assigned by its architectural features to the reign of henry iii. the former served as a place of conference for lords and commons,[ ] the latter as the robing-room of the lords. the royal throne stood at the south end of the house, near the prince's chamber. [illustration: ground plan of the scene of action.] originally the parliament chamber and the "cellar" beneath it were lighted by large windows on both sides; subsequently, houses raised against it blocked these up, and the lords were supplied with light by dormers constructed in the roof. the walls of their apartment were then hung with tapestry, representing the defeat of the spanish armada. although precise information on the point is not easy to obtain, it would appear that this did not occur till a period later than that with which we are concerned.[ ] such was the position to be attacked. as a first step, the conspirators resolved to hire a house in the immediate neighbourhood, to serve them as a base of operations. thomas percy was selected to appear as the principal in this part of the business, for, being one of the king's pensioners, he had frequently to be in attendance at court, and might naturally wish to have a lodging close at hand. the house chosen was one, or rather a part of one,[ ] standing near the prince's chamber, and on the side towards the river.[ ] in treating for the lease of this tenement percy seems to have conducted himself in a manner altogether different from what we might have expected of one whose object required him, above all, to avoid attracting notice. he appears, in fact, to have made the greatest possible ado about the business. the apartments were already let to one ferrers, who was unwilling to give them up, and percy eventually succeeded in his purpose, after not only "long suit by himself," but also "great intreaty of mr. carleton, mr. epsley, and other gentlemen belonging to the earl of northumberland."[ ] these gentlemen were never said to have been privy to the conspiracy, and one of them, the well-known dudley carleton, afterwards viscount dorchester, was not only at this time secretary to sir thomas parry, the ambassador in france, but was "patronised" by cecil himself.[ ] [illustration: the old house of lords, from the east or river side, showing the garden.] neither does the house appear to have been well suited to serve the purposes for which it was taken. speed tells us,[ ] and he is confirmed by bishop barlow of lincoln,[ ] that it was let out to tenants only when parliament was not assembled, and during a session formed part of the premises at the disposal of the lords, whom it served as a withdrawing room. as the plot was, of necessity, to take effect during a session,[ ] when the place would thus be in other hands, it is very hard to understand how it was intended that the final and all important operation should be conducted. the bargain for the house was concluded may th, ,[ ] but the proposed operations were delayed till a much later date, by a circumstance which clearly shows the public nature of the premises, and that the lease obtained conferred no exclusive right of occupation. the question of a union with scotland, for which king james was very anxious, was at the time being agitated, and commissioners having been appointed to discuss it, this very house was placed at their disposal for their meetings. consequently the summer and autumn passed without any farther steps being taken by the conspirators. at last, in december, they were free to take in hand the extraordinary scheme they had matured. this was, starting from a cellar of percy's house,[ ] to dig thence an underground mine to the foundations of the parliament house, and through them; and then to construct within, beneath the peers' chamber itself, a "concavity" large enough to contain the amount of powder requisite for their purpose. on december th, , they commenced operations,[ ] and in a fortnight, that is by christmas, they had tunnelled from their starting-point to the wall they had to breach; and that this first operation was of no small magnitude, especially for men who had never before handled pick or shovel,[ ] is shown by the fact that what they contrived to do in so short a time was quoted as evidence of the extraordinary zeal they displayed in their nefarious enterprise.[ ] having rested a little, for the christmas holidays, they began upon the wall, which presented an unexpected obstacle. they found that it was not only "very hard to beat through," but, moreover, nine feet thick, though since, as we shall see, they never penetrated to the other side, it is not clear how they were able to measure it.[ ] up to this point but five persons had engaged in the work, catesby, percy, thomas winter, john wright, and faukes. in consequence however of the difficulties now experienced, keyes was called in to their aid. he had already been initiated in the plot, and appointed to take charge of the powder, which was being accumulated and stored in a house hired for the purpose across the thames, at lambeth. it was therefore necessary to bring over the powder with him, which amounted at this time to twenty barrels, and was placed either in percy's lodging itself, or in an outhouse belonging to it. about the same time christopher wright was also initiated and took his share of the labour.[ ] the gang thus composed laboured upon the wall from the beginning of january, - , to the middle of march,[ ] by which time they had succeeded in getting only half way through. while the others worked, faukes stood on sentry to warn them of any danger. meanwhile, it must be asked how proceedings so remarkable could have escaped the notice, not only of the government, but of the entire neighbourhood. this, it must be remembered, was most populous. there were people living in the very building, a part of which sheltered the conspirators. around, were thickly clustered the dwellings of the keeper of the wardrobe, auditors and tellers of the exchequer, and other such officials.[ ] there were tradespeople and workmen constantly employed close to the spot where the work was going on; while the public character of the place makes it impossible to suppose that tenants such as percy and his friends, who were little better than lodgers, could claim the exclusive use of anything beyond the rooms they rented--even when allowed the use of these--or could shut against the neighbours and visitors in general the precincts of so much frequented a spot. how, then, did they dispose of the mass of soil dug out in making a tunnel through which barrels and hogsheads were to be conveyed? no man who has had practical experience of the unexpected quantity of earth which comes out of the most insignificant excavation, will be likely to rest satisfied with the explanation officially given, that it was sufficiently concealed by being hidden beneath the turf in the little garden adjoining.[ ] what, moreover, was done with the great stones that came out of the foundations? of these there must have been on hand at least some sixty cubic feet, probably much more, and they, at any rate, can scarcely have been stowed away beneath the turf. what, above all, of the noise made during the space of a couple of months, in assaulting a wall "very hard to beat through"? it is a matter of common observation how sound travels in the ground, and every stroke of the pick upon the stone must have been distinctly heard for more than a hundred yards all around, constituting a public nuisance. meanwhile, not only were there people living close by on every side, but men were constantly at work right over the heads of the diggers, and only a few feet from them: yet we are required to believe that neither these nor any others had any notion that anything unusual was going on. neither is it easy to understand how these amateurs contrived to do so much without a catastrophe. to make a tunnel through soft earth is a very delicate operation, replete with unlooked-for difficulties. to shore up the roof and sides there must, moreover, have been required a large quantity of the "framed timber" of which speed tells us, and the provision and importation of this must have been almost as hard to keep dark as the exportation of the earth and stones. a still more critical operation is that of meddling with the foundations of a house--especially of an old and heavy structure--which a professional craftsman would not venture upon except with extreme care, and the employment of many precautions of which these light-hearted adventurers knew nothing. yet, recklessly breaking their way out of one building, and to a large extent into another, they appear to have occasioned neither crack nor settlement in either. we are by no means at the end of our difficulties. according to the tale told by faukes,[ ] all the seven miners "lay in percy's house," never showing themselves while the work was in progress. this circumstance, to say nothing of the storage of powder barrels and timber, seems to imply that the premises were spacious and commodious. we learn, however, on the unimpeachable evidence of mrs. whynniard's servant,[ ] that the house afforded accommodation only for one person at a time, so that when percy came there to spend the night, faukes, who passed for his man, had to lodge out. this suggests another question. percy's pretext for laying in so much fuel was that he meant to bring up his wife to live there. but how could this be under such conditions? still more serious is another problem. when the mining operations were commenced, in december, , parliament was appointed to meet on the th of february following, by which time, as is evident, the preparations of the conspirators could not have been completed. while they were working, however, news came that the session was to be postponed till october. this information the conspirators appear to have received quite casually before christmas, for it is said that on the strength of it, they thought they could afford to take a holiday.[ ] early in january they were again at work,[ ] and they continued their operations thenceforth, without any circumstance intervening to interrupt or alarm them, of which we hear anything either from themselves or from subsequent writers. nevertheless, it is quite certain that the lords actually met on february th--that is while the mining operations were going on--and not only went through the ceremony of prorogation, but transacted some little business besides, lord denny being introduced and his writ of summons read.[ ] it is equally incomprehensible that the miners should have known nothing of so startling an occurrence, or that knowing of it they should never have made the slightest mention thereof. it is even more difficult to explain how the peers thus assembled, and their attendants, could have failed to remark the mine, then actually open, in premises belonging to themselves, or any suspicious features of earth, stones, timber, or barrels. the difficulties presented by the stubborn nature of the foundation-wall proved well-nigh insuperable, but, as is observed by father greenway,[ ] one still more grave awaited the diggers had they succeeded in making their way through. the "concavity" to be excavated within, to contain the large number of powder barrels required for their purpose, would have involved engineering work of the most hazardous kind, and heavily laden as the floor above proved to be, it must, according to all rules of calculation, have collapsed, when thus undermined. but at this juncture, when the wall had been half pierced, a circumstance occurred, not less extraordinary than others we have considered, to change the whole plan of operations. all this time, ridiculous as is the supposition, the conspirators appear to have been ignorant of the existence of the "cellar," and to have fancied that they were working their way immediately beneath the chamber of the peers.[ ] if such a circumstance be incredible, the consequences must be borne by the narrative of which it forms an essential feature. that it is incredible can hardly be questioned. the so-called "cellar," as we have seen, was a large and conspicuous room above ground. there are reasons for believing that it served habitually as a passage between the different parts of the palace. it appears certain that some of the conspirators, percy in particular, as being one of his majesty's pensioners, must have frequently been in the house of lords itself, and therefore have known where it was; and clearly men of their position were able to attend there when they chose.[ ] the manner in which they came at last to discover the "cellar" is thus related by mr. jardine:[ ] "one morning, while working upon the wall, they suddenly heard a rushing noise in a cellar, nearly above their heads. at first they imagined that they had been discovered; but fawkes being despatched to reconnoitre, found that one bright, to whom the cellar belonged, was selling off his coals[ ] in order to remove, and that the noise proceeded from this cause. fawkes carefully surveyed the place, which proved to be a large vault, situated immediately below the house of lords, and extremely convenient for the purpose they had in view.... finding that the cellar would shortly become vacant, the conspirators agreed that it should be hired in percy's name, under the pretext that he wanted it for his own coals and wood. this was accordingly done, and immediate possession was obtained."[ ] [illustration: cellar under house of lords.] it is obvious that mr. bright's men must on this, as presumably upon many previous occasions, have been at work among the coals, while the miners were hammering at the foundations beneath them, and yet have been as little aware of what was going on as were the others of the existence of the "cellar." it must, farther, be noted that the hiring of this receptacle was, in fact, by no means so easy a matter as the accounts ordinarily given would lead us to suppose. faukes, in the narrative on which the whole history of this episode has been based, is made to say that he found that the coals were a-selling, and the cellar was to be let, whereupon percy went and hired it. mrs. whynniard, however, tells us that the cellar was not to let, and that bright had not the disposal of the lease, but one skinner, and that percy "laboured very earnestly" before he succeeded in obtaining it. [illustration: vault, east end of painted chamber, erroneously styled "guy faukes' cellar."] but, whatever the circumstances and manner of the transaction, it appears that at lady-day, , this chamber came into the hands of those who were to make it so famous; whereupon, we are told, they resolved to abandon the mine, and use this ready-made cavity for their purposes. to it, accordingly, they transferred their powder, the barrels, by subsequent additions, being increased to thirty-six, and the amount to nine or ten thousand pounds.[ ] the casks were covered with firewood, faggots and , billets being brought in by hired porters and piled up by faukes, to whose charge, in his assumed character of percy's servant, the cellar was committed. it is stated in winter's long declaration on this subject,[ ] that the barrels were thus completely hidden, "because we might have the house free, to suffer anyone to enter that would," and we find it mentioned by various writers subsequently, that free ingress was actually allowed to the public. thus we read[ ] of "the deep cunning [of the conspirators] in throwing open the vault, as if there had been nothing to conceal;" while another writer[ ] tells us, "the place was hired by percy; barrels of gunpowder were lodged in it; the whole covered up with billets and faggots; the doors of the cellar boldly flung open, and everybody admitted, as though it contained nothing dangerous." on the top of the barrels were likewise placed "great bars of iron and massy stones," in order "to make the breach the greater." [illustration: arches from the "cellar" under the house of lords.] we may here pause to review the extraordinary story to which we have been listening. a group of men, known for as dangerous characters as any in england, men, in cecil's own words,[ ] "spent in their fortunes," "hunger-starved for innovations," "turbulent spirits," and "fit for all alterations," take a house within the precincts of a royal palace, and close to the upper house of parliament, dig a mine, hammer away for over two months at the wall, acquire and bring in four tons of gunpowder, storing it in a large and conspicuous chamber immediately beneath that of the peers, and covering it with an amount of fuel sufficient for a royal establishment--and meanwhile those responsible for the government of the country have not even the faintest suspicion of any possible danger. "never," it is said,[ ] "was treason more secret, or ruin more apparently inevitable," while the secretary of state himself declared[ ] that such ruin was averted only by the direct interposition of heaven, in a manner nothing short of miraculous. it must be remembered that the government thus credited with childlike and culpable simplicity, was probably the most suspicious and inquisitive that ever held power in this country, for its tenure whereof it trusted mainly to the elaborate efficiency of its intelligence department. of a former secretary, walsingham, parsons wrote that he "spent infinite upon spyery,"[ ] and there can be no doubt that his successor, now in office, had studied his methods to good purpose. "he," according to a panegyrist,[ ] "was his craft's master in foreign intelligence and for domestic affairs," who could tell at any moment what ships there were in every port of spain, their burdens, their equipment, and their destination. we are told[ ] that he could discover the most secret business transacted in the papal court before it was known to the catholics in england. he could intercept letters written from paris to brussels, or from rome to naples.[ ] what was his activity at home is sufficiently evidenced by the reports furnished by his numerous agents concerning everything done throughout the country, in particular by recusants; whereof we shall see more, in connection with this particular affair. that those so remarkably wide-awake in regard of all else should have been blind and deaf to what was passing at their own doors appears altogether incredible. more especially do difficulties connect themselves with the gunpowder itself. of this, according to the lowest figure given us, there were over four tons.[ ] how, we may ask, could half a dozen men, "notorious recusants," and bearing, moreover, such a character as we have heard, without attracting any notice, and no question being asked, possess themselves of such a quantity of so dangerous a material?[ ] how large was the amount may be estimated from the fact that it was more than a quarter of what, in , was delivered from the royal store, for all purposes, and was equal to what was thought sufficient for dover castle, while there was no more in the four fortresses of arcliffe, walmer, deal, and camber together.[ ] the twenty barrels first procured were first, as we have seen, stored beyond the thames, at lambeth, whence they had to be ferried across the river, hauled up the much frequented parliament stairs, carried down parliament place, as busy a quarter as any in the city of westminster, and into the building adjoining the parliament house, or the "cellar" beneath the same. all this, we are to suppose, without attracting attention or remark.[ ] the conspirators, while making these material preparations, were likewise busy in settling their plan of action when the intended blow should have been struck. it was by no means their intention to attempt a revolution. their quarrel was purely personal with king james, his council, and his parliament, and, these being removed, they desired to continue the succession in its legitimate course, and to seat on the throne the nearest heir who might be available for the purpose; placing the new sovereign, however, under such tutelage as should insure the inauguration of a right course of policy. the details of the scheme were of as lunatic a character as the rest of the business. the confederates would have wished to possess themselves of prince henry, the king's eldest son; but as he would probably accompany his father to the opening of parliament, and so perish, their desire was to get hold of his brother, the duke of york, afterwards charles i., then but five years old. it was, however, possible that he too might go to parliament, and otherwise it might not improbably be impossible to get possession of him: in which case they were prepared to be satisfied with the princess elizabeth,[ ] or even with her infant sister mary, for whom, as being english born, a special claim might be urged. such was the project in general. when we come to details, we are confronted, as might be anticipated, with statements impossible to reconcile. we are told,[ ] that percy undertook to seize and carry off duke charles; and again,[ ] that, despairing of being able to lay hands upon him, they resolved "to serve themselves with the lady elizabeth," and that percy was one of those who made arrangements for seizing her;[ ] and again, that having learnt that prince henry was not to go to the house, they determined to surprise him, "and leave the young duke alone;"[ ] and once more, that they never entered into any consultation or formed any project whatever as to the succession.[ ] still more serious are the contradictions on another point. we are told, on the one hand, that a proclamation was drawn up for the inauguration of the new sovereign--whoever this was[ ]--and, on the other, that the associates were resolved not to avow the explosion to be their work until they should see how the country took it, or till they had gathered a sufficient force,[ ] and accordingly that they had no more than a project of a proclamation to be issued in due season. but, again, it is said[ ] that catesby on his way out of town, after the event, was to proclaim the new monarch at charing cross, though it is equally hard to understand, either how he was to know which of the plans had succeeded, and who that monarch was to be,--whether a king or a queen,--or what effect such proclamation by an obscure individual like himself was expected to produce; or how this, or indeed any item in the programme was compatible with the incognito of the actors in the great tragedy. amid this hopeless tangle one point alone is perfectly clear. whatever was the scheme, it was absolutely insane, and could by no possibility have succeeded. as mr. gardiner says:[ ] "with the advantage of having an infant sovereign in their hands, with a little money and a few horses, these sanguine dreamers fancied that they would have the whole of england at their feet." such is in outline the authorized version of the history concerning what father john gerard styles "this preposterous plot of powder;" and preposterous it undoubtedly appears to be in more senses than he intended. it is, in the first place, almost impossible to believe that the important and dramatic episode of the mine ever, in fact, occurred. we have seen something of the difficulties against accepting this part of the story, which the circumstantial evidence suggests. when, on the other hand, we ask upon what testimony it rests, it is a surprise to find that for so prominent and striking an incident we are wholly dependent upon two documents, published by the government, a confession of thomas winter and another of faukes, both of which present features rendering them in the highest degree suspicious. amongst the many confessions and declarations made by the conspirators in general, and these individuals in particular, these two alone describe the mining operations.[ ] [illustration: cell in staircase turret, s.e. corner, painted chamber, often called "guy faukes' cell."] on the other hand, it is somewhat startling to find no less a person than the earl of salisbury himself ignorant or oblivious of so remarkable a circumstance. in thomas winter's lodging was found the agreement between percy and ferrers for the lease of the house, which was taken, as has been said, in may, . this is still preserved, and has been endorsed by cecil, "the bargaine between percy and ferrers for the bloody sellar...." but this contract had nothing to do with the "bloody sellar," which was not rented till ten months later. again, writing november th, , to cornwallis and edmondes, cecil says: "this percy had about a year and a half ago hired a part of vyniard's house in the old palace, from whence he had access into this vault to lay his wood and coal, and as it seemeth now [had] taken this place of purpose to work some mischief in a fit time." when this was written the premises had been for four days in the hands of the government. it is clearly impossible that the remains of the mine, had they existed, should not have been found, and equally so that cecil should not have alluded to the overwhelming evidence they afforded as to the intention of percy and his associates to "work some mischief," but should, again, have connected the tenancy of the house only with the "cellar." it will, moreover, be found by investigators that when exceptional stress is laid on any point by sir e. coke, the attorney general, a _prima facie_ case against the genuine nature of the evidence in regard of that point is thereby established. in his speech on the trial of the conspirators we find him declaring that, "if the cellar had not been hired, the mine work could hardly, or not at all, have been discovered, for the mine was neither found nor suspected until the danger was past, and the capital offenders apprehended, and by themselves, upon examination, confessed." that is to say, the government could not, though provided with information that there was a powder-mine under the parliament house, have discovered this extraordinary piece of engineering; and moreover, after its abandonment, the traces of the excavation were so artfully hidden as to elude observation till the prisoners drew attention to them. such assertions cannot possibly be true; but they might serve to meet the objection that no one had seen the mine. we likewise find that in his examination of november th, faukes is made to say: "he confesseth that about christmas last [ ], he brought in the nighttime gunpowder _to the cellar under the upper house of parliament_," that is some three months before the cellar was hired. moreover, the words italicised have been added as an interlineation, apparently by cecil himself. evidently when this was done the mine was still undiscovered. yet more remarkable is the fact that it would appear to have remained undiscovered ever afterwards, and that no marks seem to have been left upon the wall which had been so roughly handled. it is certainly impossible to find any record that such traces were observed when the building was demolished, though they could scarcely have failed to attract attention and interest. on this subject we have the important evidence of mr. william capon, who carefully examined every detail connected with the old palace, and evidently had the opportunity of studying the foundations of the house of lords when, in , that building was removed.[ ] he does, indeed, mention what he conceives to be the traces of the conspirators' work, of which he gives the following description: "adjoining the south end of the cellar, or more properly the ancient kitchen, to the west, was a small room separated only by a stone doorway, with a pointed head, and with very substantial masonry joined to the older walls.... at the north side [of this] there had been an opening, a doorway of very solid thick stonemasonry, through which was a way seemingly forced through by great violence.... in it was asserted that this was always understood to have been the place where the conspirators broke into the vault which adjoined that called guy vaux's cellar."[ ] but against such a supposition there are three fatal objections. ( ) this places the conspirators on the wrong side of the house, for they most certainly worked from the east, or river side, not from the west.[ ] ( ) it makes the mine above ground instead of below. ( ) the conspirators never broke into the cellar at all, but hired it in the ordinary way of business. such considerations as the above may well make us sceptical in regard to the mine, and if this element of the story, upon which so much stress has always been laid, prove to be untrustworthy, it must needs follow that grave suspicion will be cast upon the rest. there are, likewise, various problems in connection with the "cellar," especially as concerns the means of ingress to it, and its consequent privacy or publicity. (_a_) faukes says (november th, ) that about the middle of lent of that year percy caused "a new dore" to be made into it, "that he might have a neerer way out of his own house into the cellar." this seems to imply that percy took the cellar for his firewood when there was no convenient communication between it and his house. moreover it is not very easy to understand how a tenant under such conditions as his was allowed at discretion to knock doors through the walls of a royal palace. neither did the landlady say anything of this door-making, when detailing what she knew about percy's proceedings. (_b_) in some notes by sir e. coke,[ ] it is said: "the powder was first brought into percy's house, and lay there in a low room new built, and could not have been conveyed into the cellar by the old door but that all the street must have seen it; and therefore he caused a new door out of his house into the cellar to be made, where before there had been a grate of iron." this, it must be confessed, looks very like an afterthought to explain away a difficulty, but failing to do so. when the door is said to have been made, the powder was already on the premises, having been brought there in sight of the whole street and the river. it could hardly, in so small a tenement, escape the observation of the workmen,[ ] while the operations of these latter in breaking through the wall would have served yet farther to attract the attention of the neighbourhood. (_c_) we are told by faukes and others, that either he or percy always kept the key, and that marks were made to indicate whether anyone had entered the place in their absence. (_d_) on the other hand, to say nothing of winter's declaration that the confederates so arranged as to leave the cellar free for all to enter who would, lord salisbury informed sir thomas parry[ ] that the captors of faukes entered through "another door," which clearly did not require to be opened by him; while as to the ordinary door, whichever this was, the "king's book" itself plainly intimates, in the account of the chamberlain's visit, that whynniard, the landlord, was able to open it when he chose. the "other door" spoken of by cecil, a most important feature of the chamber, is nowhere else mentioned.[ ] it appears certain that the conspirators really had a plot in hand, that they fancied themselves to be about to strike a great blow, and that by means of gunpowder; but what was the precise nature of their plans and preparations it is not so easy to determine. farther discussion of these particulars must be deferred to a later chapter. meanwhile, according to the accepted history, when they had stored their powder there was nothing more to do but to await the assembling of the intended victims. parliament stood prorogued till october rd, and was afterwards further adjourned till the fateful th of november. that they might not excite suspicion, the confederates separated, most of them retiring to their country seats, and faukes going over to flanders.[ ] in his absence percy kept the key of the cellar, and, according to faukes,[ ] laid in more powder and wood while he himself was absent. [illustration: the powder plot. ii.] it is not easy to understand what became of the cellar during this long interval, and apparently it was left in great measure, with its compromising contents, to take care of itself, for percy, amongst other places, went with catesby to bath to take the waters.[ ] if the premises were of so public a nature as the testimony of winter and others would imply, it appears impossible that they should have remained all this time sealed up, or that these astute and crafty plotters should with a light heart have ignored the probability that they would be visited and inspected. as father greenway observes,[ ] it can hardly be supposed that the landlord[ ] had not a duplicate key, while cecil himself, in his letter to sir thomas parry, plainly indicates that access to the cellar could freely be procured independently of the conspirators. we can only say that the conduct of the confederates in this particular appears to have been quite in keeping with their method of conspiring secretly as we have already seen it, and undoubtedly one more difficulty is thus opposed to the supposition that their enterprise was chiefly dangerous on account of the clandestine and dexterous manner in which it was conducted. footnotes: [ ] the name "old house of lords" is somewhat ambiguous, being variously applicable to three different buildings: (i.) that here described, which continued to be used till the irish union, a.d. . (ii.) the "court of requests," or "white hall," used from till the fire of . (iii.) the "painted chamber," which, having been repaired after the said fire, became the place of assembly for the lords, as did the court of requests for the commons. the original house of lords was demolished in by sir john soane, who on its site erected his royal gallery. (see brayley and britton, _history of the palace of westminster_.) [ ] the authority for this is the earl of northampton, who at father garnet's trial mentioned that it was so stated in ancient records. remains of a buttery hatch in the south wall confirmed his assertion. the foundations of the building were believed to date from the time of edward the confessor, and the style of architecture of the superstructure assigned it to the early part of the thirteenth century, as likewise the "prince's chamber." [ ] brayley and britton, _history of the palace of westminster_, p. ; j. t. smith, _antiquities of westminster_, p. (where illustrations will be found); _gentleman's magazine_, july, , p. . [ ] it was here that the death warrant of charles i. was signed. [ ] an old print (which states that it is taken from "a painted print in the cottonian library,") representing the two houses assembled in presence of queen elizabeth, has windows on both sides. the same plate, with the figure of the sovereign alone changed, was made to do duty likewise for a parliament of james i. by hollar's time ( - ) the windows had been blocked up and the tapestry hung. [ ] cecil wrote to cornwallis, edmondes, and others, november th, , "this piercey had a bout a year and a half a goe hyred a parte of vyniards house in the old palace," which appears to be mr. hepworth dixon's sole authority for styling the tenement "vinegar house." [ ] see appendix e, _site of percy's house_. [ ] evidence of mrs. whynniard, november th, . epsley is evidently the same person as hoppisley, who was examined on the rd of the same month. [ ] birch, _historical view_, p. . [ ] _historie_, p. . [ ] _gunpowder treason, harleian miscellany_, iii. . [ ] at his first examination, november th , faukes declared that he had not been sure the king would come to the parliament house on that day, and that his purpose was to have blown it up whenever his majesty was there. [ ] the agreement between percy and ferrers is in the record office (_gunpowder plot book_, .) and is endorsed by cecil, "the bargaine ... for the bloody sellar." upon this there will be more to remark later. [ ] jardine, _gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] the th of december, o. s., was at that period the shortest day, which circumstance suggested to sir e. coke, on the trial of the conspirators, one of his characteristic facetiæ; he bade his hearers note "that it was in the entring of the sun into the tropick of capricorn, when they began their mine; noting that by mining they should descend, and by hanging, ascend." [ ] "gentlemen not accustomed to labour or to be pioneers."--goodman, _court of king james_, p. . [ ] "the moles that first underwent these underminings were all grounded schollers of the romish schoole, and such earnest labourers in their vault of villany, that by christmas eve they had brought the worke under an entry, unto the wall of the parliament house, underpropping still as they went the earth with their framed timber."--speed, _historie_, p. (pub. ). [ ] in barlow's _gunpowder treason_ these foundations are stated to have been three ells thick, _i.e._, eleven and a quarter feet. _harleian miscellany_, iii. . [ ] see appendix f, _the enrolment of the conspirators_, for the discrepancies as to dates. t. winter (november rd, ) says that the powder was laid "in mr. percy's house;" faukes, "in a low room new builded." [ ] there is, as usual, hopeless contradiction between the two witnesses upon whom, as will be seen, we wholly depend for this portion of the story. faukes (november th, ) makes the mining operations terminate at candlemas. t. winter (november rd) says that they went on to "near easter" (march st). the date of hiring the "cellar," was about lady day (march th). [ ] the buildings of the dissolved college of st. stephen, comprising those around the house of lords, were granted by edward vi. to sir ralph lane. they reverted to the crown under elizabeth, and were appropriated as residences for the auditors and tellers of the exchequer. the locality became so populous that in it was forbidden to erect more houses. [ ] jardine, _gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] november th, . [ ] november th, . [ ] winter says: "... we heard that the parliament should be anew adjourned until after michaelmas; upon which tidings we broke off both discourse and working until after christmas" (november rd, ). lingard writes, "when a fortnight had thus been devoted to uninterrupted labour, faukes informed his associates that the parliament was prorogued from the th of february to the rd of october. they immediately separated to spend the christmas holidays at their respective homes."--_history_, vii. (ed. ). [ ] faukes, as has been said, makes the work upon the wall terminate at candlemas. winter (_ut sup._) says that they brought over the powder at candlemas, that is, after they had been some time engaged upon the wall, and found the need of the assistance of keyes. [ ] _lord's journals_ "a^o ( ) jac.--memorandum quod hodierno die, septimo die februarii, a^o regis ñri jacobi, _viz._ angliae (etc.) ^{ndo}, & scotiae ^o, in quem diem prorogatum fuerat hoc praesens parliamentum, convenere proceres tam spirituales quam temporales, quorum nomina subscribuntur." then follow twenty-nine names, including the archbishop of canterbury, lords ellesmere (_chancellor_), dorset (_treasurer_), nottingham (_admiral_), suffolk (_chamberlain_), northumberland, cranborne (cecil), northampton, etc. it is noted "lords montagu, petre, and gerard [all three catholics] were present, though they were none of the commissioners." [ ] _narrative_ (stonyhurst mss.), fol. b. [ ] this absurd supposition is obviously implied by faukes (november th, ), and t. winter (november rd), in the only two accounts furnished by any of the conspirators wherein the episode of the mine is mentioned. in barlow's _gunpowder treason_ (_harleian miscellany_, iii. ) it is expressly stated that the confederates "came to the knowledge of the vault" only on the occasion now detailed. tierney says (dodd's _church history_, iv. , note): "at this moment an accidental noise ... first acquainted them with the existence of the cellar." [ ] on the rd of october following, thomas winter was sent to be present at the ceremony of prorogation, and to watch the demeanour of the assembled peers. [ ] _gunpowder plot_, p. . this account is based almost entirely on that of faukes, november th, . [ ] in his italian version of father gerard's history, father greenway interpolates the following note: "questi non erano carboni di legno, ma una sorte di pietra negra, la quale come carbone abrugia et fa un fuogo bellissimo et ottimo" (fol. b). [ ] "these pioneers through piercies chamber brought th' exhausted earth, great baskets full of clay; thereby t' have made a mighty concave vau't, and of the house the ground worke tooke away: but then at last an obstacle they finde, which to remove proud piercy casts in 's mind. a thick stone wall their passage then did let; whereby they cou'd not finish their intent. then forthwith piercy did a sellar get, under that sacred house for yearly rent: feigning to fill 't with char coal, wood, & beere, from all suspect themselves to cloake & cleere." john vicars, _mischeefes mysterie_. this remarkable poem, published , is a much expanded translation of _pietas pontificia_ (in latin hexameter verse) by francis herring, which appeared in . [ ] on this point we are furnished with more than the usual amount of variety as to details. cecil, writing to the ambassadors (cornwallis, edmondes, etc.), says there were "two hodgsheads and some small barrels." the king's _discourse_ mentions barrels. barclay (_conspiratio anglicana_) says there were over , lb. of powder, in barrels, and that one of extra size had been placed under the throne, for treason could not without dread assail majesty even when unarmed. the indictment of the conspirators named barrels and hogsheads. sir e. coke always said barrels. barlow's _gunpowder treason_ makes the extraordinary statement, frequently reproduced, that "to the barrels of powder laid in at first, they added in july more, and at last made up the number thirty-six." faukes (november th) said that of the powder "some was put in hoggesheads, some in barrels, and some in firkins." faukes also says that the powder was conveyed to the place in hampers. john chamberlain, writing to dudley carleton, november th, , says it was carried in satchels. barlow (_ut sup._) quotes the amount as , or , lb. [ ] november rd, . [ ] _the gunpowder plot_, by l., . it seems highly probable that the "cellar" was used as a public passage. [ ] hugh f. martyndale, _a familiar analysis of the calendar of the church of england_ (november th). london, effingham wilson. [ ] _letter to cornwallis and edmondes_, november th, . [ ] h. f. martyndale, _ut sup._ [ ] letter to the ambassadors, _ut sup._ [ ] _an advertisement written to a secretarie_, etc. ( ), p. . [ ] sir r. naunton, _fragmenta regalia (harleian miscellany_, ii. ). [ ] blount to parsons (stonyhurst mss.), _anglia_, vi. . [ ] such letters are found amongst the state papers. [ ] the amount, it would seem, cannot have been less than this. a barrel of gunpowder, containing four firkins, weighed lb., and had the casks in the cellar all been barrels, in the strict sense of the word, the amount would therefore have exceeded six tons. some of these casks, we are told, were small, but some were hogsheads. the twenty barrels first laid in are described as "whole barrels." (faukes, january th, - .) [ ] an interesting illustration of this point is furnished by a strange piece of evidence furnished by w. andrew, servant to sir e. digby. sir everard's office was to organize the rising in the midlands, after the catastrophe, but he apparently forgot to supply himself with powder till the very eve of the appointed day. andrew averred that on the night of november th, his master secretly asked him to procure some powder in the neighbouring town, whereupon he asked, "how much? a pound, or half a pound?" sir everard said or lb. deponent purchased one pound. (tanner mss. lxxv. f. b.) one matthew batty mentioned lord monteagle as having bought gunpowder. (_ibid._ v. .) in the same collection is a copy of some notes by sir e. coke (f. b), in which the price of the powder discovered is put down as £ , _i.e._ some £ , of our money. [ ] gunpowder was measured by the _last_ = , lb. (tomline's _law dictionary_.) in there were delivered out of the store lasts and some cwts. in the amount in various strong places is entered as: "_dover castle_, lasts; _arcliffe bullwark_, last; _walmer_, last, cwt.; _deal castle_, last; _sandown castle_, lasts, etc.; _sandgate_, last; _camber_, last." [ ] the position and character of the "cellar" admit of no doubt, as appears from the testimony of smith's _antiquities of westminster_, brayley and britton's _ancient palace of westminster_, and capon's notes on the same, _vetusta monumenta_, v. they are, however, inconsistent with some circumstances alleged by the government. thus, sir everard digby's complicity with "the worst part" of the treason, which on several occasions he denied, is held to be established by a confession of faukes, which cannot now be found among the state papers, but which is mentioned in sir e. coke's speech upon digby's arraignment, and is printed in barlow's _gunpowder treason_, p. . in sir e. coke's version it runs thus: "fawkes, then present at the bar, had confessed, that some time before that session, the said fawkes being with digby at his house in the country, about which time there had fallen much wet, digby taking fawkes aside after supper, told him he was much afraid that the powder in the cellar was grown damp, and that some new must be provided, lest that should not take fire." seeing, however, that the powder stood above ground, within a most substantial building, and could be reached by the rain only if this should first flood the chamber of the peers, it does not seem as if the idea of such a danger should have suggested itself. another interesting point in connection with the "cellar" is that the house of lords having subsequently been removed to the court of requests, and afterwards to the painted chamber, "guy faukes' cellar" on each occasion accompanied the migration. from leigh's _new picture of london_ we find that in - , when the court of requests was in use, and the old cellar had completely disappeared, guy's cellar was still shown; while a plate given in knight's _old england_, and elsewhere, represents a vault under the painted chamber, not used as the house of lords till after . such a cellar seems to have been considered a necessary appurtenance of the house. [ ] afterwards the electress palatine. [ ] gardiner, _hist._ i. ; lingard, vii. ; t. winter, november rd, . [ ] faukes, november th, . [ ] harry morgan, _examination_ (r.o.), november th, . [ ] t. winter, november rd and th, . as the information about prince henry was alleged to have been communicated by lord monteagle, the passage has been mutilated in the published version to conceal this circumstance. [ ] faukes, november th, . [ ] sir e. digby, barlow's _gunpowder treason_, app. . [ ] faukes, november th, . [ ] digby, _ut sup._ [ ] _history_, i. . [ ] there is also an allusion to the same in the confession of keyes, november th, ; but this document also is of a highly suspicious character. of the seven miners, none but these three were taken alive; catesby, percy, and the two wrights being killed in the field. strangely enough, though keyes may be cited as a witness on this subject, on which his evidence is of such singular importance, the government, for some purpose of its own, tampered with the confession of faukes wherein he is mentioned as one of the excavators, substituting robert winter's name for his, and placing keyes amongst those "that wrought not in the myne." see jardine's remarks on this point, _criminal trials_, ii. . [ ] his detailed notes and plans are given in _vetusta monumenta_, vol. v. [ ] page . [ ] see appendix e, _site of percy's house_. [ ] tanner mss. lxxv. § , b. [ ] faukes, november th, uses the same expression, "a low room new builded," which seems to imply that this receptacle had been constructed since percy came into possession of the house. [ ] november th, . more will be seen of the important document containing this information. [ ] according to smith's plan (_sup._ p. ) there were four entrances to the cellar, none of which can have been percy's "new dore." [ ] we are told that faukes was selected to take charge of the house, and perform other duties which would bring him into notice, because being unknown in london he was not likely to excite remark. in his declaration, november th, however, he gives as his reason for going abroad, "lest, being a dangerous man, he should be known and suspected." it is obvious that in the meantime the cellar must either have been left in charge of others better known, and therefore more likely to excite suspicion, or have been left unprotected. [ ] november th, . [ ] thomas winter, november rd, . [ ] f. . [ ] this, as we have heard, was mr. whynniard, who unfortunately died very suddenly on the morning of november th, on hearing of the "discovery," evidence of great importance as to the hiring of the house and "cellar" being thus lost. "as for the keeper of the parliament house," says goodman, "who let out the lodgings to percy, it is said that as soon as ever he heard of the news what percy intended, he instantly fell into a fright and died; so that it could not be certainly known who procured him the house, or by whose means."--_court of king james_, i. . chapter v. the government intelligence department. having followed the history of the plotters and their doings, to the point when everything was ready for action, we have now to inquire what, in the meantime, those were about for whose destruction such notable preparations were making, and whether in truth they were, as we are assured, wrapped in a sense of false security, and altogether unconscious of the signs and tokens that should have awakened their suspicion and alarm. when, by the aid of such evidence as remains to us, we turn to examine the facts of the case, we discover in them, it must be confessed, no symptoms whatever of supineness or lethargy. it appears, on the contrary, that throughout the period when the government are supposed to have been living in a fool's paradise, and tranquilly assuming that all was well, they were in reality busily at work through their emissaries and informers, prying into all the doings of the recusant catholics, receiving frequent intimation of all that was undertaken, or even projected, and, apparently, regulating the main features of a treasonable conspiracy, which can have been no other than the powder plot itself, determining, in particular, what individuals should be implicated therein. in april, , at the very time when we hear of the plot as being hatched, a letter was addressed to sir thomas challoner, an official frequently mixed up with business of this kind, by one henry wright,[ ] reporting the proceedings of a subordinate agent, by name davies, whom he styles a "discoverer,"[ ] then engaged in working a catholic treason, with the special object of incriminating priests. davies has offered to "set," or mark down,[ ] over threescore of these, but wright has told him that so many are not required, and that he will satisfy his employers if he implicate twenty, provided they be "most principal jesuits and seminary priests," and therewithal has given him thirteen or fourteen names that will serve the required purpose. davies replies, "that by god's grace he will absolutely do it ere long."[ ] that the treason in question was none other than the gunpowder plot there can be no question, unless indeed we are to say that the authorities were engaged in fabricating a bogus conspiracy for which there was no foundation whatever in fact. it was not the way of statesmen of the period, when on the track of sedition, to relinquish the pursuit till they had sifted it to the bottom, and at this juncture, especially, every shred of evidence regarding catholics and their conduct was threshed out to the uttermost. in consequence, we are able to say with certainty, that besides the enterprise of catesby and his associates, there was no other conspiracy of any kind on foot. we have, moreover, already seen that the very same point thus by anticipation represented as all important, is that which after the "discovery" every nerve was strained to establish, namely, the complicity of the catholic clergy. if we had no more than this internal evidence, it would abundantly suffice to assure us that the conspiracy thus sedulously watched was the same as that miraculously "discovered" a year and a half later. but we are not left to such inferences alone. in march, , we find wright applying to the minister for a reward on account of his services "in discovering villainous practices," thus indicating that by this time those which he had been tracking had been brought to light. more explicit still is a memorial presented to the king, at a later date, on his behalf. this is entitled--"touching wright and his services performed _in the damnable plot of the powder treason_." king james is reminded that chief justice popham and sir thomas challoner had a hand in the discovery of the powder, and this by means of information supplied by wright, "for two years space almost" before his majesty interpreted the famous letter to lord monteagle, "like an angel of god." this information popham and challoner had from time to time communicated to his majesty, "whose hand wright hath in testimony of his services in the matter."[ ] in the same month of april, , was supplied another piece of information, singularly interesting and important,[ ] in which were detailed the particulars of a design amongst the catholics at home and abroad. much, in fact the bulk, of the information given, is seen, in the light of our present knowledge, to be purely fictitious, affording a good example of the "sophistications" which, as cecil himself complained, his agents were wont to mingle with their intelligence. the design in question was represented as being of the most serious and secret nature, the papists thinking that it "must now be so handled and carried as the great cause may lose no reputation, or if any suspicion should grow in the state, or any come in question therefore, the main point might never come to light;" the said "main point" being of course the complicity of the catholic clergy. what invests this document with singular importance is the fact that we hear of it again. in april, , it was quoted for the benefit of parliament by the attorney general, sir e. coke, and explicitly as having reference to the gunpowder plot, forming part of the evidence adduced by him to secure the attainder of persons accused of being partakers in that treason.[ ] it thus affords a proof, on the authority of the government itself, that eighteen months before the conspiracy was "discovered," intelligence regarding it had been received and was being attended to. [illustration: a view of the house of peers, .] this is, however, by no means the only information of which we find traces. amongst the cecil papers at hatfield is a letter dated december th, , addressed to the earl of salisbury by one thomas coe, who claims to have previously forwarded to his majesty "the primary intelligence of these late dangerous treasons," upon which communication the historian lodge observes,[ ] "it should seem then that the famous letter transmitted to james by lord monteagle, for the right construction of which that prince's penetration hath been so highly extolled by some historians, was not the only previous intelligence communicated to him of the gunpowder treason." meanwhile the officers of the government, in all parts, appear to have been no less alert than was their wont. on the th of january, - , for instance, sir thomas parry writes from paris,[ ] inclosing a note from an informer at dieppe, concerning an english catholic returning from italy and spain with letters for fathers garnet and oldcorne, and a cipher of three lines for a lawyer at douay, and although the messenger has contrived to give him the slip, he is able to send particulars concerning his personal appearance, and the locality in london where he is likely to be found. on the th of the same month, cecil replies to parry[ ] concerning priests and their doings, and makes the valuable admission that their proceedings are always known to him by means of false brethren, though, he adds, these informers always add to their intelligence "sophistications" of their own, a fact which must not be lost sight of in studying the reports of such folk. we hear particularly of informations supplied by the priests bagshawe and cecil, by captain turner, charles paget, and sundry others. at the beginning of october, , we make the acquaintance of another notable informer. on the first of the month, william willaston, then engaged on a commission in france in connection with a proposed commercial treaty, writes to cecil from paris[ ] concerning a catholic design attributed chiefly to priests and jesuits, who have assurance that their friends in england, who are many and of good sort, intend "to kindle a fire in many corners of our land, and a rebellion in ireland," and that these matters be almost grown to a head, "some of their fingers itching to be set to work." willaston adds, "there is a particular irreconcilable desperate malice against your honour's person, which is principally the cause i make bold to write unto your lordship. you have yet the papists in your hands, and are masters; if you let them increase and grow so insolent, assuredly it will come to pass as to the king of israel, who having overthrown benhadab ..." and so on. on october th, willaston again writes from rouen[ ] "about some matters pretended by our romish catholics." the party, he says, "who" has given light into this business "is one george southwaick, well-known to many of your lordship's followers." this southwaick, he holds to be "very honest;" he is going to england with sundry priests and others, and upon landing will at once communicate with the authorities and have his comrades arrested. "southwaick himself," adds willaston, "must be taken as well as the others, for he desireth not to be known to have given any information against the rest. if it please your lordship to take order for his imprisonment apart, that conference privately may be had with him, until such time as shall be thought fit to deliver him, he can give you good directions for many matters, and may stand your honour in stead for such purposes." there follows a notable suggestion: "if your lordship would be pleased to set some man to win the nuncio of the pope his secretary in paris, you should receive very direct and sound instructions from him." the writer goes on to speak of an intended rebellion in england, and the kindling of a fire there, and dutifully concludes, "god grant they touch not the person of the king nor of his children." on the th of october, nine days before the "discovery," southwaick himself, now in england, writes to cecil,[ ] urging that the impending arrest of priests and others should be deferred, and that for better management of "the business, and for the better and more substantial manifestation thereof," he ventures to suggest that "more scope of time would make the service of more worth." moreover, he gives warning of preparations for trouble in the shires, in connection with "their plot," and finally promises, "your honour shall not only have knowledge of all such as are any way intercepted in the same, but also knowledge of the end of their whole purpose, and withal be certain of their meeting here in london, where i do not doubt to apprehend forty priests, with many great of name, at mass, in good speed of their great intent." on the morning of the th of november itself, evidently before receiving news that the final blow had been struck, southwaick writes to levinus munck, cecil's private secretary.[ ] he excuses himself for recent silence on the ground that he could not without prejudice to "the business" have communicated with his employers. "the parties," he declares, "have had, ever since i saw you, such obscure meetings, such mutable purposes, such uncertain resolutions, as hath made me ride both day and night, as well in foul weather as fair, omitting no opportunities, lest i should not effect what i have by the weight of my credit and the engagement of my duty and reputation propounded to my honourable lord." he farther begs that nothing may be done that might disclose his true character to his intended victims, and concludes by declaring that, if he be not much mistaken, he is about "a singular service." if such letters proved nothing more, they would abundantly serve to discredit the idea that a government which conducted its operations in such a fashion could be hoodwinked by such clumsy contrivances as those of the cellar and the mine. five days later,[ ] southwaick again writes to munck, inclosing a note of the priests who have had meetings in paris, or have been written to in england. the ambassador (in paris) will, he says, bear witness that, although unable to particularize, he had given notice two months since that there was a plot brewing. he adds a significant hint, the like of which we have already seen: "should i chance to be apprehended, i will rest myself upon my honourable lord."[ ] meanwhile the english ambassadors abroad were no less active and vigilant than the informers at home, and while clearly aware that there was some danger on foot, never doubted that the king's government would not be caught napping. on the th of october, sir thomas edmondes wrote to cecil from brussels[ ] to warn him of suspicious symptoms in the low countries; and on the following day cecil wrote to edmondes[ ] expressing apprehensions of trouble from the jesuits abroad. on the same day, october th, sir thomas parry wrote from paris to the secretary,[ ] of a petition which the catholics were preparing against the meeting of parliament, "and some further designs upon refusal;" and in another letter informed edmondes:[ ] "somewhat is at present in hand amongst these desperate hypocrites, which i trust god shall divert, by the vigilant care of his majesty's faithful servants and friends abroad, and prudence of his council at home." that such confidence was not misplaced is shown by cecil's assurance to sir thomas parry,[ ] mentioned above, that the proceedings of the priests were never unknown to government. amongst the papers at hatfield is a curious note, anonymous and undated, giving information of a plot involving murder and treason, which, like the letter to monteagle, simulates rather too obviously the workmanship of an illiterate person, and artfully insinuates that the design in question is undertaken in the name of religion, and chiefly favoured by the priests.[ ] another remarkable document is preserved in the same collection. this is a letter written to sir everard digby, june th, , and treating of an otter hunt to be undertaken when the hay shall be cut. it has, however, been endorsed by salisbury, "letter written to sir everard digby--powder treason."[ ] not only is it hard to see how the terms of the document lend themselves to such an interpretation, but the date at which it was written was fully three months prior to digby's initiation in the conspiracy. the idea is certainly suggested that, far from being passive and indolent, the authorities were sedulously seeking pretexts to entangle as many as possible of those "great of name," concerning whom we have already heard from one of their informers. this much, at any rate, seems clear. those at the centre of this complex web of espionage, to whom were addressed all these informations and admonitions, cannot have been, as they protested somewhat overmuch, in a state of careless inactivity, depending for security only upon the protection of the almighty, "who," as the secretary afterwards piously declared, "blessed us in our slumber [and] will not forsake us now that we are awake."[ ] the slumber would at least appear not to have been dreamless. on the one hand, the secretary was evidently much exercised by a threatened _rapprochement_ between his royal master and pope clement viii., who, through a scotch catholic gentleman, sir james lindsay, had sent a friendly message to king james, which had elicited a courteous and almost cordial reply.[ ] the significance of this cecil strenuously endeavoured, in a letter to the duke of lenox,[ ] to explain away, and in february, - , we find him assuring the archbishop of york with an earnestness somewhat suspicious,[ ] "i love not to procure or yield any toleration; a matter which i well know no creature living durst propound to our religious sovereign." for himself, he thus declares: "i will be much less than i am, or rather nothing at all, before i shall become an instrument of such a miserable change." nevertheless, on the th of april following, he was fain to acknowledge, in writing to parry,[ ] that the news of pope clement's death had much eased him in his mind. it would, however, appear that the spectre of possible toleration still haunted him, and that he felt it necessary to commit the king to a course of severity. in a minute of september th, , addressed to the same ambassador, which has been corrected and amended with an amount of care sufficiently testifying to the importance of the subject,[ ] after speaking of "the plots and business of the priests," and the tendency of englishmen going abroad "in this time of peace" to become catholics, he thus continues: "only this is it wherein my own heart receiveth comfort, that we live under a most religious and understanding prince, who sticketh not to publish, as well in his own particular, as in the form of his government, how contrary that religion is to his resolution, and how far he will be from ever gracing [it]." he goes on to declare that nothing will so avail to make his majesty withdraw his countenance from any man as such "falling away." about the same time as this was written, we are told by a writer, almost a contemporary,[ ] that a dependent of cecil's warned a catholic gentleman, by name buck, of a "wicked design" which his master had in hand against the papists. on the th of october, more than a week before the first hint of danger is said to have been breathed, we find the minister writing to sir thomas edmondes, at brussels,[ ] in terms which certainly appear to couple together the growing danger of conversions to catholicism, of which we have heard above, and the remedy soon to be supplied by the new policy which the discovery of the plot so effectively established. he speaks of the "insolencies" of the priests and jesuits, who are doing much injury by infecting with their poison "every youth that cometh amongst them;" ominously adding, "which liberty must, for one cause or another, be retrenched." there can be no doubt that the issue of the gunpowder plot was eminently calculated to work such an effect; and even more would seem to have been anticipated from it than was actually realized, for the secretary, we are told, promised king james that in consequence of it not a single jesuit should remain in england. in the accounts supplied to us as to the manner of the "discovery," we obtain much interesting information from the utterances of the government itself. in studying these we cannot fail to notice an evident effort to reconcile two conflicting interests. on the one hand, that the king and the nation should be properly impressed with a sense of their marvellous deliverance, it was essential to represent the catastrophe as having been imminent, which could not be unless the preparations for it had been altogether unsuspected; and it was likewise desirable to magnify the divine sagacity of the monarch, which had been the instrument of providence to avert a disaster otherwise inevitable. on the other hand, however, it should not be made to appear that those to whose keeping the public safety was intrusted had shown themselves culpably negligent or incompetent; and it had therefore to be insinuated that, after all, they were not without "sufficient advertisement" of danger, and even of danger specifically connected with the actual conspirators, and directed against the parliament. but, again, lest such information should appear suspiciously accurate, the actual plotters had to be merged in a larger body of their co-religionists, and their design to be represented in vague and general terms. at the time, no doubt, this was effective enough. now however that we know, by the light of subsequent investigations, who exactly were engaged, and what was in hand, it is possible to estimate these declarations at their true value.[ ] except with the aid of such an explanation as this, it seems impossible to understand the endless inconsistencies and contradictions of the official narrative. this we have in four forms, all coming to us on the highest authority, but addressed to different audiences, and hopelessly at variance upon almost every point. one is that given to the world as the "king's book,"[ ] containing, as mr. jardine tells us, the version which it was desired that the general public should accept. a second was furnished by cecil himself to the ambassadors at madrid and brussels, and the lord deputy in ireland,[ ] and a third to the ambassador at paris.[ ] we have likewise the minute of november th, already mentioned as perhaps intended for the information of the privy council, which, although it has seemingly served as the basis of the story told in the "king's book," contradicts that story in various not unimportant particulars. we shall afterwards have to examine in some detail the divergencies of these several narratives: at present we are concerned only with the intimation which they afford of a previous knowledge of the plot on the part of the government. in the "king's book"--which was not only to be disseminated broadcast at home, but to be translated and spread abroad, and, moreover, to be suited to the taste of its supposed author--the preternatural acuteness of the monarch is extolled in terms of most preposterous flattery, and his secretary is represented as altogether incredulous of danger, and unwilling to be convinced even by his royal master's wonderful interpretation of the mysterious warning. nevertheless, not only is mention parenthetically introduced of the minister's "customable and watchful care of the king and state, boiling within him," of his laying up these things in his heart, "like the blessed virgin mary," and being unable to rest till he had followed the matter farther,--but it is dexterously intimated that, for all his hardness of belief, he was sufficiently well informed before the warning came to hand, and that "this accident did put him in mind of divers advertisements he had received from beyond the seas, wherewith he had acquainted as well the king himself, as divers of his privy councillors, concerning some business the papists were in, both at home and abroad, making combination amongst them for some combination against this parliament time," their object being to approach the king with a petition for toleration, "which should be delivered in some such order, and so well backed, as the king should be loth to refuse their requests; like the sturdy beggars craving alms with one open hand, but carrying a stone in the other, in case of refusal." as prepared for the privy council, the account, though substantially the same, was somewhat more explicit. the secretary was fully aware, so the lords were told, "that some practices might be doubted," and he "had, any time these three months, acquainted the king, and some of his majesty's inward counsellors, that the priests and laymen abroad and at home were full of the papists of this kingdom, seeking still to lay some _plot_ for procuring at this parliament exercise of their religion." in his letter to the ambassadors cecil was able to speak more plainly, for this document was not to meet the eye of james. accordingly, he not only acknowledges that on seeing the monteagle letter he at once divined the truth, and understood all about the powder, and moreover reverses the parts played by his majesty and himself--making the former incredulous in spite of what he himself could urge in support of his opinion--but he goes on to give his previous information a far more definite complexion: "not but that i had sufficient advertisement that most of these that now are fled [_i.e._ the conspirators]--being all notorious recusants--with many others of that kind, had a practice in hand for some stir this parliament." he, moreover, describes the plotters, in terms already cited, as "gentlemen spent in their fortunes and fit for all alterations." in view of all this it is quite impossible to believe the account given of themselves by those who were responsible for the public safety, and to suppose that they were not only so neglectful of their duty, but so incredibly foolish, and so unlike themselves, as to permit a gross and palpable peril to approach unnoticed. if, on the other hand, as appears to be certain, the information with which they were supplied were copious and minute, erring by excess far more than by defect, if, instead of lethargy and carelessness, we find in their conduct, at every stage of the proceedings, evidence of the extremest vigilance and of constant activity, and if they held it of prime importance to disguise the facts, and were willing to incur the charge of having been asleep at their posts, rather than let it be thought that they knew what they did, it can scarcely be doubted that the history of the gunpowder plot given to the world was in its essential features what they wished it to be.[ ] a practical illustration of the methods freely employed by statesmen of the period will serve to throw fuller light upon this portion of our inquiry. in the service of the government was one thomas phelippes,[ ] by trade a "decipherer," who was employed to "make english" of intercepted letters written in cipher. his services had been largely used in connection with mary, queen of scots, some of whose letters he thus interpreted, having it in his power, as mr. tytler remarks, to garble or falsify them at pleasure.[ ] moreover, to serve the purposes of his masters, as he himself acknowledges,[ ] he had upon occasion forged one side of a correspondence, in order to induce the person addressed to commit himself in reply.[ ] at the time of the gunpowder plot, however, phelippes had himself fallen under suspicion, on account of a correspondence with hugh owen, of whom we shall hear elsewhere. accordingly, an attempt was made to hoist him with his own petard, and another agent, named barnes, was employed by cecil to write a letter, as coming from phelippes (who was then in england) and carry it to owen in flanders in order to draw him out. at dover, however, barnes was arrested, being mistaken for another man for whom a watch was being kept. thereupon, his papers being seized and sent to the earl of northampton, who appears not to have been in the secret of this matter, cecil was obliged to arrest phelippes at once, as though the letter were genuine, instead of waiting, as he had intended, in order to worm out more. the story of this complex and crooked business is frankly told by cecil himself in a letter to edmondes, english ambassador at brussels, which, after the above abstract, will be sufficiently intelligible.[ ] "as for barnes, he is now returning again into flanders, with many vows and promises to continue to do good service. as he was at dover with my pass, carrying a letter from philipps to owen (of barnes own handwriting, wherewith i was before acquainted), he was suddenly stayed by order from the lord warden, upon suspicion that he was one acton, a traitor of the late conspiracy.... whereupon, his papers and letters being sent to my lord of northampton, i thought fit not to defer any longer the calling of philipps into question; which till then i had forborne, hoping by barnes his means to have discovered some further matter than before i could do." footnotes: [ ] he appears to have been no relation of john and christopher wright, the conspirators. [ ] davies was employed in other affairs of a similar nature. see _dom. james i._, xix. , i (p.r.o.). [ ] cf. a "setter dog." [ ] see the full text of wright's letter, appendix g. [ ] see the text of the memorial, appendix g. [ ] copy in the p.r.o. _dom. james i._ vii. , and xx. . the informer's name is given in the latter, viz., ralph ratcliffe. [ ] it was likewise cited in the interrogatories prepared for the jesuit thomas strange (brit. mus. _mss. add._ , ) in november, , and in this case also as treating of the gunpowder plot and no other. [ ] _illustrations_, iii. . [ ] p.r.o. _france_, b. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] p.r.o. _france_, bundle . [ ] _ibid._ f. b. [ ] hatfield mss. , n. . [ ] p.r.o. _gunpowder plot book_, . [ ] november th, , _dom. james i._ xvi. . [ ] at a later period (july th, ) we find that southwaick ("or southwell") had lost favour and was warned by salisbury to leave the country. "i hold him," says the earl, "to be a very impostor." (_to edmondes_, phillipps ms. f. .) [ ] stowe mss., , . [ ] _ibid._ . [ ] _ibid._ . [ ] birch, _historical view_, p. . [ ] p.r.o. _france_, bundle , january th, - . [ ] "who so evar finds this box of letars let him carry hit to the kings magesty: my mastar litel thinks i knows of this, but yn ridinge wth him that browt the letar to my mastar to a katholyk gentlemans hows anward of his way ynto lin konsher [lincolnshire], he told me al his purpos, and what he ment to do; and he beinge a prest absolved me and mad me swar nevar to revel hit to ane man. i confes myself a katholyk, and do hate the protystans relygon with my hart, and yit i detest to consent ethar to murdar or treson. i have blotyd out sartyn nams in the letars becas i wold not have ethar my mastar or ane of his frends trobyl aboute this; for by his menes i was mad a goud katholyk, and i wod to god the king war a good katholyk: that is all the harm i wish him; and let him tak hed what petysons or suplycasons he take of ane man; and i hop this box will be found by som that will giv hit to the king, hit may do him good one day. i men not to com to my mastar any moe, but wil return unto my contry from whens i cam. as for my nam and contry i consel that; and god make the king a goud katholyk; and let ser robart sesil and my lord cohef gustyse lok to them selvse." (printed in appendix to _third report of historical mss. commission_, p. .) [ ] it is signed "g.d.," and was possibly written by a relation of sir everard's. [ ] to sir h. bruncard, march rd, - . p.r.o. _ireland_, vol. . [ ] "instructions to my trusty servant sir james lindsay, for answer to the lettre and commission brought by him from the pope unto me." a^o . (p.r.o. _france_, b. .) in these notes the king explains that the things of greatest import cannot be written, but have been imparted "by tongue" to the envoy, to be delivered to his holiness. moreover he thus charges lindsay: "you shall assure him that i shall never be forgetful of the continual proof i have had of his courtesy and long inclination towards me, and especially by this his so courteous and unexpected message, which i shall be careful to requite thankfully by all civil courtesies that shall be in my power, the particulars whereof i remit likewise to your declaration." besides this, he protests that he will ever inviolably observe two points: first, never to dissemble what he thinks, especially in matters of conscience; secondly, never to reject reason when he hears it urged on the other side. [ ] p.r.o. _france_, b. . [ ] lodge, _illustrations_, iii. . [ ] p.r.o. _france_, b. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _the politician's catechism_, . [ ] birch, _historical view_, p. . [ ] "if the priestes and catholickes, so many thousands in england would have entertayned it, no man can be so malicious and simple to thinke but there would have been a greater assembly than fourscore [in the midlands] to take such an action in hand, and the council could not be so winking eyed, but they would have found forth some one or other culpable, which they could never do, though some of them, most powerable in it, tendered and racked forth their hatred against us to the uttermost limites they could extend." _english protestants' plea_, p. . [ ] _discourse of the manner of the discovery of the gunpowder plot._ printed in the collected works of king james, by bishop mountague, by bishop barlow, in _gunpowder treason_, and in cobbett's _state trials_, as an appendix to that of the conspirators. [ ] _i.e._, cornwallis, edmondes, and chichester. the despatch to cornwallis is printed in winwood's _memorials_, ii. . [ ] sir thoms parry, p.r.o. _france_, bundle . [ ] mr. hepworth dixon observes (_her majesty's tower_, i. , seventh edition) that a man must have been in no common measure ignorant of cecil and northampton who could dream that such a design could escape the greatest masters of intrigue alive, and that abundant evidence makes it clear that the council were informed of the plot in almost every stage, and that their agents dogged the footsteps of those whom they suspected, taking note of all their proceedings. "it was no part of cecil's policy," adds mr. dixon, "to step in before the dramatic time." [ ] often called phelipps, or philipps. [ ] _history of scotland_, iii. , note (ed. eadie). it was on one of these letters which had been in the hands of phelippes that mary was convicted. [ ] _dom. james i._ xx. . april, . [ ] in the fragment cited above, phelippes says that queen elizabeth and the earl of essex largely availed themselves of this device of his, and that "my lord of salisbury had himself made some use of it in the queen's time." [ ] february th, - . (stowe mss. .) chapter vi. the "discovery." when the conspirators first undertook their enterprise, parliament was appointed to meet on february th, - , but, as has been seen, it was subsequently prorogued till october rd, and then again till tuesday, november th. on occasion of the october prorogation, the confederates employed thomas winter to attend the ceremony in order to learn from the demeanour of the assembled peers whether any suspicion of their design had suggested this unexpected adjournment. he returned to report that no symptom could be discerned of alarm or uneasiness, and that the presence of the volcano underfoot was evidently unsuspected. thus reassured, his associates awaited with confidence the advent of the fatal fifth. in the interval occurred the event which forms the official link connecting the secret and the public history of the plot, namely, the receipt of the letter of warning by lord monteagle. that the document is of supreme importance in our history cannot be denied, for the government account clearly stands or falls with the assertion that this was in reality the means whereby the impending catastrophe was averted. that it was so, the official story proclaimed from the first with a vehemence in itself suspicious, and the famous letter was exhibited to the world with a persistence and solicitude not easy to explain; being printed in the "king's book," and in every other account of the affair; while transcribed copies were sent to the ambassadors at foreign courts and other public personages.[ ] had a warning really been given, in such a case, to save the life of a kinsman or friend, the circumstance, however fortunate, would scarcely have been wonderful, nor can we think that the document would thus have been multiplied for inspection. if, on the other hand, it had been carefully contrived for its purpose, it would not be unnatural for those who knew where the weak point lay, to wish the world to be convinced that there really had been a letter. it is, moreover, not easy to understand the importance attributed to monteagle's service in connection with it. to have handed to the authorities such a message, evidently of an alarming nature, though he himself did not professedly understand it, does not appear to have entitled him to the extraordinary consideration which he in fact received. the attorney general was specially instructed, at the trial, to extol his lordship's conduct.[ ] wherever, in the confession of the conspirators, his name was mentioned, it was erased, or pasted over with paper, or the whole passage was omitted before publication of the document. all this is easy to understand if he were the instrument employed for a critical and delicate transaction, depending for success upon his discretion and reticence. on any other supposition it seems inexplicable. [illustration: monteagle and letter. the gallant _eagle_, soaring vp on high: beares in his beake, _treasons_ discouery. movnt, noble eagle, with thy happy prey, and thy rich _prize_ to th' _king_ with speed conuay.] moreover, monteagle's services received most substantial acknowledgment in the form of a grant of £ a year,[ ] equivalent, at least, to ten times that amount in money of the present day.[ ] there still exists[ ] the draft preamble of the grant making this award, which has been altered and emended with an amount of care which sufficiently testifies to the importance of the matter. in this it is said of the letter that by the knowledge thereof "we had the first _and only_ means to discover that most wicked and barbarous plot"--the words italicised being added as an interlineation by cecil himself. nevertheless, it appears certain that this is not, and cannot be, the truth; indeed, historians of all shades equally discountenance the idea. mr. jardine[ ] considers it "hardly credible that the letter was really the means by which the plot was discovered," and inclines to the belief[ ] that the whole story concerning it "was merely a device of the government ... to conceal the means by which their information had been derived." similarly mr. j.s. brewer[ ] holds it as certain that this part, at least, of the story is a fiction designed to conceal the truth. mr. gardiner, who is less inclined than others to give up the received story, thinks that, to say the least of it, it is highly probable that monteagle expected the letter before it came.[ ] for a right understanding of the point it is necessary to consider the character of the man who plays so important a part in this episode. lord monteagle, the eldest son of lord morley, ennobled under a title derived through his mother, was, in mr. jardine's opinion,[ ] "a person precisely adapted for an instrument on such an occasion;" and the description appears even more applicable than was intended. he had been implicated in all the doings of the turbulent section of the english catholics[ ] for several years, having taken part in the rising of essex, and in the spanish negotiations, whatever they were, conducted through the instrumentality of thomas winter. with catesby, and others of the conspirators, he was on terms of the closest and most intimate friendship, and tresham was his brother-in-law. a letter of his to catesby is still preserved, which, in the opinion of some, affords evidence of his having been actually engaged in the powder plot itself;[ ] and mr. jardine, though dissenting from the view that the letter proves so much, judges it not at all impossible or improbable that he was in fact privy to the conspiracy. it is likewise certain that up to the last moment monteagle was on familiar terms with the plotters, to whom, a few days before the final catastrophe, he imparted an important piece of information.[ ] at the same time it is evident that monteagle was in high favour at court, as is sufficiently evidenced by the fact that he was appointed to be one of the commissioners for the prorogation of october rd, a most unusual distinction for one in his position, as also by the pains taken by the government on behalf of his brother, who had shortly before got himself into trouble in france.[ ] a still more remarkable circumstance has been strangely overlooked by historians.[ ] monteagle always passed for a catholic, turbulent indeed and prone to violence, but attached, even fanatically, to his creed, like his friend catesby and the rest. there remains, however, an undated letter of his to the king,[ ] in which he expresses his determination to become a protestant; and while in fulsome language extolling his majesty's zeal for his spiritual welfare, speaks with bitterness and contempt of the faith which, nevertheless, he continued to profess to the end of his life, and that without exciting suspicion of his deceit among the catholics. not only must this shake our confidence in the genuine nature of any transaction in which such a man played a prominent part, it must likewise suggest a doubt whether others may not in like manner have passed themselves off for what they were not, without arousing suspicion. the precise facts as to the actual receipt of the famous letter are involved, like every other particular of this history, in the obscurity begotten of contradictory evidence. in the published account,[ ] it is stated with great precision that it was received by monteagle on saturday, october th, being but ten days before the parliament. in his letter to the ambassadors abroad,[ ] cecil dates its receipt "about eight days before the parliament should have begun." in the account furnished for the benefit of the king of france,[ ] the same authority declares that it came to hand "some four or five days before." a doubt is thus unquestionably suggested as to whether the circumstances of its coming to monteagle's hands are those traditionally described: for our present purpose, however, it will perhaps be sufficient to follow the story as formally told by authority in the king's own book. on saturday, october th, ten days before the assembly of parliament, monteagle suddenly, and without previous notice, ordered a supper to be prepared at his house at hoxton "where he had not supped or lain of a twelvemonth and more before that time."[ ] while he was at table one of his pages brought him a letter which had been given to him by a man in the street, whose features he could not distinguish, with injunctions to place it in his master's own hands. it is undoubtedly a singular circumstance, which did not escape notice at the time, that the bearer of this missive should have thus been able to find monteagle at a spot which he was not accustomed to frequent, and the obvious inference was drawn, that the arrival of the letter was expected. on this point, indeed, there is somewhat more than inference to go upon, for in fulman's ms. collection at corpus christi college, oxford, among some interesting notes concerning the plot, of which we shall see more, occurs the statement that "the lord monteagle knew there was a letter to be sent to him before it came."[ ] monteagle opened the letter, and, glancing at it, perceived that it bore neither date nor signature, whereupon he handed it to a gentleman of his household, named ward, to read aloud, an apparently unnatural and imprudent proceeding not easy to explain, but, at least, inconsistent with the conduct of one receiving an obviously important communication in such mysterious circumstances. the famous epistle must be given in its native form. _my lord out of the love i beare to some of youere frends i have a caer of youer preseruacion therfor i would advyse yowe as yowe tender youer lyf to devys some excuse to shift of youer attendance at this parleament for god and man hath concurred to punishe the wickednes of this tyme and think not slightlye of this advertisment but retyre youre self into youre contri wheare yowe may expect the event in safti for thowghe theare be no apparence of anni stir yet i saye they shall receyve a terrible blowe this parleament and yet they shall not seie who hurts them this cowncel is not to be contemned because it maye do yowe good and can do yowe no harme for the dangere is passed as soon as yowe have burnt the letter and i hope god will give yowe the grace to mak good use of it to whose holy proteccion i comend yowe_ (addressed) _to the ryht honorable the lord mo[=u]teagle_ monteagle, though he saw little or nothing in this strange effusion, resolved at once to communicate with the king's ministers, his majesty being at the time engaged at royston in his favourite pastime of the chase, and accordingly proceeding at once to town, he placed the mysterious document in the hands of the earl of salisbury.[ ] as to what thereafter followed and the manner in which from this clue the discovery was actually accomplished, it is impossible to say more than this, that the accounts handed down cannot by any possibility be true, inasmuch as on every single point they are utterly and hopelessly at variance. we can do no more than set down the particulars as supplied to us on the very highest authority. a.--_the account published in the "king's book."_ . the letter was received ten days before the meeting of parliament, _i.e._, on october th. . the earl of salisbury judged it to be the effusion of a lunatic, but thought it well, nevertheless, to communicate it to the king. . this was done five days afterwards, november st, when, in spite of his minister's incredulity, james insisted that the letter could intend nothing but the blowing up of the parliament with gunpowder, and that a search must be made, which, however, should be postponed till the last moment. . accordingly, on the afternoon of monday, november th, the lord chamberlain going on a tour of inspection, visited the "cellar" and found there "great store of billets, faggots, and coals," and moreover, "casting his eye aside, perceived a fellow standing in a corner ... guido fawkes the owner of that hand which should have acted that monstrous tragedy." coming back, the chamberlain reported that the provision of fuel appeared extraordinary, and that as to the man, "he looked like a very tall and desperate fellow." . thereupon the king insisted that a thorough scrutiny must be made, and that "those billets and coals should be searched to the bottom, it being most suspicious that they were laid there only for covering of the powder." for this purpose sir thomas knyvet, a magistrate, was despatched with a suitable retinue. . before his entrance to the house, knyvet found faukes "standing without the doors, his boots and clothes on," and straightway apprehended him. then, going into the cellar, he removed the firewood and at once discovered the barrels. b.--_the account sent by salisbury to the ambassadors abroad, and the deputy in ireland, november th, ._ . the letter was received about _eight_ days before the parliament. . upon perusal thereof, salisbury and suffolk, the chamberlain, "both conceived that it could not be more proper than the time of parliament, nor by any other way to be attempted than with powder, while the king was sitting in that assembly." with this interpretation other lords of the council agreed; but they thought it well not to impart the matter to the king till three or four days before the session. . his majesty was "hard of belief" that any such thing was intended, but his advisers overruled him and insisted on a search, not however till the last moment. [illustration: arrest of guy faukes.] . about o'clock on the afternoon of monday, november th, the lord chamberlain, suffolk, visited the cellar, and found in it only firewood and not faukes. . the lords however insisting, in spite of the king, that the matter should be probed to the bottom, knyvet was despatched with orders to "_remove all the wood, and so to see the plain ground underneath_." . knyvet, about midnight, "going unlooked for into the vault, found that fellow johnson [_i.e._, faukes] _newly come out of the vault_," and seized him. then, having removed the wood, he perceived the barrels. c.--_the account furnished by salisbury for the information of the king of france, november th, . (original draft, in the p.r.o.)_ . the letter was received _some four or five days_ before the parliament. . this being shown to the king and the lords, "their lordships found not good ... to give much credit to it, nor yet so to contemn it as to do nothing at all." . it was accordingly determined, the night before, "to make search about that place and to appoint a watch in the old palace, to observe what persons might resort thereabouts." . sir t. knyvet, being appointed to the charge thereof, _going by chance, about midnight, into the vault, by another door, found faukes within_. thereupon he caused some few faggots to be removed, and so discovered some of the barrels, "_merely, as it were, by god's direction, having no other cause but a general jealousy_."[ ] never, assuredly, was a true story so hard to tell. contradictions like these, upon every single point of the narrative, are just such as are wont to betray the author of a fiction when compelled to be circumstantial. to say nothing of the curious discrepancies as to the date of the warning, it is clearly impossible to determine the locality of guy's arrest. the account officially published in the "king's book" says that this took place in the street. the letter to the ambassadors assigns it to the cellar and afterwards to the street; that to parry, to the cellar only. faukes himself, in his confession of november th, says that he was apprehended neither in the street nor in the cellar, but in his own room in the adjoining house. chamberlain writes to carleton, november th, that it was in the cellar. howes, in his continuation of stowe's _annals_, describes two arrests of faukes, one in the street, the other upstairs in his own chamber. this point, though seemingly somewhat trivial, has been invested with much importance. according to the time-honoured story, the baffled desperado roundly declared that had he been within reach of the powder when his captors appeared, he would have applied a match and involved them in his own destruction. this circumstance is strongly insisted on not only in the "king's book," but also in his majesty's speech to parliament on november th, which declared, "and in that also was there a wonderful providence of god, that when the party himself was taken he was but new come out of his house from working, having his fire-work for kindling ready in his pocket, wherewith, as he confesseth, if he been taken immediately before, he was resolved to have blown up himself with his takers." we learn, however, from cecil's earliest version of the history, that faukes was apprehended in the very situation most suitable for such a purpose, "in the place itself, as he was busy to prepare his things for execution," while chamberlain adds that he was actually engaged in "making his trains." far more serious, to say nothing of the episode of the chamberlain's visit, are the divergencies of the several versions as to the very substance of the story. we are told that king james was the first to understand and interpret the letter which had baffled the sagacity of his privy council; that the lords of the council had fully interpreted it several days before the king saw it; that the said lords would not credit the king's interpretation; that the king would not believe their interpretation; and that neither the one nor the other ever interpreted it at all; that his majesty insisted on a search being made in spite of the reluctance of his ministers; that they insisted on the search in spite of the reluctance of their royal master; and that no such search was ever proposed by either; that knyvet was despatched expressly to look for gunpowder, with instructions to rummage the firewood to the bottom, leaving no cover in which a barrel might lie hid; and that having no instructions to do anything of the kind, nor any reason to suspect the existence of any barrels, he discovered them only by a piece of luck, so purely fortuitous as to be clearly providential. on this last point especially the contradictions are absolutely irreconcilable. it is abundantly evident that those who with elaborate care produced these various versions were not supremely solicitous about the truth of the matter, and varied the tale according to the requirements of circumstances. as mr. jardine acknowledges,[ ] the great object of the official accounts was to obtain credence for what the government wished to be believed, or, as father gerard puts it,[ ] these accounts were composed "with desire that men should all conceive this to be the manner how the treason came to light." if from time to time the details were altogether transformed, it was clearly not through any abstract love of historical accuracy, but rather that there were difficulties to meet and doubts to satisfy, which had to be dealt with in order to produce the desired effect. that, from the beginning, there was whispered disbelief, which it was held all-important to silence, is sufficiently attested by cecil himself, when, on the very morrow of the discovery, he sent to parry his first draft of the history. "thus much," he wrote, "i have thought necessary to impart unto you in haste, to the end that you may deliver as much to the french king, for prevention of false bruits, which i know, as the nature of fame is, will be _increased_,[ ] perverted, and disguised according to the disposition of men." it does not appear why the appearance of erroneous versions of so striking an event should have been thus confidently anticipated if the facts were undeniably established; while, on the other hand, it is not a little remarkable that the narrative thus expressly designed to establish the truth, should have been forthwith abandoned and contradicted by its author in every single particular. important information upon the same point is furnished by cecil in another letter, written in the following january.[ ] he undertakes to explain to his correspondent how it came to pass that a circumstance of supreme importance, of which the government were fully cognizant,[ ] was not mentioned in the official account. this he does as follows: "and although in his majesty's book there is not any mention made of them [the jesuits], and of many things else which came to the knowledge of the state, yet is it but a frivolous inference that thereby [they] seek to serve their turn, considering the purpose of his majesty was not to deliver unto the world all that was confessed concerning this action, _but so much only of the manner and form of it, and the means of the discovery_, as might make it apparent, both how wickedly it was conceived by those devilish instruments, and _how graciously it pleased god to deal with us in such an extraordinary discovery thereof_." turning to the details of the story which survive the struggle for existence in the conflict of testimony, if any can be said to do so, there is abundant matter deserving attention, albeit we may at once dismiss the time-honoured legend concerning the sagacity of the british solomon, and his marvellous interpretation of the riddling phrases which baffled the perspicacity of all besides himself.[ ] more important is cecil's admission that the presence of the powder under the parliament house was at least suspected for several days before anything was done to interfere with the proceedings of those who had put it there. the reasons alleged for so extraordinary a course are manifestly absurd. it was resolved, he told the ambassadors, "that, till the night before, nothing should be done to interrupt any purpose of theirs that had any such devilish practice, but rather to suffer them to go on to the end of their day." in like manner he informed the privy council[ ] that it was determined to make no earlier search, that "such as had such practice in hand might not be scared before they had let the matter run on to a full ripeness for discovery." it certainly appears that, at least, it would have been well before the eleventh hour to institute observations as to who might be coming and going about the cellar. on the other hand, can it be imagined that any minister in his right senses would have allowed the existence of a danger so appalling to continue so long, and have suffered a desperado like faukes to have gone on knocking about with his flint and steel and lantern in a powder magazine beneath the house of parliament? accidents are proverbially always possible, and in the circumstances described to us there would have been much more than a mere possibility, for the action said to have been taken by the authorities, in sending the chamberlain to "peruse" the vault, seems to have been expressly intended to give the alarm; and had the conspirators been scared it would evidently have been their safest plan to have precipitated the catastrophe, that in the confusion it would cause they might escape. how terrible such a catastrophe would have been is indicated by father greenway:[ ] "over and above the grievous loss involved in the destruction of these ancient and noble buildings, of the archives and national records, the king himself might have been in peril, and other royal edifices, though situate at a distance, and undoubtedly many would have perished who had come up to attend the parliament." moreover, the loss of life in so thickly populated a spot must have been frightful, and especially amongst the official classes. father greenway expresses his utter disbelief in the incident of the chamberlain's visit:[ ] "to speak my own mind," he writes, "i do not see in this portion of the story any sort of probability." he adds another remark of great importance. if the lord chamberlain,--and, we may add, sir t. knyvet,--could get into the cellar without the assistance of faukes, to say nothing of the "other door" which makes its appearance in cecil's first version, there is an end of the secret and hidden nature of the place, and some one else must have had a key. how, then, about the months during which the powder had been lying in it; during much of which time it had been, apparently, left to take care of itself? did no man ever enter and inspect it before? but questions far more fundamental inevitably suggest themselves. if, during ten, or even during five days, a minister so astute and vigilant was willing to risk the danger of an explosion, it certainly does not appear that he was much afraid of the powder, or thought there was any harm in it. we have already remarked on the strangeness of the circumstance that the plotters were able so easily to procure it. it may be observed that they appear themselves to have been disappointed with its quality, for we are told[ ] that late in the summer they added to their store "as suspecting the former to be dank." still more remarkable, however, was the conduct of the government. immediately upon the "discovery" they instituted the most minute and searching inquiries as to every other particular connected with the conspirators. we find copious evidence taken about their haunts, their lodgings, and their associates: of the boatmen who conveyed them hither and thither, the porters who carried billets, and the carpenters who worked for them: inquiries were diligently instituted as to where were purchased the iron bars laid on top of the barrels, which appear to have been considered especially dangerous; we hear of sword-hilts engraved for some of the company, of three beaver hats bought by another, and of the sixpence given to the boy who brought them home. but concerning the gunpowder no question appears ever to have been asked, whence it came, or who furnished it. yet this would appear to be a point at least as important as the rest, and if it was left in absolute obscurity, the inference is undoubtedly suggested that it was not wished to have questions raised. it may be added that no mention is discoverable of the augmentation of the royal stores by so notable a contribution as this would have furnished. neither can it escape observation that whereas the powder was discovered only on the morning[ ] of november th, the peers met as usual in their chamber that very day.[ ] it cannot be supposed either that four tons of powder could have been so soon removed, or that the most valuable persons in the state would have been suffered to expose themselves to the risk of assembling in so perilous a situation.[ ] however this may be, from the moment of the "discovery" the discovered gunpowder disappears from history.[ ] [illustration: discovery of gunpowder plot, and coins of james i. _coins_ in king james i. reign; _with the discovery of the_ gun powder plot.] there is another point which must be noticed. it might naturally be supposed that after so narrow an escape, and in accordance with their loud protestations of alarm at the proximity of a shocking calamity from which they had been so providentially delivered, the official authorities would have carefully guarded against the possibility of the like happening again. their acts, however, were quite inconsistent with their words, for they did nothing of the kind. for more than seventy years afterwards the famous "cellar" continued to be leased in the same easy-going fashion to any who chose to hire it, and continued to be the receptacle of all manner of rubbish and lumber, eminently suited to mask another battery. not till the days of the mendacious titus oates, and under the influence of the panic he had engendered, did the peers bethink themselves that a project such as that of guy faukes might really be a danger, and command that the "cellar" should be searched.[ ] this was done, in november, , by no less personages than sir christopher wren and sir jonas moore, who reported that the vaults and cellars under and near the house of lords were in such a condition that there could be no assurance of safety. it was accordingly ordered that they should be cleared of all timber, firewood, coals, and other materials, and that passages should be made through them all, to the end that they might easily be examined. at this time, and not before, was instituted the traditional searching of the cellars on the eve of parliament.[ ] what then, it will be asked, really did occur? what was done by the conspirators? and what by those who discovered them? truth to tell, it is difficult, or rather impossible, to answer such questions. that there was a plot of some kind cannot, of course, be doubted; that it was of such a nature as we have been accustomed to believe, can be affirmed only if we are willing to ignore difficulties which are by no means slight. there is, doubtless, a mass of evidence in support of the traditional story upon these points, but while its value has yet to be discussed, there are other considerations, hitherto overlooked, which are in conflict with it. something has been said of the amazing contradictions which a very slight examination of the official story reveals at every turn, and much more might be added under the same head.[ ] [illustration: "guy faukes' lantern."] on the other hand it is clear that even as to the material facts there was not at the time that unanimity which might have been expected. we have seen how anxious was the secretary of state that the french court should at once be rightly informed as to all particulars. we learn, however, from mr. dudley carleton, then attached to the embassy at paris,[ ] that in spite of cecil's promptitude he was anticipated by a version of the affair sent over from the french embassy in london, giving an utterly different complexion to it. according to this, the design had been, "that the council being set, and some lords besides in the chamber, a barrel of gunpowder should be fired underneath them, and the greater part, if not all, blown up." according to this informant, therefore, it was not the parliament house but the council chamber which was to have been assailed, there is no mention of the king, and we have one barrel of powder instead of thirty-six. it is not easy to understand how in such a matter a mistake like this could have been made, for it is the inevitable tendency of men to begin by exaggerating, and not by minimizing, a sudden and startling peril.[ ] moreover, even this modest version of the affair was not suffered to pass unchallenged. three days later carleton again wrote:[ ] "the fire which was said to have burnt our king and council, and hath been so hot these two days past in every man's mouth, proves but _ignis fatuus_, or a flash of some foolish fellow's brain to abuse the world; for it is now as confidently reported there was no such matter, nor anything near it more than a barrel of powder found near the court." it must here be observed that the scepticism thus early manifested appears never to have been exorcised from the minds of french writers, many of whom, of all shades of thought, continue, down to our day, to assume that the real plotters were the king's government.[ ] neither can we overlook sundry difficulties, again suggested by the facts of the case, which make it hard to understand how the plans of the plotters can in reality have been as they are represented. we have already observed on the nature of the house occupied in percy's name. if this were, as speed tells us, and as there is no reason to doubt, at the service of the peers during a session, for a withdrawing-room, and if the session was to begin on november th, how could faukes hope not only to remain in possession, but to carry on his strange proceedings unobserved, amid the crowd of lacqueys and officials with whom the opening of parliament by the sovereign must needs have flooded the premises? how was he, unobserved, to get into the fatal "cellar"? this difficulty is emphasized by another. we learn, on the unimpeachable testimony of mrs. whynniard, the landlady, that faukes not only paid the last instalment of rent on sunday, november rd, but on the following day, the day immediately preceding the intended explosion, had carpenters and other workfolk in the house "for mending and repairing thereof."[ ] to say nothing of the wonderful honesty of paying rent under the circumstances, what was the sense of putting a house in repair upon monday, which on tuesday was to be blown to atoms? and how could the practised eyes of such workmen fail to detect some trace of the extraordinary and unskilled operations of which the house is said to have been the theatre? if, indeed, the truth is that on the tuesday the premises were to be handed over for official use, it is easy to understand why it was thought necessary to set them in order, but on no other supposition does this appear comprehensible. problems, not easy to solve, connect themselves, likewise, with the actual execution of the conspirators' plan. if it would have been hard for guy faukes to get into the "cellar," how was he ever to get out of it again? we are so accustomed to the idea of darkness and obscurity in connection with him and his business, as perhaps to forget that his project was to have been executed in the very middle of the day, about noon or shortly afterwards. the king was to come in state with retinue and guards, and attended by a large concourse of spectators, who, as is usual on such occasions, would throng every nook and corner whence could be obtained a glimpse of the building in which the royal speech was being delivered.[ ] it cannot be doubted, in particular, that the open spaces adjacent to the house itself would be strictly guarded, and the populace not suffered to approach too near the sacred precincts, more especially when, as we have seen, so many suspicions were abroad of danger to his sacred majesty, and to the parliament. on a sudden a door immediately beneath the spot where the flower of the nation were assembled, would be unlocked and opened, and there would issue there-from a man, "looking like a very tall and desperate fellow," booted and spurred and equipped for travel. he was to have but a quarter of an hour to save himself from the ruin he had prepared.[ ] what possible chance was there that he would have been allowed to pass? as to his further plans, we have the most extravagant and contradictory accounts, some obviously fabulous.[ ] according to the least incredible, a vessel was lying below london bridge ready at once to proceed to sea and carry him to flanders; while a boat, awaiting him at the parliament stairs, was to convey him to the ship.[ ] if this were so, it is not clear why he equipped himself with his spurs, which, however, are authenticated by as good evidence as any other feature of the story. it would also appear that, here again, the plan proposed was altogether impracticable, for at the time of his projected flight the tide would have been flowing,[ ] and it is well known that to attempt to pass old london bridge against it would have been like trying to row up a waterfall. neither does it seem probable that the vessel would have been able to get out of the thames for several hours, before which time all egress would doubtless have been stopped. such considerations must at least avail to make us pause before we can unhesitatingly accept the traditional history, even in those broad outlines which appear to be best established. the main point is, however, independent of their truth. though all be as has been affirmed concerning the "cellar" and its contents, and the plan of operations agreed upon by the traitors, the question remains as to the real nature of the "discovery." we have seen, on the one hand, that the official narrative bristles with contradictions, and, whatever be the truth, with falsehoods. on the other hand, the said narrative was avowedly prepared with the object of obtaining credence for the picturesque but unveracious assertion that the plotters' design was detected "very miraculously, even some twelve hours before the matter should have been put in execution." on the earl of salisbury's own admission, it had been divined almost as many days previously, and it was laid open at the last moment only because he deliberately chose to wait till the last moment before doing anything. no doubt a dramatic feature was thus added to the business, and one eminently calculated to impress the public mind: but they who insist so loudly on the miraculousness of an event which they alone have invested with the character of a miracle, must be content to have it believed that they knew still more than in an unguarded moment they acknowledged, and arranged other things concerning the plot than its ultimate disclosure.[ ] footnotes: [ ] copies were sent by cecil to cornwallis at madrid, parry at paris, edmondes at brussels, and chichester at dublin. also by chamberlain to dudley carleton. [ ] "lastly, and this you must not omit, you must deliver, in commendation of my lord mounteagle, words to show how sincerely he dealt, and how fortunately it proved that he was the instrument of so great a blessing, ... because it is so lewdly given out that he was once of this plot of powder, and afterwards betrayed it all to me."--cecil to coke. (draft in the r.o., printed by jardine, _criminal trials_, ii. .) [ ] £ as an annuity for life, and £ per annum to him and his heirs for ever in fee farm rents. [ ] see thorold rogers, _agriculture and prices_, v. , and jessopp, _one generation of a norfolk house_, p. . [ ] r.o. _dom. james i._ xx. . [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. . [ ] _ibid._ . [ ] note on fuller's _church history_, x. § , and _on the student's hume_. [ ] _history_, i. . [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. . [ ] on march th, - , monteagle wrote to cecil from the tower, "my conscience tells me that i am no way gilty of these imputations, and that mearely the blindness of ignorance lead me into these infamous errors." (brit. mus. mss. add. ). [ ] the letter is printed in _archæologia_, xxviii. , by mr. bruce, who argues from it monteagle's complicity with the plot. mr. jardine's reply is found _ibid._ xxix. . [ ] according to t. winter's famous declaration, monteagle, within ten days before the meeting of parliament, told catesby and the others that the prince of wales was not going to attend the opening ceremony, wherefore they resolved to "leave the duke alone," and make arrangements to secure the elder brother. the original of winter's declaration, dated november th, which is at hatfield, contains these and other particulars, which are altogether omitted in a "copy" of the same in the record office, dated, remarkably enough, on november the rd. it is from the latter that the version in the "king's book" was printed. [ ] de beaumont to villeroy, september th, . [ ] mr. gardiner alludes to it, _history_, i. (note), but apparently attaches no importance to it. [ ] brit. museum, add. mss. fol. . see the letter in full, appendix h. [ ] _discourse of the manner of the discovery_ (the "king's book"). [ ] winwood, _memorials_, ii. , etc. (november th). in the entry book of the earl of salisbury's letters (phillipps' mss. , f. ) this is described as "being the same that was sent to all his majestie's embassadors and ministers abroade." to parry, however, quite a different account was furnished. [ ] cecil to sir t. parry, p.r.o. _france_, bundle (november th). [ ] gerard, _narrative_, p. . [ ] vol. ii. . the partisans of the government at the time appear to have solved the difficulty by invoking the direct guidance of heaven: "for thus the lord in's all-protecting grace, ten days before the parliament began, ordained that one of that most trayterous race did meet the lord mounteagles serving-man, who about seven a clocke at night was sent upon some errand, and as thus he went, crossing the street a fellow to him came, a man to him unknowen, of personage tall, in's hand a letter, and he gave the same unto this serving-man, and therewithall did strictly charge him to take speciall heede to give it into's masters hand with speede." _mischeefes mystery_ ( ). [ ] here again evidence was found of the direct guidance of heaven: "and thus with loyall heart away he goes, thereto resolved whatever should betide, to th' court he went this matter to disclose, to th' earle of salsb'ryes chamber soone he hide, whither heavens finger doubtless him directed, as the best meanes to have this fact detected." _mischeefes mystery._ [ ] in the account forwarded to the ambassadors, there is a curious contradiction. in the general sketch of the discovery with which it opens, it is said that faukes was captured "in the place itself," with his lantern, "making his preparations." afterwards, in the detailed narrative of the proceedings, that he was taken outside. the fact is, that the first portion of this letter is taken bodily from that of november th to parry, wherein the arrest of faukes in the vault was a principal point. between the th and the th this part of the story had been altered, but it does not seem to have been noticed that a remnant of the earlier version still existed in the introductory portion. it will be remarked that the account of november th makes no mention of the visit of the chamberlain to the vault, nor that of november th to the presence of faukes at the time of this visit. the minute of november th says that faukes admitted the chamberlain to the vault. [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. - . [ ] _narrative_, p. . [ ] this word is cancelled in the original draft. [ ] to sir t. edmondes, january nd, - .--stowe mss., , , f. . [ ] _viz._, the complicity of the jesuits, "not only as being casually acquainted with the plot," but as having been "principall comforters, to instruct the consciences of some of these wicked traytors, in the lawfulnesse of the act and meritoriousnesse of the same." on this it is enough to remark that when father garnet, the chief of the said jesuits, came afterwards to be tried, no attempt whatever was made to prove any such thing. cecil therefore wrote thus, and made so grave an assertion, without having any evidence in his hands to justify it. [ ] that king james alone solved the enigma was put forth as an article of faith. in the preamble to the act for the solemnization of the th of november, parliament declared that the treason "would have turned to utter ruin of this whole kingdom, had it not pleased almighty god, by inspiring the king's most excellent majesty with a divine spirit, to discover some dark phrases of a letter...." in like manner, the monarch himself, in his speech to the houses, of november th, informed them: "i did upon the instant interpret and apprehend some dark phrases therein, contrary to the ordinary grammar construction of them, and in another sort, than i am sure any divine or lawyer in any university would have taken them." this "dark phrase" was the sentence--"for the danger is past as soon as you have burnt the letter," which the royal sage interpreted to mean "as quickly," and that by these words "should be closely understood the suddenty and quickness of the danger, which should be as quickly performed and at an end as that paper should be of blazing up in the fire." of this famous interpretation mr. gardiner says that it is "certainly absurd;" while mr. jardine is of opinion that the words in question "must appear to every common understanding mere nonsense." when it was proposed in the house of commons (january st, - ,) to pass a vote of thanks to lord monteagle for his share in the "discovery," one mr. fuller objected that this would be to detract from the honour of his majesty, for "the true discoverer was the king." the reader will perhaps be reminded of sir walter scott's inimitable picture of the king's satisfaction in this notable achievement. "do i not ken the smell of pouther, think ye? who else nosed out the fifth of november, save our royal selves? cecil, and suffolk, and all of them, were at fault, like sae mony mongrel tikes, when i puzzled it out; and trow ye that i cannot smell pouther? why, 'sblood, man, joannes barclaius thought my ingine was in some manner inspiration, and terms his history of the plot, _series patefacti divinitus parricidii_; and spondanus, in like manner, saith of us, _divinitus evasit_."--_fortunes of nigel_, c. xxvii. [ ] _relation_ ..., november th, (p.r.o.). [ ] _narrative_, f. b.--stonyhurst mss. [ ] f. . it will be remembered that this episode is not mentioned by cecil in his version of november th. bishop goodman's opinion is that this and other points of the story were contrived for stage effect: "the king must have the honour to interpret that it was by gunpowder; and the very night before the parliament began it was to be discovered, to make the matter the more odious, and the deliverance the more miraculous. no less than the lord chamberlain must search for it and discover it, and faux with his dark lantern must be apprehended." (_court of king james_, p. .) [ ] t. winter, november rd, . [ ] there is, of course, abundant contradiction upon this point, as all others, but the balance of evidence appears to point to a.m. or thereabouts. [ ] the customary hour for the meeting of the houses was a.m., or even earlier. (_journals of parliament._) [ ] the list of those present is given in the _lords' journals_; it is headed by the lord chancellor (ellesmere), and includes the archbishop of canterbury, fourteen bishops, and thirty-one peers, of whom lord monteagle was one. in , as mr. atkinson tells us in his preface to the lately published volume of the _calendar of irish state papers_, the cellars of the dublin law courts were used as a powder magazine. the english privy council, startled to hear of this remarkable arrangement, pointed out that it might probably further diminish the number of loyal subjects in that kingdom, but were quaintly reassured by the irish lords justices, who explained that, in view of the troublous state of the times, the sittings of the courts had been discontinued, and were not likely to be resumed for the present. [ ] the only allusion to it i have been able to find occurs in the _politician's catechism_ ( ), p. : "yet the barells, wherein the powder was, are kept as reliques, and were often shown to the king and his posterity, that they might not entertain the least thought of clemency towards the catholique religion. there is not an ignorant minister or tub-preacher, who doth not (when all other matter fails) remit his auditors to the gunpowder treason, and describe those tubs very pathetically, the only reliques thought fit by them to be kept in memory." [ ] _journals of the house of lords_, november st and nd, . [ ] _ibid._, november nd, . [ ] i have already remarked upon faukes' statement that he was arrested in quite a different place from any mentioned in the government accounts. it should be added, that as to the person who arrested him, there is a somewhat similar discrepancy of evidence. the honour is universally assigned by the official accounts to sir t. knyvet, who in the following year was created a peer, which shows that he undoubtedly rendered some valuable service on the occasion. an epitaph, however, in st. anne's church, aldersgate (printed in maitland's _history of london_, p. , rd ed.), declares that it was peter heiwood, of heywood, lancashire, "who apprehended guy faux, with his dark lanthorn; and for his zealous prosecution of papists, as justice of peace, was stabbed, in westminster hall, by john james, a dominican friar, a.d. ." no trace of this assassination can be found, nor does the name of john james occur in the dominican records. it is, however, a curious coincidence that the "guy faukes' lantern," exhibited in the ashmolean museum at oxford, bears the inscription: "_laterna ilia ipsa quâ usus est, et cum qua deprehensus guido faux in cryptâ subterraneâ, ubi domo_ [sic] _parliamenti difflandae operam dabat. ex dono robti. heywood nuper academiae procuratoris, ap. ^o, ._" see the epitaph in full, appendix i. [ ] to j. chamberlain, th- th november, . p.r.o. _france_, b. , f. b. [ ] the council appears at this time to have met in the painted chamber, and, without at all wishing to lay too much stress upon this point, i cannot but remark that the supposition that this was the original scene assigned to the operations of faukes would solve various difficulties: . beneath the painted chamber was a vaulted cellar, answering to the description we have so frequently heard, whereas under the house of lords was neither a cellar nor a vault. . this crypt beneath the painted chamber has been constantly shown as "guy faukes' cellar." . in prints of the period, faukes is usually represented as going to blow up this chamber, never the house of lords. [ ] to chamberlain, november th (o.s.), . p.r.o. [ ] thus m. bouillet, in the latest edition of his _dictionnaire d'histoire et géographie_, speaks as follows: "le ministre cupide et orgueilleux, cécil, semble avoir été l'âme du complot, et l'avoir découvert lui même au moment propice, après avoir présenté à l'esprit faible de jacques i. les dangers auxquels il était en but de la part des catholiques." gazeau and prampain (_hist. mod._, tome i.) speak of the conspiracy as "cette plaisanterie;" and say of the conspirators, "dans une cave, ils avaient déposé barils contenant (ou soi-disant tels) de la poudre." [ ] p.r.o. _gunpowder plot book_, (november ). [ ] in herring's _pietas pontificia_ ( ) the king is described as coming to the house: "magna cum pompa, stipatorumque caterva, palmatisque, togis, gemmis, auroque refulgent: ingens fit populi concursus, compita complens, turbis se adglomerant densis, spectantque triumphum." [ ] faukes himself says--examination of november th--that the touchwood would have burnt a quarter of an hour. [ ] see appendix k, _myths of the powder plot_. [ ] in connection with this appears an interesting example of the natural philosophy of the time, it being said that faukes selected this mode of escape, hoping that water, being a non-conductor, would save him from the effects of the explosion. [ ] i am informed on high authority that on the day in question it was high water at london bridge between five and six p.m. in his _memorials of the tower of london_ (p. ) lord de ros says that the vessel destined to convey him to flanders was to be in waiting for faukes at the river side close by, and that in it he was to drop down the river with the ebb tide. it would, of course, have been impossible for any sea-going craft to make its way up to westminster; nor would the ebb tide run to order. [ ] it is frequently said that the testimony of bishop goodman, who has been so often cited, is discredited by the fact that he probably died a catholic, for he was attended on his death-bed by the dominican father, francis à s. clara (christopher davenport), chaplain to queen henrietta maria, a learned man who indulged in the dream of corporate reunion between england and rome, maintaining that the anglican articles were in accordance with catholic doctrine. in his will goodman professed that as he lived, so he died, most constant in all the articles of the christian faith, and in all the doctrine of god's holy catholic and apostolic church, "whereof," he says, "i do acknowledge the church of rome to be the mother church. and i do verily believe that no other church hath any salvation in it, but only so far as it concurs with the faith of the church of rome." on this, mr. brewer, his editor, observes that a sound protestant might profess as much, the question being what meaning is to be given to the terms employed. moreover, the same writer continues, goodman cannot have imagined that his life had been a constant profession of roman doctrine, inasmuch as he advanced steadily from one preferment to another in the church of england, and strongly maintaining her doctrines formally denounced those of rome. what is certain, however, is this, that in the very work from which his evidence is quoted he speaks in such a manner as to show that whatever were his religious opinions, he was a firm believer in the royal supremacy and a lover of king james, whom he thus describes: "truly i did never know any man of so great an apprehension, of so great love and affection,--a man so truly just, so free from all cruelty and pride, such a lover of the church, and one that had done so much good for the church." (_court of king james_, i. .) chapter vii. percy, catesby, and tresham. on occasion of a notorious trial in the star chamber, in the year ,[ ] bancroft, the archbishop of canterbury, made the significant observation[ ] that nothing was to be discovered concerning the catholics "but by putting some judas amongst them." that amongst the powder plot conspirators there was some one who played such a part, who perhaps even acted as a decoy-duck to lure the others to destruction, has always been suspected, but with sundry differences of opinion as to which of the band it was. francis tresham has most commonly been supposed at least to have sent the warning letter to monteagle, which proved fatal to himself and his comrades: some writers have conjectured that he did a good deal more.[ ] monteagle himself, as we have seen, has been supposed by others to have been in the plot and to have betrayed it. it would appear, however, that neither of these has so strong a claim to this equivocal distinction as one whose name has been scarcely mentioned hitherto in such a connection. the part played in the conspiracy by thomas percy is undoubtedly very singular, and the more so when we learn something of the history and character of the man. till within some three years previously[ ] he had been a protestant, and, moreover, unusually wild and dissolute. after his conversion, he acquired the character of a zealous, if turbulent, catholic, and is so described, not only by father gerard and father greenway, but by himself. in a letter written so late as november nd, ,[ ] he represents that he has to leave yorkshire, being threatened by the archbishop with arrest, "as the chief pillar of papistry in that county." it unfortunately appears that all the time this zealous convert was a bigamist, having one wife living in the capital and another in the provinces. when his name was published in connection with the plot, the magistrates of london arrested the one, and those of warwickshire the other, alike reporting to the secretary what they had done, as may be seen in the state paper office.[ ] gravely suspicious as such a fact must appear in connection with one professing exceptional religious fervour, it by no means stands alone. father greenway, in describing the character of percy,[ ] dwells much on his sensitiveness to the suspicion of having played false to his fellow catholics in his dealings with king james in scotland, coupled with protestations of his determination to do something to show that he as well as they had been deceived by that monarch. we find evidence that as a fact some catholics distrusted him, as in the examination of one cary, who, being interrogated concerning the powder plot, protested that "percy was no papist but a puritan."[ ] there is likewise in the king's own book a strange and obscure reference to percy as the possible author of the letter to monteagle, one of the chief grounds for suspecting him being "his backwardness in religion." it would moreover appear that he was not a man who always impressed those favourably who had to do with him, for chamberlain reminds his friend carleton that the latter had ever considered him "a subtle, flattering, dangerous knave."[ ] [illustration: thomas percy.] we have seen something of the extraordinary manner in which percy transacted the business of hiring the house and "cellar," wholly unlike what we should expect from one whose main object was to escape observation, and that he brought to bear the influence of sundry protestant gentlemen, amongst them dudley carleton himself,[ ] in order to obtain the desired lease. we know, moreover, that various unfortunate accidents prevented the history of these negotiations from ever being fully told. yet more remarkable is a piece of information supplied by bishop goodman, his authority being the eminent lawyer sir francis moore, who, says he, "is beyond all exception."[ ] moore, having occasion during the period when the plot was in progress to be out on business late at night, and going homeward to the middle temple at two in the morning, "several times he met mr. percy coming out of the great statesman's house, and wondered what his business should be there." such wonder was certainly not unnatural, and must be shared by us. that a man who was ostensibly the life and soul of a conspiracy directed against the king's chief minister, even more than against the sovereign himself, should resort for conference with his intended victim at an hour when he was most likely to escape observation, is assuredly not the least extraordinary feature in this strange and tangled tale. not less suspicious is another circumstance. immediately before the fatal fifth of november, percy had been away in the north, and he returned to london only on the evening of saturday, the nd. of this return, cecil, writing a week later,[ ] made a great mystery, as though the traitor's movements had been of a most stealthy and secret character, and declared that the fact had been discovered from faukes only with infinite difficulty, and after many denials. it happens, however, that amongst the state papers is preserved a pass dated october th, issued by the commissioners of the north, for thomas percy, posting to court upon the king's especial service, and charging all mayors, sheriffs, and postmasters to provide him with three good horses all along the road.[ ] it is manifestly absurd to speak of secrecy or stealth in connection with such a journey, or to pretend that the chief secretary of state could have any difficulty in tracing the movements of a man who travelled in this fashion; and protestations of ignorance serve only to show that to seem ignorant was thought desirable. considerations like these, it will hardly be denied, countenance the notion that percy was, in king james's own phrase, a tame duck employed to catch wild ones. against such a supposition, however, a grave objection at once presents itself. percy was amongst the very first victims of the enterprise, being one of the four who were killed at holbeche when the conspirators were brought to bay. this, unquestionably, must at first sight appear to be fatal to the theory of his complicity, and the importance of such a fact should not be extenuated. at the same time, on further scrutiny, the argument which it supplies loses much of its force. it must, in the first place, be remembered, that according to the belief then current, it was no uncommon thing, as lord castlemaine expresses it[ ] the game being secured, to hang the spaniel which caught it, that its master's art might not appear, and, to cite no other instance, we have the example of dr. parry, who, as mr. brewer acknowledges,[ ] was involved in the ruin of those whom he had been engaged to lure to destruction. there are, moreover, various remarkable circumstances in regard to the case of percy in particular. it was observed at the time as strange and suspicious that any of the rebels should have been slain at all, for they were almost defenceless, having no fire-arms; they did not succeed in killing a single one of their assailants, and might all have been captured without difficulty. nevertheless, the attacking party were not only allowed to shoot, but selected just the wrong men as their mark, precisely those who, being chiefly implicated in the beginnings of the plot, could have afforded the most valuable information,[ ] for besides percy, were shot down catesby and the two wrights,[ ] all deeply implicated from the first. so unaccountable did such a course appear as at once to suggest sinister interpretations--especially as regarded the case of percy and catesby, who were always held to be the ringleaders of the band. as goodman tells us,[ ] "some will not stick to report that the great statesman sending to apprehend these traitors gave special charge and direction for percy and catesby, 'let me never see them alive;' who it may be would have revealed some evil counsel given." a similar suspicion seems to be insinuated by sir edward hoby, writing to edmondes, the ambassador at brussels[ ]: "percy is dead: who it is thought by some particular men could have said more than any other." more suspicious still appears the fact that the king's government thought it necessary to explain how it had come to pass that percy was not secured alive, and to protest that they had been anxious above all for his capture, but had been frustrated by the inconsiderate zeal of their subordinates. in the "king's book" we read as follows: "although divers of the king's proclamations were posted down after those traitors with all speed possible, declaring the odiousness of that bloody attempt, and the necessity to have percy preserved alive, if it had been possible, ... yet the far distance of the way (which was above an hundred miles), together with the extreme deepness thereof, joined also with the shortness of the day, was the cause that the hearty and loving affection of the king's good subjects in those parts prevented the speed of his proclamations." such an explanation cannot be deemed satisfactory. the distance to be covered was about miles, and there were three days to do it, for not till november th were the fugitives surrounded. they in their flight had the same difficulties to contend with, as are here enumerated, yet they accomplished their journey in a single day, and they had not, like the king's couriers, fresh horses ready for them at every post. but we have positive evidence upon this point. father greenway, who was at the time in the midlands, close to the scene of action, incidentally mentions, without any reference to our present question,[ ] that while the rebels were in the field, messengers came post haste continually, one after the other, from the capital, all bearing proclamations mentioning percy by name. it must also be observed that though the couriers, we are told, could not in three days get from london to holbeche to hinder percy's death, they contrived to ride in one from holbeche to london with news that he was dead.[ ] another circumstance not easy to explain is, that the man who killed percy and catesby,[ ] john streete by name, received for his service the handsome pension of two shillings a day for life, equal at least to a pound of our present money.[ ] this is certainly a large reward for having done the very thing that the government most desired to avoid, and for an action, moreover, involving no sort of personal risk, killing two practically unarmed men from behind a tree.[ ] if, however, he had silenced a dangerous witness, it is easy to understand the munificence of his recompense. against catesby, likewise, there are serious indictments, and it seems impossible to believe him to have been, as commonly represented, a man, however blinded by fanaticism, yet honest in his bad enterprise, who would not stoop to fraud or untruth. it is abundantly evident that on many occasions he deliberately deceived his associates, and those whom he called his spiritual guides, making promises which he did not mean to keep, and giving assurances which he knew to be false.[ ] it will be sufficient to quote one or two examples quite sufficient to stamp him as a man utterly unscrupulous about the means employed to gain his ends. on the th of november, when, after the failure of the enterprise, he arrived at dunchurch, in warwickshire, catesby, in order to induce sir everard digby to commit himself to the hopeless campaign now to be undertaken, assured him,[ ] that though the powder was discovered, yet the king and salisbury were killed; all were in "a pother;" the catholics were sure to rise in a body, one family alone, the littletons, would bring in one thousand men the next day; and so on,--all this being absolutely untrue. that he had previously employed similar means on a large scale to inveigle his friends into his atrocious and senseless scheme, there is much evidence, strongest of all that of father garnet;[ ] "i doubt not that mr. catesby hath feigned many such things for to induce others." worst of all, we learn from another intercepted letter of garnet's, catesby had for his own purposes circulated an atrocious slander against garnet himself, although passing as his devoted disciple and friend: "master catesby," he wrote,[ ] "did me much wrong, and hath confessed that he told them he asked me a question in q. elizabeth's time of the powder action,[ ] and that i said it was lawful. all which is most untrue. he did it to draw in others." in view of this, and much else of a similar kind, it is difficult to read father gerard's _narrative_, and more particularly father greenway's additions thereto, without a growing feeling that if catesby sought counsel it was with no intention of being guided by it, and that his sole desire was to get hold of something which might serve his own purposes. we have already seen that a great deal of mystery attaches to francis tresham, who is generally supposed to have written the letter to monteagle, and was clearly suspected by some of having done a great deal more; for the author of the _politician's catechism_ speaks of him as having access to cecil's house even at midnight, along with another whose name is not given, these two being therefore supposed to have been the secretary's instruments in all this business. what is certain is, that tresham did not fly like the rest when the "discovery" had taken place, not only remaining in london, and showing himself openly in the streets, but actually presenting himself to the council, and offering them his services. moreover, though his name was known to the government, at least on november th, as one of the accomplices, it was for several days omitted from their published proclamations, and not till the th was he taken into custody. being confined in the tower, he was shortly attacked by a painful malady, and on december rd he died, as was officially announced, of a "strangury," as salisbury assures cornwallis "by a natural sickness, such as he hath been a long time subject to."[ ] throughout his sickness he himself and his friends loudly declared that should he survive it "they feared not the course of justice."[ ] such confidence, as mr. jardine remarks, could be grounded only on his possession of knowledge which the authorities would not venture to reveal, and it is not surprising that his death should have been attributed, by the enemies of the government, to poison. it is no doubt an argument against such a supposition that during his illness tresham was allowed to be attended by his wife and a confidential servant. on the other hand, not only does bishop goodman inform us[ ] that "butler, the great physician of cambridge," declared him to have been poisoned; but the author of _mischeefes mystery_, a violent government partisan, contradicts the notion of a natural death, by asserting that "tresham murthered himself in the tower." it thus appears, once again, that the more its details are scrutinized, the less does the traditional history of the plot commend itself to our acceptance. it is hard to believe that within the ranks of the conspirators themselves, there was no treachery, no one who, lending himself to work the ruin of his associates, unwittingly wrought his own. * * * * * the evidence hitherto considered may fitly conclude with the testimony of a witness living near the time in question, who had evidently been at pains to make inquiries amongst those most likely to give information. this is an anonymous correspondent of anthony à wood, whose notes are preserved in fulman's collection in the library of corpus christi college, oxford. these remarkable notes have been seen by fulman, who inserted in the margin various questions and objections, to which the writer always supplied precise and definite replies. in the following version this supplementary information is incorporated in the body of his statement, being distinguished by italics. the writer, who explains that his full materials are in the country, speaks thus:[ ] "i should be glad to understand what your friend driveth at about the fifth of november. it was, without all peradventure, a state plot. i have collected many pregnant circumstances concerning it. "'tis certain that the last earl of salisbury[ ] confessed to william lenthal[ ] it was his father's contrivance, which lenthal soon after told one mr. webb (_john webb, esq._), a person of quality, and his kinsman, yet alive. "sir henry wotton says 'twas usual with cecil to create plots, that he might have the honour of the discovery, or to such effect. "the lord mounteagle knew there was a letter to be sent to him before it came. (_known by edmund church, esq., his confidant._) "sir everard digby's sons were both knighted soon after, and sir kenelm would often say it was a state design, to disengage the king of his promise to the pope and the king of spain, to indulge the catholics if ever he came to be king here; and somewhat to his purpose was found in the lord wimbledon's papers after his death.[ ] "mr. vowell, who was executed in the rump time, did also affirm it so.[ ] "catesby's man (_george bartlet_),[ ] on his death-bed, confessed his master went to salisbury house several nights before the discovery, and was always brought privately in at a back door." then, in answer to an objection of fulman's, is added: "catesby, 'tis like, did not mean to betray his friends or his own life--he was drawn in and made believe strange things. all good men condemn him and the rest as most desperate wretches; yet most believed the original contrivance of the plot was not theirs." whatever else may be thought of the above statements, they at least serve to contradict mr. jardine's assertion,[ ] that the notion of cecil's complicity,--which he terms a strange suggestion, scarce worthy of notice,--was first heard of long after the transaction, and was adopted exclusively by catholics. clearly it was not unknown to protestants who were contemporaries, or personally acquainted with contemporaries, of the event. yet the document here cited was known to mr. jardine, who mentions one of its statements, that relating to lord monteagle, but says nothing of its more serious allegations. it must also be remarked that we find some traces in the evidence which remains of certain mysterious conspirators of great importance, concerning whom no investigation whatever appears to have been made, they being at once permitted to drop into the profoundest obscurity, in a manner quite contrary to the habitual practice of the authorities. one such instance is afforded by the testimony of a mariner, henry paris, of barking,[ ] that guy faukes, _alias_ johnson, hired a boat of him, "wherein was carried over to gravelines a man supposed of great import: he went disguised, and would not suffer any one man to go with him but this vaux, nor to return with him. this paris did attend for him back at gravelines six weeks. if cause require there are several proofs of this matter." none of these, however, seem to have been sought. footnotes: [ ] that of mr. pound. [ ] jardine, _criminal trials_, ii. , n. [ ] _e.g._, the author of the _politician's catechism_. [ ] "about the time of my lord essex his enterprise he became catholic" (_i.e._ ). father gerard, _narrative_, p. . [ ] p.r.o. _gunpowder plot book_, n. . [ ] justice grange, of st. giles-in-the-fields, to salisbury, november th, . justices of warwickshire, to the same, november th. [ ] ms., f. - . [ ] tanner mss., _ut sup._, f. . [ ] p.r.o. _dom. james i._, november th, . [ ] the case of carleton is not without mystery. at the time of the discovery he was at paris, as secretary to the english ambassador, but about the middle of the month was ordered home in hot haste and placed "in restraint." on february th, - , he wrote to his friend chamberlain that he was airing himself on the chilterns to get rid of the scent of powder, asking his correspondent to consult a patron as to his best means of promotion (_dom. james i._ xviii. ). far from being injured by any suspicion that he might seem to have incurred, he subsequently rose rapidly in favour, was intrusted with most important diplomatic missions, and was finally created viscount dorchester. [ ] _court of king james_, i. . [ ] to the ambassadors, november th. [ ] _dom. james i._ xv. . [ ] _catholique apology_, p. . [ ] goodman's _court of king james_, i. , note. [ ] see goodman's remarks on this subject (_court of king james_, i. ). the author of the _politician's catechism_ writes: "it is very certaine that percy and catesby might have been taken alive, when they were killed, but cecil knew full well that these two unfortunate gentlemen would have related the story lesse to his owne advantage, than himself caused it to be published: therefore they were dispatched when they might have been made prisoners, having no other weapons, offensive or defensive, but their swords." [ ] about the death of the wrights there are extraordinary contradictions. in the "original" of his famous confession t. winter says: "the next shot was the elder wright, stone dead; after him the younger mr. wright." in _mischeefes mystery_ we read that percy and catesby were killed "with a gunne," the two wrights "with halberts." the day after the attack, november th, sir edward leigh wrote to the council, that the wrights were not slain, as reputed, but wounded. not till the th was their death certified by sir richard walsh. [ ] _court of king james_, i. . [ ] nichols, _progresses of king james i._, i. . [ ] ms., f. , b. [ ] cecil writing to the ambassadors, november th, mentions in a postscript the fate of the rebels. [ ] they were slain by two balls from the same musket. [ ] warrant, p.r.o. [ ] father gerard mentions this circumstance (_narrative_, p. ). [ ] this point is well developed in the recent _life of a conspirator_, pp. - . [ ] _dom. james i._ xvi. . [ ] _dom. james i._, march th, - . [ ] _gunpowder plot book_, . [ ] the strange story of a powder-plot under elizabeth is variously told. according to one of the mysterious confessions attributed to faukes, which have disappeared from the state papers, owen told him in flanders that one thomas morgan had proposed to blow up her majesty (abbot, _antilogia_, ). the _memorial to protestants_ by bishop kennet ( ) says that the man's name was moody, who wanted the french ambassador to subsidise him. the idea was to place a lb. bag of powder under the queen's bed, and explode it in the middle of the night, but how this was to be managed is not explained. [ ] winwood, _memorials_, ii. . [ ] wood to salisbury, december rd, . [ ] _court of king james_, i. . [ ] _collection_, vol. ii. . [ ] william, second earl (born , died ), son of the minister of james i. [ ] speaker of the long parliament. [ ] edward cecil, viscount wimbledon, third son of thomas, first earl of exeter (the elder brother of robert cecil, first earl of salisbury), died . [ ] peter vowell, a protestant, executed with colonel john gerard for an alleged plot against cromwell, july th, . [ ] "george bartlett, mr. catesby's servant," appears amongst the suspected persons whose names were sent up to cecil by the justices of warwickshire, november th, . (_gunpowder plot book_, .) [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. . [ ] _gunpowder plot book_, . chapter viii. the government's case. we have hitherto confined our attention to sources of information other than those with which the authors of the official narrative have supplied us, and upon which they based the same. it remains to inquire how far the evidence presented by them can avail to substantiate the traditional history, and to rebut the various arguments against its authenticity which have been adduced. for brevity and clearness' sake it will be advisable to divide this investigation under several heads. i. _the trial of the conspirators._ on the threshold of our inquiry we are met by a most singular and startling fact. as to what passed on the trial of the conspirators, what evidence was produced against them, how it was supported,--nay, even how the tale of their enterprise was told--we have no information upon which any reliance can be placed. one version alone has come down to us of the proceedings upon this occasion--that published "by authority"--and of this we can be sure only that it is utterly untrustworthy. it was issued under the title of the _true and perfect relation_, but, as mr. jardine has already told us, is certainly not deserving of the character which its title imports. "it is not true, because many occurrences on the trial are wilfully misrepresented; and it is not _perfect_, because the whole evidence, and many facts and circumstances which must have happened, are omitted, and incidents are inserted which could not by possibility have taken place on the occasion. it is obviously a false and imperfect relation of the proceedings; a tale artfully garbled and misrepresented ... to serve a state purpose, and intended and calculated to mislead the judgment of the world upon the facts of the case."[ ] again the same author remarks,[ ] "that every line of the published trial was rigidly weighed and considered, not with reference to its accuracy, but its effect on the minds of those who might read it, is manifest." moreover, the narrative thus obviously dishonest, was admittedly issued in contradiction of divers others already passing "from hand to hand," which were at variance with itself in points of importance, and which it stigmatized as "uncertain, untrue, and incoherent;" it justified its appearance on the ground that it was supremely important for the public to be rightly informed in such a case:[ ] and so successful were the efforts made to secure for it a monopoly, that no single document has come down to us by which its statements might be checked. in consequence, to quote mr. jardine once more,[ ] there is no trial since the time of henry viii. in regard of which we are so ignorant as to what actually occurred.[ ] the employment of methods such as these would in any circumstances forfeit all credit on behalf of the story thus presented. in the present instance the presumption raised against it is even stronger than it would commonly be. if the gunpowder plot were in reality what was represented, why was it deemed necessary, in cecil's own phrase, to pervert and disguise its history in order to produce the desired effect? a project so singular and diabolical in its atrocity, prepared for on so large a scale, and so nearly successful, should, it would appear, have needed no fictitious adjuncts to enhance its enormity; and for the conviction of miscreants caught red-handed in such an enterprise no evidence should have been so effectual as that furnished by the facts of the case, which of their nature should have been patent and unquestionable. when we find, on the contrary, a web of falsehood and mystery woven with elaborate care over the whole history of the transaction, it is not unnatural to infer that to have told the simple truth would not have suited the purpose of those who had the telling of the tale; and it is obviously necessary that the evidence whereby their story was supported should be rigorously sifted. what has been said, though in great measure true of the trial of father garnet, at the end of march, is especially applicable to that of the conspirators, two months earlier, for in regard of this we have absolutely no information beyond that officially supplied. the execution of faukes and his companions following close upon their arraignment,[ ] all that had been elicited, or was said to have been elicited, at their trial, became henceforth evidence which could not be contradicted, the prosecution thus having a free hand in dealing with their subsequent victim.[ ] in view of this circumstance it has been noted as remarkable that whereas the conspirators had been kept alive and untried for nearly three months, they were thus summarily dealt with at the moment when it was known that the capture of father garnet was imminent, and, as a matter of fact, he was taken on the very day on which the first company were executed.[ ] it would appear that nothing should have seemed more desirable than to confront the jesuit superior with those whom he was declared to have instigated to their crime, instead of putting them out of the way at the very moment when there was a prospect of doing so. ii. _the fundamental evidence._ amongst all the confessions and "voluntary declarations" extracted from the conspirators, there are two of exceptional importance, as having furnished the basis of the story told by the government, and ever since generally accepted. these are a long declaration made by thomas winter, and another by guy faukes, which alone were made public, being printed in the "king's book," and from which are gathered the essential particulars of the story as we are accustomed to hear it. of winter's declaration, which is in the form of a letter to the lords commissioners, there is found in the state paper office only a copy, bearing date november rd, , in the handwriting of levinus munck, cecil's private secretary. this copy has been shown to the king, who in a marginal note objects to a certain "uncleare phrase," which has accordingly been altered in accordance with the royal criticism: and from it has evidently been taken the printed version, which agrees with it in every respect, including the above-mentioned emendation of the phraseology. [illustration: from winter's confession, november .] it must strike the reader as remarkable that, whereas, as has been said, the body of the letter is in the handwriting of the secretary, munck, the names of the witnesses who attest it[ ] are added in that of his master, cecil himself. the "original" document, in winter's own hand, is at hatfield, and agrees in general so exactly with the copy, as to demonstrate the identity of their origin.[ ] but while, as we have seen, the "copy" is dated november rd, the "original" is dated on the th.[ ] on a circumstance so singular, light is possibly thrown by a letter from waad, the lieutenant of the tower, to cecil, on the st of the same month.[ ] "thomas winter," he wrote, "doth find his hand so strong, as after dinner he will settle himself to write that he hath verbally declared to your lordship, adding what he shall remember." the inference is certainly suggested that torture had been used until the prisoner's spirit was sufficiently broken to be ready to tell the story required of him, and that the details were furnished by those who demanded it. it must, moreover, be remarked that although winter's "original" declaration is witnessed only by sir e. coke, the attorney general, it appears in print attested by all those whom cecil had selected for the purpose two days before the declaration was made.[ ] it may be said that the inference drawn above is violent and unfair, and, perhaps, were there no other case to go upon but that of winter, so grave a charge as it implies should not be made. there remains, however, the companion case of faukes, which is yet more extraordinary. his declaration first makes its appearance as "the examination of guy fawkes, taken the th of november."[ ] the document thus described is manifestly a draft, and not a copy of a deposition actually taken. it is unsigned: the list of witnesses is in the same handwriting as the rest, and in no instance is a witness indicated by such a title as he would employ for his signature.[ ] throughout this paper faukes is made to speak in the third person, and the names of accomplices to whom he refers are not given. what, however, is most remarkable is the frank manner in which this document is treated as a draft. several passages are cancelled and others substituted, sometimes in quite a contrary sense, so that the same deponent cannot possibly have made the statements contained in both versions. other paragraphs are "ticked off," as the event proves, for omission. nine days later, november th,[ ] faukes was induced to put his name to the substance of the matter contained in the draft.[ ] the document is headed "the declaration[ ] of guy fawkes, prisoner in the tower of london." faukes speaks throughout in the first person, and supplies the names previously omitted.[ ] most noteworthy is the manner in which this version is adapted to the emendations of the draft. the passages ticked off have disappeared entirely, amongst them the remarkable statements that "they [the confederates] meant also to have sent for the prisoners in the tower, of whom particularly they had some consultation,"--that "they had consultation for the taking of the lady mary [the infant daughter of king james] into their possession"--and that "provision was made by some of the conspiracy of armour of proof this last summer, for this action." where an alteration has been made in the draft, great skill is shown in combining what is important in both versions.[ ] as to the means which were employed to compel faukes to sign the declaration there can be no doubt; his signature bearing evidence that he had been tortured with extreme severity. the witnesses are but two, coke, the attorney general, and waad, the lieutenant of the tower. when, however, the document came to be printed, as in the other case, a fuller list was appended, but not exactly that previously indicated, for to faukes were assigned the same witnesses as to winter, including the earls of worcester and dunbar over and above his own list.[ ] [illustration: signatures of faukes and oldcorne.[ ]] the printed version exhibits other points of interest. there was in the archduke's service, in flanders, an english soldier, hugh owen,[ ] whom the government were for some reason, excessively desirous to incriminate, and get into their hands. for this purpose, a passage was artfully interpolated in the statement of faukes, whereof no trace is found in the original. in the "king's book," the passage in question stands thus, the words italicised being those fraudulently introduced: "about easter, the parliament being prorogued till october next, we dispersed ourselves, and i retired into the low-countries, _by advice and direction of the rest; as well to acquaint owen with the particulars of the plot, as also_, lest, by my longer stay, i might have grown suspicious." but of owen we shall see more in particular. it must not be forgotten that on several other days besides those named above, faukes made declarations, still extant, viz., november th, th, th, th, and th, and january th and th. the most important items of information furnished by that selected for publication were not even hinted at in any of these. farther light appears to be thrown on the manner in which this important declaration was prepared by another document found amongst the state papers. this is an "interrogatory" drawn up by sir e. coke on november th, the very day of the "draft," expressly for the benefit of faukes.[ ] that the "draft" was composed from this appears to be shown by a curious piece of evidence. we have already noticed the strange phraseology of one of the passages attributed to faukes: "he confesseth that the same day that this detestable act should have been performed the same day should other of their confederacy have surprised the person of the lady elizabeth," etc. precisely the same repetition occurs in the sixth of mr. attorney's suggested questions. "_item_, was it not agreed that the same day that the act should have been done, the same day or soon after the person of the lady elizabeth should have been surprised," etc.? moreover, it is apparent that this interrogatory is not founded on information already obtained, but is, in fact, what is known as a "fishing" document, intended to elicit evidence of some kind. in the first place, some of its suggestions are mutually incompatible. thus in another place it implies that not elizabeth but her infant sister mary was the choice of the queen-makers:--"who should have been protector of the lady mary, who, being born in england, they meant to prefer to the crown. with whom should she have married?" (she was then seven months old.) again it asks: "what should have become of the prince?" as though he might after all be the sovereign intended. besides this, many points are raised which are evidently purely imaginary, inasmuch as no more was ever heard of them though if substantiated, they would have been supremely important.[ ] the above details will not appear superfluous if the importance of these documents be fully understood. it is upon these narratives, stamped with features so incompatible with their trustworthiness, that we entirely depend for much of prime importance in the history of the conspiracy, in particular for the notable episode of the mine, which they alone relate, and which is not even mentioned, either in the other numerous confessions of faukes and winter themselves, or by any of the other confederates. save for an incidental remark of keyes, that he helped to work in the mine, we hear nothing else of it; while not only is this confession quite as strange a document as the two others, but, to complicate the matter still more, keyes is expressly described by cecil[ ] himself as one of those that "wrought not in the mine." it is hard to understand how so remarkable an operation should have been totally ignored in all the other confessions and declarations, numerous and various as they are; while, on the other hand, should this striking feature of the plot prove to be a fabrication, what is there of which to be certain? iii. _the confession of thomas bates (december th, )._ there is another piece of evidence to which exceptional prominence has been given, the confession of thomas bates, catesby's servant, dated december th, . this is the only one of the conspirators' confessions specifically mentioned in the government account of their trial, and it is mentioned twice over--a circumstance not unsuspicious in view of the nature of that account as already described.[ ] it is not necessary at present to enter upon the large question of the attitude of the jesuits towards the plot, nor to discuss their guilt or innocence. this is, however, beyond dispute, that the government were above all things anxious to prove them guilty,[ ] and no document ever produced was so effective for this purpose as the said confession, for, if it were true, there could be no question as to the guilt of one jesuit, at least, father greenway _alias_ tesimond. the substance of bates' declaration was as follows: that being introduced and sworn into the conspiracy by his master, catesby, he was then told that, as a pledge of fidelity, he must receive the sacrament upon his oath, and accordingly he went to confession to greenway, the jesuit. _that in his confession he fully informed greenway of the design, and that greenway bade him obey his master, because it was for a good cause, and be secret, and mention the matter to no other priest._ that he was absolved by greenway, and afterwards received holy communion. it will be observed that the second paragraph, here italicized, is of supreme importance. we have evidence that although the conspirators, during the course of their operations, frequented the sacraments, they expressly avoided all mention of their design to their confessors, catesby having required this of them, assuring them that he had fully satisfied himself that the project, far from being sinful, was meritorious, but that the priests were likely to give trouble.[ ] we are even told by some authors that catesby exacted of his confederates an oath of secrecy in this regard. it is clear that his authority must have had special weight with his own servant, who was, moreover, devotedly attached to his master, as he proved in the crisis of his fate. we might, therefore, naturally be prepared to learn that bates, though confessing to greenway, never acquainted him with the plot; and, that in fact he never did so, there is some interesting evidence. it cannot escape observation as a suspicious circumstance that this most important confession, upon which so much stress was laid, exists amongst the state papers only in a copy.[ ] moreover, this copy has been treated as though it were an original, being officially endorsed, and it has on some occasion been used in court.[ ] if, however, this version were not genuine, but prepared for a purpose, it is clear that it could not have been produced while bates was alive to contradict it, and there appears to be no doubt that it was not heard of till after his death. this appears, in the first place, from a manuscript account of the plot,[ ] written between the trial of the conspirators and that of father garnet, that is, within two months of the former. the author sets himself expressly to prove that the priests must have been cognizant of the design, for, he argues, catholics, when they have anything of the kind in hand, always consult their confessors about it, and it cannot be supposed that on this occasion only did they omit to do so. in support of his assertion, he quotes the instances of parry, babington, and squires, but says nothing of bates. he mentions greenway as undoubtedly one of the guilty priests, but only because "his majesty's proclamation so speaks it." had the confession of bates, as we have it, been so prominently adduced at the trial, as the official narrative represents, it is quite impossible that such a writer should have been content with these feeble inferences. still more explicit is the evidence furnished by another ms. containing a report of father garnet's trial.[ ] in this the confession of bates is cited, but precisely without the significant passage of which we have spoken, as follows: "catesby afterwards discovered the project unto him; shortly after which discovery, bates went to mass to tesimond [greenway], and there was confessed and had absolution." here, again, it is impossible to suppose that the all-important point was the one omitted. it is clear, however, that the mention of a confession made to greenway would _primâ facie_ afford a presumption that this particular matter had been confessed, thus furnishing a foundation whereon to build; and, knowing as we do how evidence was manipulated, it is quite conceivable that the copy now extant incorporates the improved version thus suggested. such an explanation was unmistakably insinuated by father garnet, when, on his trial, this evidence was urged against him; for he significantly replied that "bates was a dead man."[ ] greenway himself afterwards, when beyond danger, denied on his salvation that bates had ever on any occasion mentioned to him any word concerning the plot. it is still more singular that bates himself appears to have known nothing of his own declaration. he had apparently said, in some examination of which no record remains, that he thought greenway "knew of the business." this statement he afterwards retracted as having been elicited by a vain hope of pardon, in a letter which is given in full by father gerard,[ ] and of which cecil himself made mention at garnet's trial.[ ] but of the far more serious accusation we are considering he said never a word. there is, however, evidence still more notable. on the same day, december th, on which bates made his declaration, cecil wrote a most important letter to one favat,[ ] who had been commissioned by king james to urge the necessity of obtaining evidence without delay against the priests. this document is valuable as furnishing explicit testimony that torture was employed with this object. "most of the prisoners," says the secretary, "have wilfully forsworn that the priests knew anything in particular, and obstinately refuse to be accusers of them, yea, what torture soever they be put to." he goes on, however, to assure his majesty that the desired object is now in sight, particularly referring to a confession which can be none other than that of bates, but likewise cannot be that afterwards given to the world; for it is spoken of as affording promise, but not yet satisfactory in its performance. "you may tell his majesty that if he please to read privately what this day we have drawn from a voluntary and penitent examination, the point i am persuaded (but i am no undertaker) shall be so well cleared, if he forbear to speak much of this but few days, as we shall see all fall out to the end whereat his majesty shooteth." it seems clear, therefore, that the famous declaration of bates, like those of faukes and winter, tends to discredit the story which in particulars so important rests upon such evidence. it may be farther observed that if the confession of bates, as officially preserved, were of any worth, it would have helped to raise other issues of supreme importance. thus its concluding paragraph runs as follows: "he confesseth that he heard his master, thomas winter, and guy fawkes say (presently upon the coming over of fawkes) that they should have the sum of five-and-twenty thousand pounds out of spain." this clearly means that the king of spain was privy to the design, for a sum equivalent to a quarter of a million of our money could not have been furnished by private persons. the government, however, constantly assured the english ambassadors abroad of the great satisfaction with which they found that no suspicion whatever rested upon any foreign prince. iv. _robert winter._ there are various traces of foul play in regard of this conspirator in particular, which serve to shake our confidence as to the treatment of all. robert winter was the eldest brother of thomas, and held the family property, which was considerable. whether this motive, as mr. jardine suggests, or some other, prompted the step, certain it is that the government in their published history falsified the documents in order to incriminate him more deeply. faukes, in the confession of nov. th, mentioned robert keyes as amongst the first seven of the conspirators who worked in the mine, and robert winter as one of the five introduced at a later period. the names of these two were deliberately interchanged in the published version, robert winter appearing as a worker in the mine, and keyes, who was an obscure man of no substance, among the gentlemen of property whose resources were to have supported the subsequent rebellion. moreover, in the account of the same confession sent to edmondes by cecil three days before faukes signed it (_i.e._, nov. th), the same transposition occurs, keyes being explicitly described as one of those "who wrought not in the mine," although, as we have seen, he is one of the three who alone make any mention of it. still more singular is another circumstance. about november th, sir edward coke, the attorney-general, drew up certain farther notes of questions to be put to various prisoners.[ ] amongst these we read: "winter to be examined of his brother. for no man else can accuse him." but a fortnight or so before this time the secretary of state had officially informed the ambassador in the low countries that robert winter was one of those deepest in the treason, and, to say nothing of other evidence, a proclamation for his apprehension had been issued on november th. yet coke's interrogatory seems to imply that nothing had yet been established against him, and that he was not known to the general body of the traitors as a fellow-conspirator. v. _captain hugh owen, father william baldwin, and others._ we have seen something of the extreme anxiety evinced by the english government to incriminate a certain hugh owen, a welsh soldier of fortune serving in flanders under the archduke.[ ] with him were joined father baldwin, the jesuit, and sir william stanley, who, like owen, was in the archduke's service. the measures taken in regard of them are exceedingly instructive if we would understand upon what sort of evidence the guilt of obnoxious individuals was proclaimed as incontrovertible. no time was lost in commencing operations. on november th, three days before faukes signed the celebrated declaration which we have examined, and in which owen was not mentioned, the earl of salisbury wrote to edmondes, ambassador at brussels,[ ] that faukes had now directly accused owen, whose extradition must therefore be demanded. in proof of this assertion he inclosed a copy of the declaration, in which, however, curiously enough, no mention of owen's name occurs.[ ] edmondes on his side was equally prompt. he at once laid the matter before the archduke and his ministers, and on november th was able to write to salisbury that owen and his secretary were apprehended and their papers and ciphers seized, and that, "if there shall fall out matter to charge owen with partaking in the treason, the archduke will not refuse the king to yield him to be answerable to justice,"[ ] though venturing to hope that he would be able to clear himself of so terrible an accusation. on "the last of november" the subject was pursued in an epistle from the king himself to the "archdukes,"[ ] in which the undoubted guilt of both owen and baldwin was roundly affirmed.[ ] on december nd, , salisbury wrote to edmondes:[ ] "i do warrant you to deliver upon the forfeiture of my judgment in your opinion that it shall appear as evident as the sun in the clearest day, that baldwin by means of owen, and owen directly by himself, have been particular conspirators." in spite of this, the authorities in flanders asked for proofs of the guilt of those whom they were asked to give up. wherefore edmondes wrote (december th) to secure the co-operation of cornwallis, his fellow-ambassador, at madrid. after declaring that owen and baldwin were now found to have been "principal dealers in the late execrable treason," with remarkable _naïveté_ he thus continues:[ ] "i will not conceal from your lordship that they have been here so unrespective as to desire for their better satisfaction to have a copy of the information against the said persons to be sent over hither; which i fear will be very displeasing to his majesty to understand." in january ( - ), salisbury sending, in the king's name, instructions to sir e. coke as to the trial of the conspirators, concluded with this admonition:[ ] "you must remember to lay owen as foul in this as you can," which certainly does not suggest that the case against him was overwhelmingly strong. after the execution of the traitors, an act of attainder passed by parliament included owen amongst them.[ ] the archdukes remaining unconvinced, another and very notable argument was brought into play. on february th, - , salisbury wrote to edmondes:[ ] "as for the particular depositions against owen and baldwin, which the archdukes desire to have a sight of, you may let them know that it is a matter which can make but little to the purpose, considering that his majesty already upon his royal word hath certified the archdukes of their guilt." as to owen's own papers which had been seized, the archduke assured the english ambassador,[ ] "that if there had been anything to have been discovered out of the said papers touching the late treason (as he was well assured of the contrary), he would not have failed to have imparted the same to his majesty." at a later date the spanish minister de grenada wrote from valladolid[ ] that men could not be delivered up on mere suspicion, which might prove groundless, but that the archduke had received orders to sift the matter to the bottom, in order that justice might be done "very fully." about the same time president richardot informed edmondes[ ] that owen strenuously denied the charges against him, "and that there is the more probability of his innocency for that his papers having been carefully visited, there doth not appear anything in them to charge him concerning the said matter." on april st salisbury informed edmondes of a conference on the subject between the king and the archduke's ambassador.[ ] the latter declared that his master was ready to prosecute the accused in his own courts if evidence was furnished him, but in reply king james explained that this was impossible, and that he "was loth to send any papers or accusations over, not knowing how they might be framed or construed there by the formalities of their laws." he added that it was useless now to talk of evidence, "seeing the wretch is already condemned by the public sentence of the whole parliament, which sentence the archdukes might see if they would." the ambassador thereupon asked to have a copy, but was curtly told that it would presently be printed, when he could buy one for twelve pence and send it to his masters, but that the king was not disposed to make a present of it. in these circumstances the archdukes determined to detain owen no longer, and he was presently discharged. the news of this proceeding produced a remarkable change in the tone of his accusers. on june th, the secretary wrote to edmondes[ ] that owen's enlargement "seemed to give too much credit to his innocency;" moreover, that "though his majesty showed no great disposition (for many considerations specified unto you) to send over the papers and accusations against him, ... yet this proceeded not out of any conscience of the invalidity of the proofs, but rather in respect that his process being made here, and the caitiff condemned by the public sentence of the parliament, it would have come all to one issue, seeing they have proceeded when his majesty left it to themselves to do as they thought fit." to reinforce this lucid explanation salisbury sent six days later what had before been refused, an abstract of "confessions against owen," and a corrected copy of the act of attainder. these documents deserve some consideration. we have seen how much stress was laid upon the action of parliament in regard of owen, although the act of attainder which it passed affords no information whatever to assist our judgment of his case. in moving for this attainder, sir e. coke appeared at the bar of the house of commons (april th, ) to exhibit the evidence on which the charge rested. his notes of this evidence, which are extant,[ ] clearly show that the government possessed no proofs at all beyond surmise and inference.[ ] three testimonies were cited which were quite inconsistent and mutually destructive: ( ) an extract from a confession of guy faukes, january th, - , declaring that he had himself initiated owen in the plot in may, . ( ) an information of one ralph ratcliffe, to the effect that owen and baldwin were busy with the plot in april, . ( ) t. winter's testimony--from his famous confession of november rd, or th, --that in the spring of owen had assisted him to secure the services of faukes. in salisbury's letter to edmondes, the first and the last of these alone were cited,[ ] probably because it had by this time been perceived that ratcliffe's evidence flatly contradicted that of faukes. winter's confession has already been discussed, and moreover affords no proof that owen was acquainted with the purpose for which the services of faukes were required. there remains the very circumstantial story of faukes himself, which belongs to a curious and interesting class of documents, containing matter of the highest importance, whereof no trace, not even a copy, is to be found amongst the state papers. these comprise various confessions of faukes, dated november th, th, and th, , and january th, - , all dealing with information of a sensational nature, concerning which we learn nothing from the eleven depositions of the same conspirator preserved in the record office.[ ] for our knowledge of these mysterious documents we have to depend on transcripts of portions of them among the tanner mss. in the bodleian library, on fragmentary latin versions in the _antilogia_ of bishop abbot, and on the extract cited from the last amongst them by sir edward coke, which exactly agrees with that sent by salisbury to edmondes, as above mentioned. it cannot escape notice that although these versions all profess to be taken from the originals under faukes' hand, they are so utterly different as to preclude the belief that they have been copied from the same documents.[ ] it must farther be observed that we hear nothing of important matters contained in these confessions till the supposed author and his confederates were all dead, whereas these are such as would certainly have been produced on their trial had this been possible.[ ] some of the evidence thus afforded is, in fact, too good, for the government's purpose, to be true, for if authentic, it would have secured results which, though much desired, were never obtained. in particular it would have established beyond question the guilt of the jesuits abroad, and especially of father baldwin.[ ] it is this father, however, whose case conclusively proves the utter worthlessness of the evidence. having been proclaimed and branded by the english government as a convicted traitor, he, five years later, fell into their hands, being delivered up, in , by their ally the elector palatine. he was at once thrown into the tower, where he was frequently and rigorously examined, it is said even on the rack.[ ] after a confinement of eight years he was discharged "with honour," his innocence being attested by the respect with which he was treated by men of all parties.[ ] in view of this unquestionable acquittal the famous proofs of his criminality, though certified on the royal word of king james himself, forfeit all claim to consideration. a word may be added concerning father cresswell, an english jesuit residing in spain. he, too, was assumed to have been deeply implicated in this and other treasons. in november, , cecil included his name in a list of traitors against whom proofs were to be procured.[ ] it was even asserted that at the time of the intended explosion he came over to england "to bear his part with the rest of his society in a victorial song of thanksgiving."[ ] he was, moreover, loudly denounced as the principal agent in the notorious spanish treason. after all this it is somewhat surprising to find sir charles cornwallis, the english ambassador, while the excitement of the powder plot was at its height, testifying in the most cordial terms to his esteem for the said cresswell. the latter having been called to rome by his superiors, cornwallis (december rd, n.s. ,) addressed to him the following letter.[ ] "sir, although in matter of religion well you know that there are many discords between us, yet sure in your duty and loyalty to my king and country i find in you so good a concordance i cannot but much reverence and love you, and wish you all the happiness that a man of your sort upon the earth can desire. "much am i (i assure you) grieved at your departure, and the more that i was put in so good hope that your journey should have been stayed. the time of the year unpleasant to travel in, your body, as i think, not much accustomed to journeys of so great length, and the great good you did here to your poor countrymen (which now they want) are great motives to make your friends to wish your will in that voyage had been broken. "if it be not, i shall not believe in words, for many here do greatly desire you for causes spiritual, and some for temporal. in the latter number am i, who, not affecting your spiritualities (for that these in you abound to superfluity), do much reverence and respect your temporal abilities, as wherein i acknowledge much wisdom, temper, and sincerity. so no friends you have shall ever more desire good unto you than myself. and therefore i wish i were able to make so good demonstration as willingly i would that i ever will here and in all places in this world rest "your very assured loving friend, "ch. co." about the same time, in an undated letter to lord salisbury,[ ] cornwallis again expresses his regret on account of the removal of cresswell from spain. vi. _other documents._ it is impossible to analyze in detail the evidence supplied by the several conspirators after their capture, or to examine the endless inconsistencies and contradictions with which it abounds. one or two points must, however, be indicated. . as we have seen, it is clear that at the beginning an effort was made to invest the plot with a far wider political significance than was afterwards attempted, and to introduce elements which were soon quietly laid aside. in the interrogatories prepared by sir e. coke and chief justice popham, we find it suggested that the death of the earl of salisbury was a main feature of the scheme, "absolutely agreed upon" among the conspirators. also that the titular earl of westmoreland, the titular lord dacre, the earl of northumberland, sir walter raleigh, and others were mixed up in the business. nor were such endeavours altogether fruitless, for, supposing the testimony extorted from the prisoners to be worthy of credit, information was obtained altogether changing the character and complexion of the design. this was, however, presently buried in oblivion and treated as of no moment whatever. thus in sir everard digby's declaration of nov. rd,[ ] we find him testifying that the earls of westmoreland and derby,[ ] were to have been sent to raise forces in the north. faukes, in the famous confession which we have so fully discussed, was made to say "they meant also to have sent for the prisoners in the tower to have come to them, of whom particularly they had some consultation," and although this important clause was omitted from the finished version finally adopted, it appears in that of nov. th, sent by cecil to the ambassador at brussels. again, in his examination of november th, famous for the ghastly evidence of torture afforded by his signature, we find faukes declaring, "he confesseth also that there was speech amongst them to draw sir walter rawley to take part with them, being one that might stand them in good stead, _as others in like sort were named_."[ ] with regard to raleigh it must be remembered that he was in a very special manner obnoxious to salisbury, who, however, was at great pains to disguise his hostility. on occasion of sir walter's trial, in , he vehemently protested that it was a great grief to him to have to pronounce against one whom he had hitherto loved.[ ] but two years earlier, in his secret correspondence with james, he had not only described raleigh to the future king as one of the diabolical triplicity hatching cockatrice eggs, but had solemnly protested that if he feigned friendship for such a wretch, it was only with the purpose of drawing him on to discover his real nature.[ ] . even more worthy of notice is the shameless manner in which evidence was falsified. that produced in court consisted entirely of the written depositions of the prisoners themselves, and of those who had been similarly examined. it was, however, carefully manipulated before it was read; all that told in favour of those whose conviction was desired being omitted, and only so much retained as would tell against them. on this subject mr. jardine well remarks:[ ] "this mode of dealing with the admissions of an accused person is pure and unmixed injustice; it is in truth a forgery of evidence; for when a qualified statement is made, the suppression of the qualification is no less a forgery than if the whole statement had been fabricated." it will be sufficient to cite one notorious and compendious example. in regard of the oath of secrecy taken by the conspirators, faukes (nov. th, ) and thomas winter (jan. th, - ) related how they administered it to one another, "in a chamber," to quote winter, "where no other body was," and afterwards proceeded to another chamber where they heard mass and received communion at the hands of father gerard.[ ] both witnesses, however, emphatically declared that the father knew nothing of the oath that had been taken, or of the purpose of the associates. [illustration: from faukes' confession of november , .] such testimony in favour of one whom they were anxious above all things to incriminate, the government would not allow to appear. accordingly, sir e. coke, preparing the documents to be used in court as evidence, marked off the exculpatory passages, with directions that they were not to be read.[ ] having thus suppressed the passage which declared that the jesuit was unaware of the conspirators' purpose, and of their oath, coke went on to inform the jury, in his speech, "this oath was by gerard the jesuit given to catesby, percy, christopher wright, and thomas winter, and by greenwell [greenway] the jesuit to bates at another time, and so to the rest."[ ] . neither must it be forgotten that even apart from these manifest instances of tampering, the confessions themselves, obtained in such circumstances, are open to much suspicion. in an intercepted letter to father baldwin, of whom we have heard, father schondonck, another jesuit, then rector of st. omers, speaks thus:[ ] "i much rejoice that, as i hear, there is no confession produced, by which, either in court or at the place of execution, any of our society is accused of so abominable a crime. this i consider a point of prime importance. _of secret confessions, or those extorted by violence or torture, less account must be made; for we have many examples whereby the dishonesty of our enemies in such matters has been fully displayed._" father john gerard in his autobiography[ ] relates an experience of his own which illustrates the methods employed to procure evidence such as was required. when, in queen elizabeth's time, he had himself been taken and thrown into prison, the notorious topcliffe, the priest-hunter, endeavoured to force him into an acknowledgment of various matters of a treasonable character. father gerard undertook to write what he had to say on the subject, and proceeded to set down an explicit denial of what his questioner suggested. what followed he thus relates.[ ] "while i was writing this, the old man waxed wroth. he shook with passion, and would fain have snatched the paper from me." "'if you don't want me to write the truth,' said i, 'i'll not write at all.'" "'nay,' quoth he, 'write so and so, and i'll copy out what you have written.'" "'i shall write what i please,' i answered, 'and not what _you_ please. show what i have written to the council, for i shall add nothing but my name.'" "_then i signed so near the writing, that nothing could be put in between._ the hot-tempered man, seeing himself disappointed, broke out into threats and blasphemies: 'i'll get you into my power, and hang you in the air, and show you no mercy: and then i shall see what god will rescue you out of my hands.'" it was not by catholics alone that allegations of this sort were advanced. sir anthony weldon tells us[ ] that on the trial of raleigh and cobham, the latter protested that he had never made the declaration attributed to him incriminating raleigh. "that villain wade,"[ ] said he, "did often solicit me, and, not prevailing, got me, by a trick, to write my name on a piece of white paper, which i, thinking nothing, did; so that if any charge came under my hand, it was forged by that villain wade, by writing something above my hand, without my consent or knowledge." moreover, there exists undoubted evidence that the king's chief minister availed himself upon occasion of the services of such as could counterfeit handwriting and forge evidence against suspected persons. one arthur gregory[ ] appears to have been thus employed, and he subsequently wrote to salisbury reminding him of what he had done.[ ] after acknowledging that he owes his life to the secretary who knows how to appreciate "an honest desire in respect of his majesty's public service," gregory thus continues: "your lordship hath had a present trial of that which none but myself hath done before, _to write in another man's hand_, and, discovering the secret writing being in blank, to abuse a most cunning villain in his own subtlety, leaving the same at last in blank again, wherein although there be difficulty their answers show they have no suspicion." this the calendarer of state papers believes to refer to the case of father garnet, and it is certain from gregory's own letter that at one time he held a post in the tower. is it not possible that an explanation may here be found of the strange circumstance, that perhaps the most important of father garnet's examinations[ ] bears an endorsement, "this was forbydden by the king to be given in evidence"? gregory's letter, of which we have been speaking, has appended to it an instructive postscript: "mr. lieutenant expecteth something to be written in the blank leaf of a latin bible, which is pasted in already for the purpose. i will attend it, and whatsoever else cometh."[ ] vii. _catholic testimony._ it will not improbably be urged that the government history is confirmed in all essential particulars by authorities to whom no exception can be taken, namely, contemporary catholic writers, and especially the jesuits gerard and greenway, whose narratives of the conspiracy corroborate every detail concerning which doubts have been insinuated. this argument is undoubtedly deserving of all consideration, but upon examination appears to lose much of its force. if the narratives in question agree with that furnished by the government, it is because they are based almost entirely upon it, and upon those published confessions of winter and faukes with which we are familiar. on this point father gerard is very explicit:[ ] "out of [mr. thomas winter's] examination, with the others that were made in the time of their imprisonment, i must gather and set down all that is to be said or collected of their purposes and proceedings in this heady enterprize. for that, as i have said, they kept it so wholly secret from all men, that until their flight and apprehension it was not known to any that such a matter was in hand, and then there could none have access to them to learn the particulars. but we must be contented with that which some of those that lived to be examined, did therein deliver. only for that some of their servants that were up in arms with them in the country did afterwards escape, somewhat might be learned by them of their carriage in their last extremities, and some such words as they then uttered, whereby their mind in the whole matter is something the more opened." elsewhere he writes, exhibiting more confidence in government documents than we can feel:[ ] "[the prisoners'] examinations did all agree in all material points, and therefore two only were published in print, containing the substance of the rest. and indeed [this is] the sum of that which i have been able to say in this narration touching either their first intentions or the names or number of the conspirators, or concerning the course they took to keep the matter so absolutely secret, or, finally, touching the manner of their beginning and proceeding in the whole matter; for that--as i noted before--it being kept a vowed secret in the heads and hearts of so few, and those also afterwards apprehended before they could have means to declare the particulars in any private manner, therefore no more can be known of the matter or manner of this tragedy than is found or gathered out of their examinations." as for greenway, it should not be forgotten that for the most part he confined himself to translating gerard's narrative from english into italian, though he supplemented it occasionally with items furnished by his own experience as to the character and general conduct of the conspirators on previous occasions, or during their last desperate rally. of this he was able to speak with more authority, as he not only chanced to be in the immediate neighbourhood, but actually visited them at huddington house (the seat of robert winter) on november th, being summoned thither by catesby through his servant bates.[ ] greenway, like gerard, constantly refers to the published confessions of winter and faukes as the sources of his information. it may here be observed that the practical identity of the narratives of these two fathers was unknown to mr. jardine, who having seen only that of father greenway, and believing it to be an original work, founded upon this erroneous assumption an argument which loses its force when we learn the real author to have been gerard. mr. jardine maintains that the narrator must, from internal evidence, have been an active and zealous member of the conspiracy, "approving, promoting and encouraging it with the utmost enthusiasm."[ ] it so happens, however, that the real author, father gerard, is just the one of the incriminated jesuits whose innocence is held by historians certainly not partial to his order, to be beyond question. mr. gardiner considers[ ] that there is "strong reason" to believe him not to have been acquainted with the plot. dr. jessopp is still more emphatic, and declares[ ] that it is impossible for any candid reader of all the evidence to doubt that gerard must be exonerated. what has been said of gerard and greenway may serve also for father garnet, who in his various examinations and other utterances assumes the truth of the government story, for neither had he materials to go upon except those officially supplied. * * * * * it is obvious that the conclusion to be drawn from the above considerations is chiefly negative. that the conspirators embarked on a plot against the state, is, of course unquestionable. what was the precise nature of that plot is by no means clear, and still less what were the exact circumstances of its initiation and its collapse. this only appears to be certain, that things did not happen as they were officially related, while the elaborate care expended on the falsification of the story seems to indicate that the true version would not have served the purposes to which that story was actually put. footnotes: [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. . mr. jardine is here speaking expressly of the trial of father garnet, as reported in the book, but evidently intends his observations to extend to that of the conspirators as well. [ ] _ibid._ . [ ] _true and perfect relation_, introduction. [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. . [ ] the contemporary, hawarde (_les reportes del cases in camera stellata_) gives a report of the trial of the conspirators, under the curious title "_al le arraignemente del traitors por le grande treason of blowinge up the parliamente howse_," which, although evidently based upon the official account, differs in two remarkable particulars. in the first place it gives a different list of the commissioners by whom the trial was conducted, omitting justice warburton, and including instead, lord chief baron flemming, justices yelverton and williams, and baron saville. moreover, hawarde says that the king and queen "were both there in pryvate," an important circumstance, of which the _true and perfect relation_ says nothing. [ ] viz., on january th and st: not january st and february st, as mr. gardiner has it. [ ] father garnet clearly believed that this advantage was used unscrupulously against him, for when certain evidence attributed to bates was cited, he replied that "bates was a dead man," and would testify otherwise if he were alive. (brit. mus. mss. add. . _foley's records_, iv. p. .) [ ] it is frequently said that the search at hendlip was undertaken not for garnet but for oldcorne, whose presence there was known by the confession of humphrey littleton. but this confession was made several days after the search had been begun, and the directions for it given by cecil to the sheriff, sir h. bromley, clearly indicate that he had in view some capture of prime importance. (see gardiner's _history_, i. , and brit. mus. mss. add. , f. .) [ ] viz.: nottingham, suffolk, worcester, devonshire, northampton, salisbury, marr, dunbar, popham, coke, and waad. [ ] in the "original," however, there are some passages which do not appear in the copy, notably one in which lord monteagle is mentioned. it appears, therefore, that the "copy" is not the first version produced, but has been edited from another still earlier. [ ] that this is not a slip of the pen is evidenced by the fact that winter first wrote , and then corrected it to . [ ] brit. mus. mss. add. , . [ ] the document is headed in the printed version: "thomas winter's confession, taken the twenty-third of november, , in the presence of the counsellors, whose names are underwritten." [ ] _gunpowder plot book_, . [ ] the list stands thus: "l. admyrall--l. chamberlayn--erle of devonshire--erle of northampton--erle of salisbury--erle of marr--l. cheif justice--attended by mr. attorney generall." the lord admiral was the earl of nottingham, better known as lord howard of effingham, the commander-in-chief against the spanish armada. there appears to be no foundation for the supposition that he was a catholic. northampton (henry howard) was a professing catholic. the chamberlain was the earl of suffolk, the chief justice, popham. [ ] the _calendar of state papers_ assigns this document, like the other, to the th, a mistake not easy to understand, for not only is the date clearly written, but the printed version in the "king's book" gives it correctly. [ ] _gunpowder plot book_, . [ ] this was originally written "deposition;" the title is altered in coke's hand, who also added the words, "taken the of nov. : acknowledged before the lords commissioners." [ ] thus the _examination_ of november th begins as follows: "he confesseth that a practise in generall was first broken unto him, agaynst his majesty, for the catholique cause, and not invented, or propounded by himself: and this was first propounded unto him, about easter last was twelvemonth, beyond the seas, in the low countreyes, by an english lay-man, and that english man came over with him in his company, into england, and they tow and three more were the first five, mencioned in the former examination," etc. the _declaration_ of november th opens: "i confesse that a practise in general was first broken unto me against his majesty, for releife of the catholique cause, and not invented or propounded by myself. and this was first propounded unto me about easter last was twelvemonth, beyond the seas, in the low countries of the archdukes obeysance, by thomas winter, who came thereupon with me into england, and there wee imparted our purpose to three other englishmen more, namely rob^t catesby, tho^s percy, and john wright, who all five consulting together," etc. see both documents in full, appendix n. [ ] thus, in the confession of november th, we read as follows: "he confesseth, that it was resolved amonge them, that the same day that this detestable act should have been performed, the same day [_sic_] should other of their confederacye have surprised the person of the lady elizabeth and presently have proclaimed her queen [to which purpose a proclamation was drawne, as well to avow and justifye the action, as to have protested against the union, and in noe sort to have meddled with religion therein. and would have protested all soe against all strangers,] and this proclamation should have been made in the name of the lady elizabeth." the portion within brackets is cancelled, and the following substituted: "he confesseth that if their purpose had taken effect, untill they had power enough, they would not have avowed the deed to be theirs; but if their power ... had been sufficient, they thereafter would have taken it upon them." the corresponding portion of the declaration of november th runs thus: "it was further resolved amongst us, that the same day that this action should have been performed, some other of our confederates should have surprised the person of the l. elizabeth, the king's eldest daughter, ... and presently proclaimed her for queene, having a _project_ of a proclamation ready for the purpose, wherein we made no mention of altering of religion, nor would have avowed the deed to be ours, untill we should have had power enough to make our partie good, and then we would have avowed both." [ ] the printed version of fauke's declaration is headed: "the true copy of the deposition of guido fawkes, taken in the presence of the counsellors, whose names are under written." [ ] see appendix k., _the use of torture_. [ ] in the _calendar of state papers_ he is continually styled "father owen," or "owen the jesuit," without warrant in the original documents. that he was a soldier and not a priest there is no doubt. [ ] _dom. james i._ xvi. . [ ] e.g. _item._ where you have confessed that it was discoursed between you that the prisoners in the tower should have had intelligence after the act done, declare the particularity of that discourse, and whether some prisoners in the tower should not have been called to office or place, or have been employed, etc. _item._ where you have confessed that the l. elizabeth should have succeeded, and that she should have been brought up as a catholic, and married to an english catholic. ( ) who should have had the government of her? ( ) who was nominated to be the fittest to have married her? _item._ was it not resolved amongst you that after the act done you would have taken the tower, or any other place of strength, and meant you not to have taken the spoil of london, and whom should you have instantly proclaimed? _item._ by what priests or jesuits were you resolved that it was godly and lawful to execute the act? _item._ whether was it not resolved that if it were discovered catesby and others should have killed the king coming from royston? _item._ were not edw. neville, calling himself earl of westmorland, mr. dacre, calling himself lord dacre, or any of the nobility, privy to it? how many of the nobility have you known at mass? what persons in the tower were named to be partakers with you? [ ] to edmondes, november th, . (stowe mss.) [ ] _viz., the true and perfect relation._ the confession of bates is mentioned but not textually quoted. it is in the "king's book" that the confessions of winter and faukes are given. [ ] "the great object of the government now was to obtain evidence against the priests."--gardiner, _history of england_, i. . [ ] see rokewood's examination, december nd, . (_gunpowder plot book_, .) in the confession of keyes, november th, (_gunpowder plot book_, ) we read: "he sayth that the reason that he revealed not the project to his ghostly father was for that catesby told him that he had good warrant and authoritie that it might safely and with good conscience be done," etc. [ ] _gunpowder plot book_, . [ ] this is shown by a mark (§) in the margin opposite the important passage, attention being called to this by the same mark, and the name "greenway" in the endorsement. [ ] brit. mus., harleian , f. . [ ] brit. mus., harleian , f. , etc. the reporter had clearly been present. [ ] brit. mus., mss. add. , ; plut. ciii. f. printed by foley, _records_, iv. _seq._ [ ] _narrative_, p. . [ ] plut. ciii. f. § . [ ] brit. mus. mss. add. , § . [ ] _dom. james i._ xvi. . [ ] in the _calendar of state papers_, mrs. everett green, as has been said, quite gratuitously and without warrant from the original documents, uniformly describes him as "father owen," or "owen the jesuit." mr. gardiner (_hist._ i. ) has been led into the same error. it is not impossible that owen had some knowledge of the conspiracy, though the course adopted by his enemies seems to afford strong presumption to the contrary. it must, moreover, be remembered that, as father gerard tells us, he and others similarly accused, vehemently protested against the imputation, while in his case in particular we have some evidence to the same effect. thomas phelippes, the "decipherer," of whom we have already heard, was on terms of close intimacy with owen, and in december, , wrote to him about the plot in terms which certainly appear to imply a strong conviction that his friend had nothing to do with it. "there hath been and yet is still great paynes taken to search to the bottom of the late damnable conspiracy. the parliamente hit seemes shall not be troubled with any extraordinarie course for their exemplarye punishment, as was supposed upon the kinges speeche, but onlye with their attaynder, the more is the pitye i saye."--_dom. james i._ xvii. . [ ] stowe mss. , . [ ] this version of the deposition is interesting as being a form intermediate between the draft of november th and the finished document of november th. the passages cancelled in the former are simply omitted without any attempt to complete the sense of the passages in which they occurred. those "ticked off" are retained. [ ] stowe mss. , . [ ] _i.e._, the archduke albert, and his consort the infanta, daughter of philip ii., who, as governors of the low countries, were usually so designated. [ ] "nous avons bien voulu aussy par ces presentes, nous mesmes vous asseurer que ce qu'il [edmondes] vous en a desja declaré, est fondé sur tout verité; et vous dire en oultre, que ces meschantes creatures d'owen et baldouin, gens de mesme farine, ont eu aussi leur part en particulier a ceste malheureuse conspiration de pouldre."--_phillipps' ms._ , f. . [ ] stowe, , . [ ] winwood, ii. . [ ] _dom. james i._ xix. . [ ] ^o _jac. i._ c. . on the st of june following, salisbury forwarded to edmondes a fresh copy of this act, "because in the former there was a great error committed in the printing." (phillipps, f. .) it would be highly interesting to know what the first version was. in that now extant it is only said regarding owen, that inasmuch as he obstinately keeps beyond the seas, he cannot be arraigned, nor can evidence and proofs be produced against him. (_statutes at large._) [ ] stowe, , ; phillipps, f. . [ ] edmondes to salisbury, january rd, ( ). p.r.o., flanders, . [ ] april th, , _ibid._ [ ] edmondes to salisbury, april th, , _ibid._ [ ] phillipps, f. . [ ] phillipps, f. . [ ] _dom. james i._ xx. . [ ] this is obvious from a marginal note in coke's own hand, arguing that owen must be guilty in this instance, as he has been guilty on former occasions, and "qui semel malus est semper præsumitur esse malus in eodem genere mali." [ ] it will be noticed that the confession of faukes cited against owen is dated two months after he had first been declared to be proved guilty by faukes' testimony. [ ] these are dated november th, th [bis], th, th [the "draft"], th, th, th, january th, th, th. [ ] thus, to confine ourselves to the confession of january th, with which we are particularly concerned, we have the following variations: _tanner transcript._ "at my going over m^r catesby charged me two things more: the one to desire of baldwin & m^r owen to deal with the marquis [spinola] to send over the regiment of which he [catesby] expected to have been lieutenant colonel under sir charles [percy].... he wished me secondly to be earnest with baldwin to deal with the marquis to give the said m^r catesby order for a company of horse, thinking by that means to have opportunity to buy horses and arms without suspition." according to _abbot_, faukes was to give instructions that when the time of parliament approached, sir wm. stanley was on some pretext to lead the english forces in the archduke's service towards the sea, and with them any others he could manage to influence. he also mentions the conspiracy of morgan, as spoken of by coke. in addition to all this, abbot cites from the same confession the following extraordinary particulars (p. ): faukes, when he came to london, with t. winter, went to percy's house and found there catesby and father gerard. they talked over matters, and agreed that nothing was to be hoped from foreign aid, nor from a general rising of catholics, and that the only plan was to strike at the king's person: whereupon catesby, percy, john wright, winter, and himself, were sworn in by gerard. [this is in absolute contradiction to winter's evidence (november rd) that percy was initiated in the middle of the easter term, the other four having agreed on the scheme at the beginning of the same term; and to that of faukes himself (november th) that he and winter first resolved on a plot for the benefit of the catholic cause, and afterwards imparted their idea to catesby, wright, and percy.] _sir e. coke's version._ "after the powder treason was resolved upon by catesbye, thomas winter, the wrightes, my self, and others, and preparation made by us for the execution of it, by their advise and direction i went into fflanders and had leave given unto me to discover our project in every particular to hughe owen and others, but with condicion that they should sweare first to secrecie as we our selves had done. when i arryved in fflanders i found m^r owen at bruxelles to whom after i had given the oathe of secrecye i discovered the whole busines, howe we had layed whole barrells of powder in the celler under the parliament howse, and howe we ment to give it fire the first day of the parliament when the king, the prince, the duke, the lords spirituall and temporall, and all the knights, citizens, and burgesses of parliament should be there assembled. and that we meant to take the ladye elizabeth and proclaime hir for we thought most like that the prince and duke would be there with the king. m^r owen liked the plott very well, and said that thomas morgan had once propounded the very same in quene elizabeth's time, and willed me that by ani meanes we should not make any mencion of religion at the first, and assured me that so soone as he should have certaine newes that this exploit had taken effect that he would give us what assistance he could and that he would procure that sir w^m stanley should have leave to come with those english men which be there and what other forces he could procure." the confession of faukes in the record office, dated the same, january th, is thus summarized in the _calendar of state papers_ (_dom. james i._ xviii. ): "talked with catesby about noblemen being absent from the meeting of parliament; he said lord mordaunt would not be there, because he did not like to absent himself from the sermons, as the king did not know he was a catholic; and that lord stourton would not come to town till the friday after the opening." [ ] the powder design of morgan is an instance in point. the thomas morgan in question was doubtless the same as the partisan of mary queen of scots. [ ] _e.g._: "winter came over to owen, by him and the fathers to be informed of a fit and resolute man for the execution of the enterprise. this examinate (being by the fathers and owen recommended to be used and trusted in any action for the catholicks) came into england with winter."--faukes, november th, (tanner mss.). abbot, whose whole object is to incriminate the jesuits, does not mention this remarkable statement. again we read, november th (_ibid._): "father baldwin told this examinate that about , horses would be provided by the catholicks of england to join with the spanish forces ... and willed this examinate to intimate so much to father creswell, which this examinate did." [ ] oliver, _collectanea_, sub nom.; foley, _records_, iv. , note. [ ] foley, _records_, iii. ; _english protestants' plea_, p. . [ ] _dom. james i._ xvi. . [ ] _england's warning peece_, by t. s. [thomas spencer], p. . [ ] cotton mss. _vespasian c._, ix. f. . [ ] winwood, _memorials_, ii. . [ ] _dom. james i._ xvi. . [ ] william stanley. [ ] the last words are added in another hand. [ ] "i am in great dispute with myself to speak in the case of this gentleman. a former dearness between me and him tied so firm a knot of my conceit of his virtues, now broken by discovery of his imperfections, that i protest, did i serve a king that i knew would be displeased with me for speaking, in this case i would speak, whatever came of it; but seeing he is compacted of piety and justice, and one that will not mislike of any man for speaking a truth, i will answer," etc.--_state trials._ [ ] "for this do i profess in the presence of him that knoweth and searcheth all men's harts, that if i did not some tyme cast a stone into the mouth of these gaping crabbs, when they are in their prodigall humour of discourses, they wold not stick to confess dayly how contrary it is to their nature to be under your soverainty; though they confess (ralegh especially) that (_rebus sic stantibus_) naturall pollicy forceth them to keep on foot such a trade against the great day of mart. in all which light and soddain humours of his, though i do no way check him, because he shall not think i reject his freedome or his affection ... yet under pretext of extraordinary care of his well doing, i have seemed to dissuade him from ingaging himself so farr," etc.--_hatfield mss._, cxxxv. f. . [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. . [ ] father gerard (_narrative_, p. ) denies in the most emphatic terms that he was the priest who said mass on this occasion. the point is fully discussed by the late father morris, s. j., in his life of father gerard, pp. - . [ ] the accompanying facsimile of this portion of faukes' confession exhibits the marks made by coke, and his added direction in the margin, _hucusque_ ("thus far"). in the original his additions are in red ink. [ ] it is singular that he should not mention faukes himself as one of those who received the oath from gerard. there is no mention in any document of greenway as giving the oath to bates, or anyone else. the facsimile of faukes' signature, appended to his confession of november th, though affording unmistakable evidence of torture, gives no idea of the original, wherein the letters are so faintly traced as to be scarcely visible. it is evident that the writer had been so severely racked as to have no strength left in his hands to press the pen upon the paper. he must have fainted when he had written his christian name, two dashes alone representing the other. this signature, with other of the more sensational documents connected with the plot, is exhibited in the newly established museum at the record office. [ ] _dom. james i._ xviii. , february th, , n. s. (latin). [ ] _narratio de rebus a se in anglia gestis_ (stonyhurst mss.). published in father g. r. kingdon's translation under the title of _during the persecution_. [ ] _during the persecution_, p. . [ ] _court and character of king james_, p. (ed. ). [ ] sir william waad, lieutenant of the tower, to whose charge the powder plot conspirators were committed, was afterwards dismissed from his office on a charge of embezzling the jewels of the lady arabella stuart. [ ] presumably the same arthur gregory who at an earlier period had counterfeited the seals of mary queen of scots' correspondence. [ ] _dom. james i._ xxiv. . [ ] march rd, - (hatfield mss.). [ ] eudaemon joannes cites the renegade alabaster as testifying to having seen a letter seemingly of his own to garnet, which he had never written. (_answer to casaubon_, p. .) [ ] _narrative_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] though we have not now to consider the question of father greenway's connection with the conspirators, it may not be out of place to cite his own account of this visit (_narrative_, stonyhurst mss., f. b): "father oswald [greenway] went to assist these gentlemen with the sacraments of the church, understanding their danger and their need, and this with evident danger to his own person and life: and all those gentlemen could have borne witness that he publicly told them how he grieved not so much because of their wretched and shameful plight, and the extremity of their peril, as that by their headlong course they had given the heretics occasion to slander the whole body of catholics in the kingdom, and that he flatly refused to stay in their company, lest the heretics should be able to calumniate himself and the other fathers of the society." [ ] in this, as in some other respects, mr. jardine shows himself rather an advocate than an impartial historian. he holds that the complicity of the writer of the _narrative_ with the plotters is proved by the intimate knowledge he displays concerning them, "their general conduct--their superstitious fears--their dreams--'their thick coming fancies'--in the progress of the work of destruction." (_criminal trials_, ii. xi.) there is here an evident allusion to the silly story of the "bell in the wall" (related by greenway and not by gerard), to which mr. jardine gives extraordinary prominence. he does not, however, inform us that greenway relates this (_narrative_, f. b) and some similar matters, on the authority of "an acquaintance to whom catesby told it shortly before his death," and that he leaves it to the judgment of his readers. greenway's frequent and earnest protestations of innocence mr. jardine summarily dismisses with the observation that they are "entitled to no credit whatever" (p. xii). [ ] _history_, i. . [ ] _dictionary of national biography_ (digby, sir e.). chapter ix. the sequel. as we have already seen, the gunpowder plot formed no exception to the general law observable in conspiracies of its period, proving extremely advantageous to those against whom it was principally directed. no single individual was injured by it except those concerned in it, or accused of being so concerned. on the other hand, it marked an epoch in public policy, and irrevocably committed the king and the nation to a line of action towards catholics, which up to that time they had hoped, and their enemies had feared, would not be permanently pursued. "the political consequences of this transaction," says mr. jardine,[ ] "are extremely important and interesting. it fixed the timid and wavering mind of the king in his adherence to the protestant party, in opposition to the roman catholics; and the universal horror, which was naturally excited not only in england but throughout europe by so barbarous an attempt, was artfully converted into an engine for the suppression of the roman catholic church: so that the ministers of james i., having procured the reluctant acquiescence of the king, and the cordial assent of public opinion, were enabled to continue in full force the severe laws previously passed against papists, and to enact others of no less rigour and injustice." such was the effect in fact produced, and the calm deliberation displayed in dealing with the crisis appears to indicate that no misgivings were entertained as to the chance of anything but advantage resulting from it. we have already seen with what strange equanimity the presence of the powder beneath the parliament house was treated. not less serene was the attitude of the minister chiefly responsible for the safety of the state in face of the grave dangers still declared to be threatening, even after the "discovery." preparations, it was officially announced, had been made for an extensive rising of the catholics, and this had still to be reckoned with. as the king himself informed sir john harington, the design was not formed by a few, the "whole legion of catholics" were implicated: the priests had been active in preaching the holy war, and the pope himself had employed his authority on behalf of the cause.[ ] moreover, the conspirators, except faukes, escaped from london, and hurried to the intended scene of action, where, though no man voluntarily joined them, they were able at first to collect a certain force of their own retainers and domestics, and began to traverse the shires in which their influence was greatest, committing acts of plunder and violence, and calling on all men to join them for god and the country. for a couple of days the local magistrates did not feel strong enough to cope with them, and forwarded to the capital reports capable, it might be supposed, of alarming those who were bewildered by so totally unexpected an assault, for which the evidence in hand showed preparations of no ordinary magnitude to have been made. the numbers of the insurgents, it was said, were constantly increasing; only a feeble force could be brought against them; they were seizing horses and ammunition, and all this in "a very catholic country." in his famous speech to parliament, delivered on november th, the king dwelt feelingly on the danger of the land, left exposed to the traitors, in the absence of the members of the legislature, its natural guardians. "these rebels," he declared,[ ] "that now wander through the country could never have gotten so fit a time of safety in their passage, or whatsoever unlawful actions, as now; when the country, by the aforesaid occasions, is, in a manner, left desolate and waste unto them."[ ] meanwhile, however, the secretary remained imperturbably tranquil as before, and so well aware of the true state of the case that he could afford to make merry over the madcap adventurers. on the same th of november he wrote to the ambassadors: "it is also thought fit that some martial men should presently repair down to those countries where the robin hoods are assembled, to encourage the good and to terrify the bad. in which service the earl of devonshire is used, a commission going forth for him as general: although i am easily persuaded that this faggot will be burnt to ashes before he shall be twenty miles on his way." his prescience was not at fault, for before despatching the letter the minister was able to announce the utter collapse of the foolish and unsupported enterprise. no time was lost in turning the defeated conspiracy to practical account. on the very th of november[ ] itself the commons proceeded, before all other business, to the first reading of a bill for the better execution of penal statutes against recusants. on the following day this was read a second time. the house next met on the th, to hear the king's speech, and was then prorogued to january st following. on that day, the foremost article on the programme was the first reading of a bill (whether the same or another) for the better execution of penal statutes; another was likewise proposed for prevention of the danger of papistical practices; and a committee was appointed "to consider of some course for the timely and severe proceeding against jesuits, seminaries, and other popish agents and practisers, and for the prevention and suppression of their plots and practices."[ ] on the nd there was a motion directed against the seminaries beyond the seas, and the bill for better execution of penal statutes was read a second time. on the rd the bill for a public thanksgiving was read twice, being finally passed on the th. its preamble runs thus: "forasmuch as ... no nation of the earth hath been blessed with greater benefits than this kingdom now enjoyeth, having the true and free profession of the gospel under our most gracious sovereign lord king james, the most great, learned, and religious king that ever reigned therein ... the which many malignant and devilish papists, jesuits, and seminary priests, much envying and fearing, conspired most horribly ..." and so forth. thus did the commons set to work, and the other house, though they declined to sanction all that was proposed in the way of exceptional severity towards the actual conspirators, were no wise lacking in zeal against the catholic body. the course of legislation that ensued is thus described by birch:[ ] "the discovery of the plot occasioned the parliament to enjoin the oath of allegiance to the king, and to enact several laws against popery, and especially against the jesuits and priests who, as the earl of salisbury observed,[ ] sought to bring all things into confusion.... in passing these laws for the security of the protestant religion, the earl of salisbury exerted himself with distinguished zeal and vigour, which gained him great love and honour from the kingdom, as appeared, in some measure, in the unusual attendance upon him at his installation into the order of the garter, on the th of may, ,[ ] at windsor." it is, indeed, abundantly clear that beyond all others this statesman benefited by the plot, in consequence of which he obtained, at least for a time, a high degree of both power and popularity. his installation at windsor, above mentioned, was an almost regal triumph. baker notes[ ] that he was attended on the occasion "beyond ordinary promotion." howes writes[ ] that he "set forward from his house in the strand, being almost as honourably accompanied, and with as great a train of lords, knights, gentlemen, and officers of the court, with others besides his peculiar servants, very richly attired and bravely mounted, as was the king when he rid in state through london." neither were there wanting to the secretary other advantages which, if less showy, were not less substantial. it will be remembered how, in his secret correspondence with the king of scots before the death of elizabeth, cecil had constantly endeavoured to turn the mind of his future sovereign against the earl of northumberland, whom he declared to be associated with raleigh and cobham in a "diabolical triplicity," and to be "a sworn enemy of king james."[ ] these efforts had not been altogether successful, and though cobham and raleigh had been effectually disposed of in connection with the conspiracy known as the "main," northumberland was still powerful, and was thought by many to be cecil's most formidable rival. as one result of the gunpowder plot, he now disappeared for ever from public life. [illustration: the powder plot. iii.] when we remember the terms in which the secretary had previously described him, as well as the result about to ensue, it is not a little startling to remark with what emphasis it was protested, in season and out, that a ruling principle of the government's action was to do nothing which might even seem to cast a slur upon the earl's character, while at the same time the very point is artfully insinuated which was to be turned against him.[ ] thus in the "king's book," in explanation of the curious roundabout courses adopted in connection with the "discovery," we are told that a far-fetched excuse was devised for the search determined upon, lest it might "lay an ill-favoured imputation upon the earl of northumberland, one of his majesty's greatest subjects and counsellors; this thomas percy being his kinsman and most confident familiar." so again cecil wrote to the ambassadors: "it hath been thought meet in policy of state (all circumstances considered) to commit the earl of northumberland to the archbishop of canterbury, there to be honourably used, until things be more quiet. whereof if you shall hear any judgment made, as if his majesty or his council could harbour a thought of such a savage practice to be lodged in such a nobleman's breast, you shall do well to suppress it as a malicious discourse and invention, this being only done to satisfy the world that nothing be undone which belongs to policy of state, when the whole monarchy was proscribed to dissolution; and being no more than himself discreetly approved when he received the sentence of the council for his restraint." yet what was the issue? a series of charges were brought against northumberland, all of which broke down except that of having, as captain of the royal pensioners, admitted percy amongst them without exacting the usual oath. he in vain demanded an open trial, and was brought before the star chamber, by which, after he had been assailed by coke in the same violent strain previously employed against raleigh, he was sentenced to forfeit all offices which he held under the crown, to be imprisoned during the king's pleasure, and to pay a fine of £ , , equal to at least ten times that sum at the present day. as if this were not enough, fresh proceedings were taken against him six years later, when he was again subjected to examination, and again, says lingard,[ ] foiled the ingenuity or malice of his persecutor. it seems, therefore, by no means extraordinary that men, as we have heard from the french ambassador, should have commonly attributed the earl's ruin to the resolution of his great rival to remove from his own path every obstacle likely to be dangerous, or that cecil should himself bear witness,[ ] in , to the "bruites" touching northumberland which were afloat, and should be anxious, as "knowing how various a discourse a subject of this nature doth beget," to "prevent any erroneous impression by a brief narrative of the true motive and progress of the business." as to northumberland's own sentiments, he, we are told by osborne,[ ] declared that the blood of percy would refuse to mix with that of cecil if they were poured together in the same basin. it is, moreover, evident not only that the great statesman, to use bishop goodman's term, actually profited largely by the powder business, but that from the first he saw in it a means for materially strengthening his position; an opportunity which he lost no time in turning to account by making it appear that in such a crisis he was absolutely necessary to the state. this is shown by the remarkable manifesto which he promptly issued, a document which appears to have been almost forgotten, though well deserving attention. a characteristic feature of the traitorous proceedings of the period was the inveterate habit of conspirators to drop compromising documents in the street, or to throw them into yards and windows. in the court of salisbury house was found, in november, , a threatening letter, more than usually extraordinary. it purported to come from five catholics, who began by unreservedly condemning the gunpowder plot as a work abhorred by their co-religionists as much as by any protestants. since, however, his lordship, beyond all others, seemed disposed to take advantage of so foul a scandal, in order to root out all memory of the catholic religion, they proceeded to warn him that they had themselves vowed his death, and in such fashion that their success was certain. none of the accomplices knew who the others were, but it was settled who should first make the attempt, and who, in order, afterwards. moreover, death had no terrors for any of them, two being stricken with mortal sickness, which must soon be fatal; while the other three were in such mental affliction as not to care what became of them. as a reply to this strange effusion cecil published a tract,[ ] obviously intended as a companion to the famous "king's book," in which with elaborate modesty he owned to the impeachment of being more zealous than others in the good cause, and protested his resolution, at whatever peril to himself, to continue his services to his king and country. the sum and substance of this curious apology is as follows. having resolved to recall his thoughts from the earthly theatre to higher things, which statesmen are supposed overmuch to neglect, he had felt he could choose no better theme for his meditations than the "king's book," wherein so many lively images of god's great favour and providence are represented, every line discovering where apelles' hand hath been; so that all may see there needs now no elisha to tell the king of israel what the aramites do in their privatest councils. while in this most serious and silent meditation, divided between rapture at god's infinite mercy and justice, and thought of his own happiness to live under a king pleasing to god for his zealous endeavours to cleanse the vessels of his kingdom from the dregs and lees of the romish grape,--and while his heart was not a little cheered to observe any note of his own name in the royal register, for one that had been of any little use in this so fortunate discovery,--as the poor day labourer who taketh contentment when he passeth that glorious architecture, to the building whereof he can remember to have carried some few sticks and stones,--while thus blissfully engaged, he is grieved to find himself singled out from the honourable body of the council,--why, he knows not, for with it he would be content to be identified--as the author of the policy which is being adopted; and, conscious that in his humble person the body of authority is assailed, he thinks it well, for once, to make a reply. having recited the threatening letter in full, he presently continues: "though i participate not in the follies of that fly who thought herself to raise the dust because she sat on the chariot-wheel, yet i am so far from disavowing my honest ambition of my master's favour, as i am desirous that the world should hold me, not so much his creature, by the undeserved honours i hold from his grace and power, as my desire to be the shadow of his mind, and to frame my judgment, knowledge, and affections according to his. towards whose royal person i shall glory more to be always found an honest and humble subject, than i should to command absolutely in any other calling." of those who threaten him he says very little, assuming, however, as self-evident, that they are set on by some priest, who, after the manner of his tribe, doth "carry the unlearned catholics, like hawks hooded, into those dangerous positions." but, as for himself, let the world understand that he is not the man to neglect his duty on account of the personal danger it entails. "far i hope it shall be from me, who know so well in whose holy book my days are numbered, once to entertain a thought to purchase a span of time, at so dear a rate, as for the fear of any mortal power, in my poor talent, _aut deo, aut patriæ, aut patri patriæ deesse_."[ ] in spite of the singular ability of this manifesto, the art of the writer is undoubtedly somewhat too conspicuous to permit us to accept it as the kind of document which would be produced by one who felt himself confronted by a serious peril. an interesting and most pertinent commentary is supplied by a contemporary jesuit, giles schondonck, rector of st. omers college, in a letter to father baldwin, the same of whom we have already heard in connection with the plot.[ ] schondonck has, he says, read and re-read cecil's book, which baldwin had lent him. if his opinion be required, he finds in it many flowers of wit and eloquence, and it is a composition well adapted for its object; but the original letter which has evoked this brilliant rejoinder is a manifest fraud, not emanating from any catholic, but devised by the enemies of the church for her injury. the writers plainly contradict themselves. they begin by denouncing the powder plot as impious and abominable, and they do so most righteously, and they declare its authors to have been turbulent spirits and not religious, in which also they are right. but they go on to approve the design of murdering cecil. what sense is there in this? if the one design be impious and detestable, with what colour or conscience can the other be approved? there is no difference of principle, though in the one case many were to be murdered, in the other but a single man. no one having in him any spark of religion could defend either project, much less approve it. moreover, much that is set down is simply ridiculous. men in the last extremity of sickness, or broken down by sorrow, are not of the stuff whereof those are made by whom desperate deeds are done. from another jesuit we obtain instructive information which at least serves to show what was the opinion of catholics as to the way in which things were being managed. this is conveyed in a letter addressed december st, , to the famous father parsons by father richard blount, father garnet's successor as superior of the english mission.[ ] it must be remembered that this was not meant for the public eye, and in fact was never published. it cannot have been intended to obtain credence for a particular version of history, and it was written to him who, of all men, was behind the scenes so far as the english jesuits were concerned. much of it is in cipher which, fortunately, has been interpreted for us by the recipient. blount begins with a piece of intelligence which is startling enough. amongst the lords of the council none was a more zealous enemy of popery than the chamberlain, the earl of suffolk,[ ] who was more than once on the commission for expelling priests and jesuits, and had in particular been so energetic in the matter of the powder plot that salisbury modestly confessed that in regard of the "discovery" he had himself been "much less forward."[ ] now, however, we are told, only a twelvemonth later, that this nobleman and his wife are ready for a sufficient fee to procure "some kind of peace" for the catholics. the needful sum may probably be raised through the spanish ambassador, but the issue is doubtful "because salisbury will resist."--"yet such is the want of money with the chamberlain at this time--whose expenses are infinite--that either salisbury must supply, or else he must needs break with him."[ ] after some particulars concerning the jealousy against the scots, and the matter of the union (which "sticketh much in the parliament's teeth") blount goes on to relate how cecil has been attempting to float a second powder plot--the scene being this time the king's court itself. he has had another letter brought in, to set it going, and had seemingly calculated on capturing the writer himself and some of his brethren in connection with it. in this, however, he has been foiled, and the matter appears to have been dropped. in blount's own words:[ ] "now these last days we expected some new stratagem, because salisbury pretended a letter to be brought to his lordship found by chance in st. clement's churchyard, written in ciphers, wherein were many persons named, and a question asked, whether there were any concavity under the stage in the court. but belike the device failed, and so we hear no words of it. about this time this house was ransacked, where by chance blount came late the night before, finding four more, talbot, n. smith, wright, arnold; being all besieged from morning to night. if things had fallen out as was expected, then that letter would have haply been spoken of, whereas now it is very secret, and only served to pick a thanks of king james, with whom salisbury keepeth his credit by such tricks, as upon whose vigilancy his majesty's life dependeth." * * * * * one other feature of the after history demands consideration. as fuller tells us,[ ] "a learned author, making mention of this treason, breaketh forth into the following rapture: 'excidat illa dies aevo, ne postera credant saecula; nos certe taceamus, et obruta multâ nocte tegi propriae patiamur crimina gentis.' 'oh, let that day be quite dashed out of time, and not believ'd by the next generation; in night of silence we'll conceal the crime, thereby to save the credit of the nation.'" "a wish," he adds, "which in my opinion, hath more of poetry than of piety therein, and from which i must be forced to dissent." assuredly if it were judged that silence and oblivion should be the lot of the conspiracy, no stranger means were ever adopted to secure the desired object. a public thanksgiving was appointed to be held every year, on the anniversary of the "discovery;" a special service for that day was inserted in the anglican liturgy, and gunpowder plot sermons kept the memory of the treason green in the mind not of one but of many generations. moreover, the country was flooded with literature on the subject, in prose and rhyme, and the example of milton is sufficient to show how favourite a topic it was with youthful poets essaying to try their wings.[ ] in regard of the history, one line was consistently adopted. the church of england in its calendar marked november th, as the _papists' conspiracy_, and in the collect appointed for the day the king and estates of the realm were described as being "by popish treachery appointed as sheep to the slaughter, in a most barbarous and savage manner, beyond the examples of former ages." similarly, preachers and writers alike concurred in saying little or nothing about the actual conspirators, but much about the iniquity of rome; the official character of the plot, and its sanction, even its first suggestion, by the highest authorities of the church, being the chief feature of the tale hammered year after year into the ears of the english people. the details of history supplied are frequently pure and unmixed fables.[ ] [illustration: the powder plot. iv.] nor was the pencil less active than the pen in popularizing the same belief. great was the ingenuity spent in devising and producing pictures which should impress on the minds of the most illiterate a holy horror of the church which had doomed the nation to destruction. one of the most elaborate of these was headed by an inscription which admirably summarizes the moral of the tale. the powder treason.--propounded by _satan_: approved by _antichrist_ [_i.e._ the pope]: enterprised by _papists_: practized by _traitors_: revealed by an _eagle_ [monteagle]: expounded by an _oracle_ [king james]: founded in _hell_: confounded in _heaven_. accordingly we find representations of lucifer, the pope, the king of spain, the general of the jesuits, and other such worthies, conspiring in the background while the redoubtable guy walks arm in arm with a demon to fire the mine, the latter grasping a papal bull (unknown to the bullarium), expedited to promote the project: or again, faukes and catesby stand secretly conspiring in the middle of the street, while father garnet, in full jesuit habit (or what is meant for such) exhorts them to go on: or a priest gives the conspirators "the sacrament of secrecy;" or representative romish dignitaries blow threats and curses against england and her parliament house,--or the jesuits are buried in hell in recompense of their perfidy. it cannot, however, escape remark that while the limners have been conscientiously careful in respect of these details, they have one and all discarded accuracy in regard of another matter in which we might naturally have expected it. in no single instance is guy faukes represented as about to blow up the right house. sometimes it is the house of commons that he is going to destroy, more frequently the painted chamber, often a nondescript building corresponding to nothing in particular,--but in no single instance is it the house of lords. [illustration: the powder plot. v.] the most extraordinary instance of so strange a vagary is afforded by a plate produced immediately after the occurrence it commemorates, in the year itself.[ ] in this, faukes with his inseparable lantern, but without the usual spurs, is seen advancing to the door of the "cellar," which stands conspicuous above ground. aloft is seen the crescent moon, represented in exactly the right phase for the date of the discovery.[ ] the accuracy exhibited as to this singular detail makes it more than ever extraordinary that the building to which he directs his steps is unquestionably st. stephen's chapel--the house of commons. one point of the history, in itself apparently insignificant, was at the time invested with such extravagant importance, as to suggest a question in its regard, namely the day itself whereon the marvellous deliverance took place. a curious combination of circumstances alone assigned it to the notorious fifth of november. parliament, as we have seen, was originally appointed to meet on the rd of october, but was suddenly adjourned for about a month, and so little reason did there seem to be for the prorogation[ ] as to fill the conspirators with alarm lest some suspicion of their design had prompted it; wherefore they sent thomas winter to attend the prorogation ceremony, and observe the demeanour of those who took part in it. afterwards, though the discovery might have easily been made any time during the preceding week, nothing practical was done till the fateful day itself had actually begun, when, as the acute lingard has not failed to observe, a remarkable change at once came over the conduct of the authorities, who discarding the aimless and dilatory manner of proceeding which had hitherto characterized them, went straight to the point with a promptitude and directness leaving nothing to be desired. whatever were their motive in all this, the action of the government undoubtedly brought it about that the great blow should be struck on a day which not a little enhanced the evidence for the providential character of the whole affair. tuesday was king james' lucky day, more especially when it happened to be the th of the month, for on tuesday, august the th, , he had escaped the mysterious treason of the gowries. this coincidence evidently created a profound impression. "curious folks observe," wrote chamberlain to carleton,[ ] "that this deliverance happened on the fifth of november, answerable to the fifth of august, both tuesdays; and this plot to be executed by johnson [the assumed name of faukes], and that at johnstown [_i.e._, perth]." on the th of november, lake suggested to the archbishop of canterbury,[ ] that as a perpetual memorial of this so providential circumstance, the anniversary sermon should always be delivered upon a tuesday. two days later, the archbishop wrote to his suffragans,[ ] reminding them how on a tuesday his majesty had escaped the gowries, and now, on another tuesday, a peril still more terrible, which must have ruined the whole nation, had not the holy ghost illumined the king's heart with a divine spirit. in remembrance of which singular instance of god's governance, there was to be an annual celebration.[ ] most important of all, king james himself much appreciated the significance of this token of divine protection, and not only impressed this upon his parliament, but proroguing it forthwith till after christmas, selected the same propitious day of the week for its next meeting, as a safeguard against possible danger. "since it has pleased god," said his majesty,[ ] "to grant me two such notable deliveries upon one day of the week, which was tuesday, and likewise one day of the month, which was the fifth, thereby to teach me that as it was the same devil that still persecuted me, so it was one and the same god that still mightily delivered me, i thought it therefore not amiss, that the twenty-first day which fell to be upon tuesday, should be the day of meeting of this next session of parliament, hoping and assuring myself, that the same god, who hath now granted me and you all so notable and gracious a delivery, shall prosper all our affairs at that next session, and bring them to an happy conclusion." * * * * * whatever may be thought of this particular element of its history, it is perfectly clear that the fashion in which the plot was habitually set before the english people, and which contributed more than anything else to work the effect actually produced, was characterized from the first by an utter disregard of truth on the part of those whose purposes it so opportunely served, and with such lasting results. a summary. the evidence available to us appears to establish principally two points,--that the true history of the gunpowder plot is now known to no man, and that the history commonly received is certainly untrue. it is quite impossible to believe that the government were not aware of the plot long before they announced its discovery. it is difficult to believe that the proceedings of the conspirators were actually such as they are related to have been. it is unquestionable that the government consistently falsified the story and the evidence as presented to the world, and that the points upon which they most insisted prove upon examination to be the most doubtful. there are grave reasons for the conclusion that the whole transaction was dexterously contrived for the purpose which in fact it opportunely served, by those who alone reaped benefit from it, and who showed themselves so unscrupulous in the manner of reaping. footnotes: [ ] _criminal trials_, ii. i. [ ] _nugæ antiquæ_, i. . [ ] _harleian miscellany_, iv. . [ ] this terrible state of things was alleged as a principal reason for the prorogation of the parliament for two months and a half. as a matter of fact, the rebels had been overthrown and captured the day before that on which the king's speech was delivered, and news of that event was received that same evening. [ ] _commons' journals._ [ ] in the preamble of the act so passed we read: "forasmuch as it is found by daily experience, that many his majesty's subjects that adhere in their hearts to the popish religion, by the infection drawn from thence, and by the wicked and devilish counsel of jesuits, seminaries, and other like persons dangerous to the church and state, are so perverted in the point of their loyalties and due allegiance unto the king's majesty, and the crown of england, as they are ready to entertain and execute any treasonable conspiracies and practices, as evidently appears by that more than barbarous and horrible attempt to have blown up with gunpowder the king, queen ..." etc., etc. [ ] _negotiations_, p. . [ ] "our parliament is prorogued till the th of next november. many things have been considerable in it, but especially the zeal of both houses for the preservation of god's true religion, by establishing many good laws against popery and those firebrands, jesuits, and priests, that seek to bring all things into confusion. his majesty resolveth once more by proclamation to banish them all; and afterwards, if they shall not obey, then the laws shall go upon them without any more forbearance."--cecil to winwood, june th, (winwood, _memorials_, ii. ). [ ] in the _dictionary of national biography_, and doyle's _official baronage_, this installation is erroneously assigned to . [ ] _chronicle_, p. . [ ] continuation of stowe's _annals_, p. . [ ] letter iii. [ ] at northumberland's trial lord salisbury thus expressed himself: "i have taken paines in my nowne heart to clear my lord's offences, which now have leade me from the contemplation of his virtues; for i knowe him vertuous, wyse, valiaunte, and of use and ornamente to the state.... the cause of this combustion was the papistes seekinge to restore their religion. non libens dico, sed res ipsa loquitur."--hawarde, _les reportes_, etc. [ ] _history_, vii. , note. on this subject mr. sawyer, the editor of winwood ( ), has the following remark: "we meet with some account of his [northumberland's] offence, though couched in such tender terms, that 'tis a little difficult to conceive it deserved so heavy a punishment as a fine of £ , and perpetual imprisonment." (_memorials_, iii. , note.) [ ] to winwood, _memorials_, iii. . [ ] _traditional memoirs_, p. . [ ] _an answere to certaine scandalous papers, scattered abroad under colour of a catholicke admonition._ "qui facit vivere, docet orare." imprinted at london by robert barker, printer to the king's most eccellent majestie. anno . this was published in january, - , on the th of which month sir w. browne, writing from flushing, mentions that "my lord of salisbury hath lately published a little booke as a kynd of answer to som secrett threatning libelling letters cast into his chamber." (stowe mss., , , f. .) [ ] on this subject cornwallis wrote to salisbury (winwood, ii. ): "many reports are here spread of the combination against your lordship, and that five english romanists would resolve your death. it seems that since they cannot be allowed _sacrificium incruentum_, they will now altogether put in use their sacrifices of blood. but i hope and suppose that their hearts and their hands want much of the vigour that rests in their wills and their pens. your lordship doth take especial courage in this, that they single you out as the chief and principal watch tower of your country and commonwealth, and turn the strength of their malice to you whom they hold the discoverer of all their unnatural and destructive inventions against their prince and country," etc. [ ] p.r.o. _dom. james i._ xviii. , february th, n.s., . the original, which is in latin, has been utterly misunderstood by the calendarer of state papers. [ ] stonyhurst mss., _anglia_, iii. . [ ] thomas howard, cr. . [ ] to the ambassadors. [ ] father blount's account is undoubtedly in keeping with what we know of the earl, and especially of his countess, who was a sister of sir thomas knyvet, the captor of guy faukes. suffolk, in , became lord high treasurer, but four years afterwards grave irregularities were discovered in his office; he was accused of embezzlement and extortion, in which work his wife was proved to have been even more active than himself. they were sentenced to restore all money wrongfully extorted, to a fine of £ , , and to imprisonment during pleasure. [ ] in this letter all proper names are in cipher, as well as various other words. [ ] _church history_, x. . [ ] we have four latin epigrams of milton's, _in proditionem bombardicam_, which, though pointless, are bitterly anti-catholic. a longer poem, of lines, _in quintum novembris_, is still more virulent. it is somewhat remarkable that the universal shakespeare should make no allusion to the plot, beyond the doubtful reference to equivocation in _macbeth_ (ii. ). he was at the time of its occurrence in the full flow of his dramatic activity. [ ] see appendix l, _myths and legends of the powder plot_. [ ] brit. mus. print room, crace collection, portf. xv. . this is reproduced, as our frontispiece. [ ] there was a new moon at . p.m. on october st. [ ] the reasons assigned in the proclamation for this prorogation are plainly insufficient: viz., "that the holding of it [the parliament] so soone is not convenient, as well for that the ordinary course of our subjects resorting to the citie for their usuall affaires at the terme is not for the most part till allhallowtide or thereabouts." why, then, had the meeting been fixed for so unsuitable a date? [ ] november th, . (_dom. james i._) [ ] tanner mss. lxxv. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] on his arrival in england, as osborne tells us (_memoirs_, p. ), king james "brought a new holiday into the church of england, wherein god had publick thanks given him for his majestie's deliverance out of the hands of earle goury;" but the introduction was not a success, englishmen and scots alike ridiculing it. gunpowder plot day was more fortunate. [ ] _harleian miscellany_, iv. . appendix a. notes on the illustrations. _frontispiece. the powder plot. i._ from the crace collection, british museum, _portf._ xv. . thus described in the catalogue of the collection: "a small etching of the house of lords. guy fawkes in the foreground. w.e. exc. ." this plate is of exceptional interest as having been executed within five months of the discovery of the plot, _i.e._, previously to march th, , the first day of the year, old style. guy faukes is represented as approaching the house of commons (st. stephen's chapel), not the house of lords, as the catalogue says. _title-page._ obverse, or reverse, of a medal struck, by order of the dutch senate, to commemorate the double event of the discovery of the gunpowder plot and the expulsion of the jesuits from holland. drawn from a copy of the medal in pewter, by paul woodroffe. the design here exhibited is thus described in hawkins and frank's _medallic illustrations_: "the name of jehovah, in hebrew, radiate, within a crown of thorns." "legend, chronogrammatic, non dormitasti antistes iacobi" [which gives the date ] on its other face the medal bears a snake gliding amid roses and lilies [symbolizing jesuit intrigues in england and france], with the legend _detectus qui latuit. s.c._ [senatus consulto]." this is reproduced on the cover. _group of conspirators_ (p. ). from a print published at amsterdam. eight conspirators are represented, five being omitted, viz., grant, keyes, digby, rokewood, and tresham. bates, as a servant, wears no hat. _the houses of parliament in the time of james i._ (pp. - ). restored from the best authorities, and drawn for the author by h.w. brewer. _ground plan of house of lords and adjacent buildings_ (p. ). extracted from the "foundation plan of the ancient palace of westminster; measured, drawn and engraved by j. t. smith" (_antiquities of westminster_, p. ) _the house of lords in _ (p. ). from j.t. smith's _antiquities of westminster_. this sketch, made from the east, or river, side, was taken during the demolition of the buildings erected against the sides of the parliament house. these were put up previously to the time when hollar made his drawing of the interior (temp. charles ii.), which shows the walls hung with tapestry, the windows having been blocked up. according to a writer in the _gentleman's magazine_ (no. , july, ), who signs himself "architect," in a print of the time of james i. the tapestry is not seen, and the house "appears to have preserved much of its original work." the only print answering to this description which i have been able to find exhibits the windows, but is of no value for historical purposes, as it is a reproduction of one of the time of queen elizabeth, the figure of the sovereign alone being changed. this engraving is said to be "taken from a painted print in the cottonian library," of which i can find no trace. [b. mus., k. . . b.] to the left of our illustration is seen the gable of the prince's chamber. the door to the right of this opened into the cellar, and by it, according to tradition, faukes was to have made his exit. in front of this is seen part of the garden attached to percy's lodging. _interior of "guy faukes' cellar"_ (p. ). two views of the interior of the "cellar," drawn by h. w. brewer, from elevations in j.t. smith's _antiquities of westminster_, p. . the remains of a buttery-hatch, at the southern end, testify to the ancient use of the chamber as the palace kitchen; of which the earl of northampton made mention at father garnet's trial. the very ancient doorway in the eastern wall, seen on the left of the picture, was of saxon workmanship, and, like the foundations beneath, probably dated from the time of edward the confessor, who first erected this portion of the palace, most of which had been rebuilt about the time of henry iii. by this doorway, according to some accounts, faukes intended to escape after firing the train, though others assign this distinction to one near the other end. these two illustrations were originally prepared for the _daily graphic_ of november th, , and it is by the courtesy of the proprietors of that journal that they are here reproduced. _vault under the east end of the painted chamber_ (p. ). from brayley and britton's _palace of westminster_, p. . this has been constantly depicted and described as "guy faukes' cellar." _arches from guy faukes' cellar_ (p. ). drawn for the author by h. w. brewer. sir john soane, who in took down the old house of lords, removed the arches from the "cellar" beneath it, to his own house in lincoln's inn fields, now the soane museum, where they are still to be seen in a small court adjoining the building. they do not, however, appear to have been set up precisely in their original form, being dwarfed by the omission of some stones, presumably that they might occupy less space. in our illustration they are represented exactly as they now stand, with the modern building behind them. some incongruous relics of other stonework which have been introduced amongst them have, however, been omitted. the architecture of these arches, and of the adjacent prince's chamber, assigns them to the best period of thirteenth century gothic. _cell at s.e. corner of painted chamber_ (p. ). often styled "guy faukes' cell." from brayley and britton, _op. cit._, p. . there appears to be no reason for associating this with faukes. _the powder plot. ii._ (p. ). "invented by samuel ward, preacher, of ipswich. imprinted at amsterdam, ." [british museum, _political and personal satires_, i. .] this is the portion to the right of a composition representing on the left the spanish armada, and in the centre a council table at which are gathered the devil, the pope, the king of spain, the general of the jesuits, and others. an eye above is fixed on the cellar. faukes in this case is going to blow up the painted chamber. _interior of the old house of lords (scene on occasion of the king's speech, )_ (p. ). this plate represents the house in the reign of george ii. in the century and a half since the time of the powder plot it is probable that the windows in the side walls had been blocked up, and the tapestry hung. the latter represented the defeat of the armada. [from maitland's _london_ ( ), ii. .] _lord monteagle and the letter_ (p. ). from _mischeefes mystery_. king james enthroned, with crown and sceptre, upon a daïs, at the foot of which stands the earl of salisbury. an eagle bears a letter in its beak, to receive which the king and his minister extend their left hands. the english poem, by john vicars, embellished with this woodcut, was published in , being a much expanded version of one in latin hexameters, entitled _pietas pontificia_, by francis herring, which appeared in . _arrest of guy faukes_ (p. ). from _mischeefes mystery_. guy faukes booted and spurred, and with his lantern, prepares to open a door at the extremity of the painted chamber. sir thomas knyvet with his retinue approaches unseen. the stars and the beams from the lantern show that it is the middle of the night. _discovery of the gunpowder plot_ (p. ). from a print in the guildhall library. catesby, faukes, and garnet (the latter in what is apparently meant for the jesuit habit) stand in the middle of the street conspiring secretly. through the open door of the "cellar" the powder barrels are seen. this illustration (without the coins) stands at the head of book xviii. of m. rapin de thoyras' _history of england_, translated by n. tindal. "_guy faukes' lantern_" (p. ). drawn by h.w. brewer. this object, the authenticity of which is not unquestionable, is exhibited in the ashmolean museum, oxford. it bears the inscription, "laterna illa ipsa qua usus est, et cum qua deprehensus guido faux in crypta subterranea ubi domo parliamenti difflandæ operam dabat. ex dono robti heywood nuper academiae procuratoris, ap. ^o, ." it will be remembered that the honour of having arrested faukes has been claimed for one of the name of heywood. the history of the famous lantern has not escaped the variations which we are accustomed to meet with on other points. faukes is generally said to have been found with it in his hands, and it has consequently become an inseparable adjunct in pictures of him. on the other hand, we are told, "in a corner, behind the door, was a dark lantern containing a light" (brayley and britton, _palace of westminster_, p. ). _thomas percy_ (p. ). from grainger. around the portrait are four small engravings representing: . the arrest of guy faukes, who is here called "thomas ichrup." . the presentation of thomas ichrup to the king of jerusalem (_i.e._, the british solomon). . the assault and bombardment of the "citadel" to which percy has fled. . percy killed by an arrow. _thomas winter's confession_ (p. ). a portion of the copy of winter's confession, in the handwriting of levinus munck, lord salisbury's private secretary, and dated november rd. in the margin is a note in the handwriting of king james, objecting to a certain "uncleare phrase," which has been altered in accordance with the royal wish. in the printed version it appears in the amended form. _signatures exemplifying the effects of torture_ (p. ). three signatures of faukes (november th, ), and three of father edward oldcorne (march th, - ), at different stages of the same examination. _guy faukes' confession of november th, _ (p. ). a portion of this confession, in which faukes speaks of the oath taken by the conspirators and of their reception of the sacrament at the hands of father john gerard, adding, however, that "gerard was not acquainted with their purpose." the last clause has been marked for omission by sir edward coke who has written in the margin _hucusq._ ("thus far"). the letter b in the margin is also inserted by coke, who habitually indicated by such letters which portions of the depositions were to be read in court and which omitted, all being always suppressed which told in any way in favour of the accused. the document is written by a clerk, and signed by faukes at the foot of each page. _the powder plot. iii._ (p. ). this is taken from a large plate [british museum, _political and personal satires_, i. ], of which only the lower portion is here reproduced. at the top is the inscription: the powder treason, propounded by sathan, approved by anti-christ, enterprised by papists, practized by traitors, reveled by an eagle, expounded by an oracle.--founded in hell, confounded in heaven. beneath are many emblematical devices. in the portion here exhibited, king james is seen on his throne with lords and commons before him. under the floor is a diminutive figure of faukes with an ample store of barrels. at the bottom, in the left hand corner, some of the conspirators receive the sacrament from father gerard: on the right they are executed. on a lunette are the thirteen conspirators, with the arch-traitor garnet in the centre, the band being described as "the pope's saltpeeter saints." within the lunette are the jesuits in hell. _the powder plot. iv._ (p. ). this is the portion on the left of a composite picture [british museum, _political and personal satires_, ], on the right being represented the catastrophe known as the "blackfriars downfall." on sunday, october th, , many catholics having assembled in an upper room of the french ambassador's house, in blackfriars, to hear a sermon from the jesuit, father drury, the floor collapsed, and many, including the preacher, were killed. as october th, o.s., corresponded to november th, n.s., it was ingeniously discovered that the accident was meant to signalize gunpowder plot day, though this fell on november th, o.s., or november th, n.s. in our illustration the parliament house is represented by a nondescript edifice, the wall of which is partially removed, showing king james and some of the peers. an oven-like vault beneath represents the "cellar," well stored with barrels, which faukes is preparing to light with a torch fanned by a crowned fiend with a pair of bellows. a company of halberdiers approaches under the guidance of an angel. in the background is a royal funeral procession. a latin inscription is attached which runs thus: "anno , quinto novembris, eo scripto die quo angliæ parliamentum, a^o , proditione et insidiis jesuitarum, pulvere nitreo inflammari et in æthera spargi debuit, jesuitarum conventus londini, ... ad missam et conciones audiendas congregatus, fatali providentia, ædium ruina præcipitatus et dissipatus est, oppressis centum et plus totidem vulneratis. loiolides sanctos efflare volebat ad astra; astra repercutiunt fulmine loiolidem. loiolides, sine te penetrabit astra fidelis: tu fato ad stygias præcipitaris aquas." _the powder plot. v._ (p. ). this is an edition of samuel ward's print described above, improved and embellished by a "transmariner" in . [british museum, _political and personal satires_, i. .] the tent in which the council table stands is ornamented at the four corners with figures of a wolf, a parrot, an owl, and a dragon: a cockatrice is on the table; on the top lie a gun, a sword, and a brace of pistols. a demon, bearing behind him a papal bull, accompanies faukes, beneath whose lantern, as a play on his name, is written _fax_. at the door of the cellar are scorpions and a serpent. on the top of the barrels within are seen the "yron barres," placed there to make the breach the greater. appendix b. (p. ). _sir everard digby's letter to salisbury._ it seems to have been always assumed that this celebrated letter, which is undated, was written after the failure of the gunpowder plot, and the consequent arrest of sir everard, and doubtless to some extent internal evidence supports this view, as the writer speaks of himself as deserving punishment, and of "our offence." it is, moreover, clear that the letter, which is undated, cannot have been written before may th, , the date of cecil's earldom. on the other hand, the whole tone of the document appears utterly inconsistent with the supposition that it was written by one branded with the stigma of such a crime as the powder plot. some of the expressions used, especially in the opening sentence, appear, likewise, incompatible with such a supposition, and the letter bears the usual form of address for those sent in ordinary course of post, "to the right hon. the earl of salisburie give these"; it has moreover been sealed with a crest or coat-of-arms; all of which is quite unlike a document prepared by a prisoner for those who had him under lock and key. it is noteworthy, too, that at the trial, according to the testimony of the official account itself, on the very subject of the treatment of catholics, salisbury acknowledged "that sir e. digby was his ally." it seems probable, therefore, that the letter was written before digby had been entangled by catesby in the conspiracy (_i.e._, between may and september, ). if so, what was the "offence" of which he speaks? the answer to this question would throw an interesting light on this perplexed history. the following is sir everard's letter: "right honourable, i have better reflected on your late speeches than at the present i could do, both for the small stay which i made, and for my indisposition that day, not being very well, and though perhaps your lordship may judge me peremptory in meddling, and idle in propounding, yet the desire i have to establish the king in safety will not suffer me to be silent. "one part of your lordship's speech (as i remember) was that the king could not get so much from the pope (even then when his majesty had done nothing against catholics) as a promise that he would not excommunicate him, so long as that mild course was continued, wherefore it gave occasion to suspect, that if catholics were suffered to increase, the pope might afterwards proceed to excommunication, if the king would not change his religion. but to take away that doubt, i do assure myself that his holiness may be drawn to manifest so contrary a disposition of excommunicating the king, that he will proceed with the same course against all such as shall go about to disturb the king's quiet and happy reign; and the willingness of catholics, especially of priests and jesuits, is such as i dare undertake to procure any priest in england (though it were the superior of the jesuits) to go himself to rome to negotiate this business, and that both he and all other religious men (till the pope's pleasure be known) shall take any spiritual course to stop the effect that may proceed from any discontented or despairing catholic. "and i doubt not but his return would bring both assurance that such course should not be taken with the king, and that it should be performed against any that should seek to disturb him for religion. if this were done, there could then be no cause to fear any catholic, and this may be done only with those proceedings (which as i understood your lordship) should be used. if your lordship apprehend it to be worth the doing, i shall be glad to be the instrument, for no hope to put off from myself any punishment, but only that i wish safety to the king and ease to catholics. if your lordship and the state think it fit to deal severely with catholics, within brief there will be massacres, rebellions, and desperate attempts against the king and state. for it is a general received reason amongst catholics, that there is not that expecting and suffering course now to be run that was in the queen's time, who was the last of her line, and last in expectance to run violent courses against catholics; for then it was hoped that the king that now is would have been at least free from persecuting, as his promise was before his coming into this realm, and as divers his promises have been since his coming, saying that he would take no soul money nor blood. also, as it appeared, was the whole body of the council's pleasure, when they sent for divers of the better sort of catholics (as sir thos. tressam and others) and told them it was the king's pleasure to forgive the payment of catholics, so long as they should carry themselves dutifully and well. all these promises every man sees broken, and to thrust them further in despair, most catholics take note of a vehement book written by mr. attorney, whose drift (as i have heard) is to prove that the only being a catholic is to be a traitor, which book coming forth, after the breach of so many promises, and before the ending of such a violent parliament, can work no less effect in men's minds than a belief that every catholic will be brought within that compass before the king and state have done with them. and i know, as the priest himself told me, that if he had not hindered there had somewhat been attempted, before our offence, to give ease to catholics. but being so safely prevented, and so necessary to avoid, i doubt not but your lordship and the rest of the lords will think of a more mild and undoubted safe course, in which i will undertake the performance of what i have promised and as much as can be expected, and when i have done, i shall be as willing to die as i am ready to offer my service, and expect not nor desire favour for it, either before the doing it, nor in the doing it, nor after it is done, but refer myself to the resolved course for me. so, leaving to trouble your lordship any further, i humbly take my leave. your lordship's poor bedesman, ev. digby." _addressed_ "to the right honourable the earl of salisburie give these." _sealed._ [p.r.o. _dom. james i._ xvii. .] appendix c. (p. ). _the question of succession._ father parsons' well-known book on this subject, written under the pseudonym of doleman, was denounced by sir edward coke as containing innumerable treasons and falsehoods. in fact, as may be seen in the work itself, it is an exhaustive and careful statement of the descent of each of the possible claimants, and of other considerations which must enter into the settlement. sir francis inglefield wrote that it was necessary to take some step of this kind, to set men thinking on so important a question which would soon have to be decided, for that the anti-catholic party had made it treason to discuss it during the queen's life, with intent to foist a successor of their own selection on the nation, when the moment should arrive, trusting to the ignorance universally prevalent as to the rights of the matter; but that such lack of information could not help the people to a sound decision. [stonyhurst mss., _anglia_, iii. .] the spanish sympathies of parsons and his party were afterwards made much of as evidence of their traitorous disposition. on this subject it must be noted ( ) the infanta of spain was amongst those whose claim was urged on genealogical grounds; ( ) the project was to marry her to an english nobleman. as parsons tells us, when she married and was endowed with another estate, english catholics ceased to think of her. [_ibid._ ii. .] ( ) father garnet notes that, "since the old king of spain died [ ], there hath been no pretence ... for the infanta, or the king [of spain], or any of that family, but for any that should maintain catholic religion, and principally for his majesty" [james i.]. [_ibid._ iii. n. .] a remark of parsons' on this point, which at the time was considered almost blasphemous, will seem now almost a truism, viz., that the title of particular succession in kingdoms is founded only upon the positive laws of several countries, since neither kingdoms nor monarchies are of the essence of human society, and therefore every nation has a right to establish its own kings in what manner it likes, and upon what conditions. wherefore, as each of the other great parties in england (whom he designates as protestants and puritans) will look chiefly to its own political interests, and exact from the monarch of its choice pledges to secure them, it behoves catholics, being so large a part of the nation, to take their proper share in the settlement, and therefore to study betimes the arguments on which the claims of the competitors are severally based. appendix d. (p. ). _the spanish treason._ the history of the alleged treasonable negotiations with spain, conducted by various persons whose names were afterwards connected with the gunpowder plot, appears open to the gravest doubt and suspicion. it would be out of place to discuss the question here, but two articles on the subject, by the present writer, will be found in the _month_ for may and june, . appendix e. (p. ). _site of percy's lodging_ [_see_ view, p. , and plan, p. .] that the lodging hired by percy stood near the south-east corner of the old house of lords (_i.e._ nearer to the river than that building, and adjacent to, if not adjoining, the prince's chamber) is shown by the following arguments. . john shepherd, servant to whynniard, gave evidence as to having on a certain occasion seen from the river "a boat lye cloase to the pale of sir thomas parreys garden, and men going to and from the water through the back door that leadeth into mr. percy his lodging." [_gunpowder plot book_, , part .] . faukes, in his examination of november th, , speaks of "the windowe in his chamber neere the parliament house towards the water side." . it is said that when digging their mine the conspirators were troubled by the influx of water from the river, which would be impossible if they were working at the opposite side of the parliament house. [it has always been understood that percy's house stood at the south end of the house of lords, but smith (_antiquities of westminster_, p. ) places it to the south-west instead of the south-east, saying that it stood on the site of what was afterwards the ordnance office.] appendix f. (p. ). _enrolment of conspirators._ the evidence on this point is most contradictory. . the indictment, on the trial of the conspirators, mentions the following dates. _may th, ._ [besides garnet, greenway, gerard, "and other jesuits,"] there met together t. winter, faukes, keyes, bates, catesby, percy, the two wrights, and tresham, by whom the plot was approved and undertaken. _march st, _, r. winter, grant, and rokewood were enlisted. [no mention is made of digby, who was separately arraigned, nor in his arraignment is any date specified.] . according to faukes' confession of november th, , percy, catesby, t. winter, j. wright, and himself were the first associates. soon afterwards c. wright was added. after christmas, keyes was initiated and received the oath. at a later period, digby, rokewood, tresham, grant, and r. winter were brought in. bates is not mentioned. [in this document the names of keyes and r. winter have been interchanged, in cecil's writing, and thus it was printed: the latter being made to appear as an earlier confederate.] . according to t. winter's declaration of november rd, , catesby, j. wright, and himself were the first associates, percy and faukes being presently added. keyes was enlisted before michaelmas, c. wright after christmas, digby at a later period, and tresham "last of all." no others are mentioned. . keyes--november th, --says that he was inducted a little before midsummer, . . r. winter and grant (january th, - ) fix january, - , for their introduction to the conspiracy, and bates (december th, ) gives the preceding december for his. neither date agrees with that of the indictment in support of which these confessions were cited. . there is, of course, no evidence of any kind to show that father garnet and the "other jesuits" ever had any conference with the conspirators, nor was such a charge urged on his trial. . sir everard digby's case is exceptionally puzzling. all the evidence represents him as having been initiated late in september, or early in october, . among the hatfield mss., however, there is a letter addressed to sir everard, by one g. d., and dated june th, , which treats ostensibly of a hunt for "the otter that infesteth your brooks," to be undertaken when the hay has been cut, but has been endorsed by cecil himself, "letter written to sir everard digby--_powder treason_;" the minister thus attributing to him a knowledge of the plot, more than three months before it was ever alleged that he heard of it. appendix g. (p. ). _henry wright the informer._ . _letter to sir t. challoner, april, ._ [_gunpowder plot book_, n. .] good sir thomas, i am as eager for setting of the lodgings as you can be, and in truth whereas we desired but twenty, the discoverer had set and (if we accept it) can set above three score, but i told him that the state would take it for good service if he set twenty of the most principal jesuits and seminary priests, and therewithal i gave him thirteen or fourteen names picked out of his own notes, among the which five of them were sworn to the secresy. he saith absolutely that by god's grace he will do it ere long, but he stayeth some few days purposely for the coming to town of tesmond [greenway] and kempe, two principals; their lodgings are prepared, and they will be here, as he saith for certain, within these two days. for the treason, davies neither hath nor will unfold himself for the discovery of it till he hath his pardon for it under seal, as i told you, which is now in great forwardness, and ready to be sealed so that you shall know all.... your worship's most devoted, hen. wright. [a pardon to joseph davies for all treasons and other offences appears on the pardon roll, april th, , thus supplying the approximate date of the above letter.] . _application to the king._ [_gunpowder plot book_, n. .] "if it may please your majesty, can you remember that the lord chief justice popham and sir thomas challoner, kt., had a hand in the discovery of the practices of the jesuits in the powder, and did from time reveal the same to your majesty, for two years' space almost before the said treason burst forth by an obscure letter to the lord mounteagle, which your majesty, like an angel of god, interpreted, touching the blow, then intended to have been given by powder. the man that informed sir thomas challoner and the lord popham of the said jesuitical practices, their meetings and traitorous designs in that matter, whereof from time to time they informed your majesty, was one wright, who hath your majesty's hand for his so doing, and never received any reward for his pains and charges laid out concerning the same. this wright, if occasion serve, can do more service." [_addressed_, "mr. secretary conway." _headed_, "touching wright and his services performed in the damnable plot of the powder treason."] appendix h. (p. ). _lord monteagle to king james_, (british museum mss. add. , f. .) "most gracious soveraine.--your maiestyes tender and fatherly love over me, in admonishinge me heartofore, to seake resolution in matter of religion, geves me both occasion, and incouragement, as humbly to thanke your maiestye for this care of my soules good, so to crave leave of gevinge into your maiestyes hand this accompt, that your wisdome, seinge the course and end of my proceadinges, might rest assured that by the healp of god, i will [live and] dye, in that religion which i have nowe resolved to profes. "it may please your maiestye therfore to knowe, that as i was breed upp in the romish religion and walked in that, because i knew no better, so have i not sodainely or lightly made the chaunge, which nowe i desire to be seane in, for i speake, sir, as before him that shall judg my soule, i have by praier, for god his gidance, and with voues to him, to walk in that light he should shew me, and by longe carefull and diligent readinge, and conference with lerned men, on both sides, and impartiall examination of ther profes and argumentes, come to discerne the ignorance i was formerly wrapped in, as i nowe wonder that ether my self, or any other of common understandinge, showld bee so blynded, as to imbrace that gods trewth, [_sic_] which i nowe perseyue to be grounded uppon so weake foundations. and as i never could digest all poyntes therin, wherof not few seamed to bee made for gaine and ambition, of the papacye, so nowe i fynde that the hole frame and bodye of that religion (wherin they oppose us) difereth from the platforme, which god him self hath recorded in the holy scriptures, and hath in length of tyme, by the ignorance and deceiptfulness of men, bene peaced together, and is now maintayned by factious obstinacye, and certain coulerable pretences, such as the wittes and learninge of men, are able to cast uppon any humaine errors, which they list to uphowld. nether have i left any thinge i doubted of untried or unresolued, becawse i did intend and desire to so take up the trewth of god, once discouered to me, as neuer to suffer yt to bee questioned any more in my owne consienc. and in all this, sir, i protest to your maiestye, before almightye god, i have simply and only propounded to my self the trew seruise of god, and saluation of my owne soule, not gaine, not honor, no not that which i doe most highly valew, your maiestyes fauour, or better opinion of me. nether on the other side am i affraide of those censures of men whether of the partye i have abandoned, or of others which i shall incur by this alteration, howldinge yt contentment innough to my self, that god hath in mercye enlightened my mynde to see his sacred trewth, with desire to serue [the paper here is mutilated].... and rest, your maie[styes] most loyall and obedient servant w. mownteagle." _addressed_, "to the kinge his most excellent maiestye." from the absence of any allusion to the powder plot and its "discovery," it appears certain that this letter must have been written previously to it. on august st, , sir wm. waad wrote to salisbury that the disorders of lord monteagle's house were an offence to the country. at this period he appears to have been suspected of concealing catholic students from st. omers. [_calendar of state papers._] appendix i. (p. ). _epitaph in st. anne's, aldersgate._ [maitland, london ( ), p. .] "_peter heiwood_, younger son of _peter heiwood_, one of the counsellors of _jamaica_, ... great grandson to _peter heiwood_ of _heywood_ in the county palestine of _lancaster_; who apprehended _guy faux_ with his dark lanthorn; and for his zealous prosecution of papists, as justice of peace, was stabbed in _westminster-hall_ by _john james_, a _dominican_ friar, an. dom. . obiit _novem. . _. reader, if not a papist bred upon such ashes gently tread." it is to be presumed that the person who died in is not the same who was stabbed in , or who discovered guy faukes in . the dominican records contain no trace of any member of the order named john james, nor does so remarkable an event as the stabbing of a justice of peace in westminster hall appear to be chronicled elsewhere. peter heywood, j.p. for westminster, was active as a magistrate as late as december th, . [_calendar of state papers._] appendix k. (p. ). _the use of torture._ there can be no doubt that torture was freely employed to extract evidence from the conspirators and others who fell into the hands of the government. the earl of salisbury, in his letter to favat, of december th, , clearly intimates that this was the case, when he complains "most of the prisoners have wilfully forsworn that the priests knew anything in particular, and obstinately refuse to be accusers of them, _yea, what torture soever they be put to_." about the middle of november, lord dunfermline wrote to salisbury [_dom. james i._ xvi. ] recommending that the prisoners should be confined apart and in darkness, that they should be examined by torchlight, and that the tortures should be slow and at intervals, as being thus most effectual. there is every reason to believe that the jesuit lay-brother, nicholas owen, _alias_ littlejohn, actually died upon the rack. [_vide_ father gerard's _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. .] finally we have the king's instructions as to faukes [_gunpowder plot book_, no. ]. "the gentler tortours are to be first usid unto him, _et sic per gradus ad ima tenditur_,[ ] and so god speede your goode worke."[ ] guy's signature of november th is sufficient evidence that it was none of the "gentler tortours" which he had endured. in the violently protestant account of the execution of the traitors,[ ] we read: "last of all came the great devil of all faukes, who should have put fire to the powder. his body being weak with torture and sickness, he was scarce able to go up the ladder, but with much ado, by the help of the hangman, went high enough to brake his neck with the fall." appendix l. (p. ). _myths and legends of the powder plot._ around the gunpowder plot has gathered a mass of fabulous embellishment too curious to be passed over in silence. this has chiefly attached itself to guy faukes, who, on account of the desperate part allotted to him has impressed the public mind far more than any of his associates, and has come to be erroneously regarded as the moving spirit of the enterprise. one of the best authenticated facts regarding him is that when apprehended he was booted and spurred for a journey, though it is usually said that he was to have travelled by water. there is, however, a strange story, told with much circumstantiality, which gives an elaborate but incomprehensible account of a tragic underplot in connection with him. this is related at considerable length in a latin hexameter poem, _venatio catholica_, published in , in the _history of the popish sham plots_, and elsewhere. according to this tangled tale the other conspirators wished both to get rid of faukes, when he had served their purpose, and to throw the suspicion of their deed upon their enemies, the puritans. to this end they devised a notable scheme. a certain puritan, named pickering, a courtier, but a godly man, foremost amongst his party, had a fine horse ("bucephalum egregium"). this, robert keyes, his brother-in-law, purchased or hired, and placed at the service of faukes for his escape. the steed was to await him at a certain spot, but in a wood hard by assassins were to lurk, who, when guy appeared, should murder him, and having secured the money with which he was furnished, should leave his mangled corpse beside the bucephalus, known as mr. pickering's. thus faukes would be able to tell no tales, and--though it does not appear why--suspicion would be sure to fall on the puritan, and he would be proclaimed as the author of the recent catastrophe. "hoc astu se posse rati convertere in hostes flagitii infamiam, causamque capessere vulgo qua puritanos invisos reddere possent, ut tantæ authores, tam immanis proditionis. cognito equo, et facta (pro more) indagine cædis, aulicus hic sceleris tanquam fabricator atrocis proclamandus erat, falso (ne vera referre et socios sceleris funesti prodere possit) sublato." many curious circumstances have likewise been imported into the history, and many places connected with it which appear to have no claim whatever to such a distinction. thus we hear (_england's warning peece_) that the jesuit cresswell came over from spain for the occasion "to bear his part with the rest of his society in a victorial song of thanksgiving." also that on november th, a large body of confederates assembled at hampstead to see the house of parliament go up in the air. in the _gentleman's magazine_, february, , is a remarkable description of a summer house, in a garden at newton hall, near kettering, northamptonshire, in which the plotters used to meet and conspire, the place then belonging to the treshams; "and for greater security, they placed a conspirator at each window, guy faukes, the arch villain, standing in the doorway, to prevent anybody overhearing them." according to a wide-spread belief guy faukes was a spaniard.[ ] he has also been called a londoner, and his name being altered to vaux, has been said to have a family connection with vauxhall. he was in fact a yorkshireman of good family, though belonging to a younger branch of no great estate. his father, edward faukes, was a notary at york, where he held the office of registrar and advocate of the cathedral church. guy himself was an educated man, more than commonly well read. he is always described in the process as "guido faukes, gentleman." another most extraordinary example of an obvious myth, which was nevertheless treated as sober history, is furnished by the absurd statement that the astute and wily jesuits not only contrived the plot, but published its details to the world long before its attempted execution, in order to vindicate to themselves the credit of so glorious a design. thus bishop kennet, in a fifth of november sermon, preached at st. paul's before the lord mayor, in , tells us:[ ] "it was a general surmise at least among the whole order of jesuits in foreign parts: or else one of them could hardly have stated the case so exactly some four or five years before it broke out. father del-rio, in a treatise printed an. , put the case, as if he had already looked into the mine and cellars, and had surveyed the barrels of powder in them, and had heard the whole confessions of faux and catesby." this "general surmise" does not appear to have been confined to the jesuits themselves. another ingenious writer, nearly a century earlier,[ ] tells a wonderful story concerning the sermon of a dominican, preached in the same year, , wherein it was related how there was a special hell, beneath the other, for jesuits, so thick and fast did they arrive as to need extra accommodation. the preacher avowed that he had, in his vision of the place, given warning to the demon in charge of it, "to search them with speed, for fear that they had conveyed hither some gunpowder with them, for they are very skilfull in mine-workes, and in blowing up of whole states and parliament-houses, and if they can blow you all up, then the spanyards will come and take your kingdom from you." another notable specimen of the way in which reason and probability were cast to the winds is afforded by two letters written from naples in , one to king james and the other to salisbury, by sir edwin rich,[ ] who announced that father greenway--who of all the jesuits was said to be most clearly convicted as a traitor--intended to send to the king a present of an embroidered satin doublet and hose, which, being craftily poisoned, would be death to him if he put them on. footnotes: [ ] "and so by degrees to the uttermost." [ ] these instructions furnish an interesting specimen of the king's broad scotch, _e.g._, "quhat gentlewomans letter it was y^t was founde upon him, and quhairfor doth she give him an other name in it y^n he giues to himself. if he was ever a papiste; and if so, quho brocht him up in it. if otherwayes, hou was he convertid, quhair, quhan, and by quhom." the following passage is very characteristic of the writer: "nou last, ye remember of the crewellie villanouse pasquille y^t rayled upon me for y^e name of brittanie. if i remember richt it spake something of harvest and prophecyed my destructi[=o] about y^t tyme. ye may think of y^s, for it is lyke to be by y^e laboure of such a desperate fellow as y^s is." [ ] _the arraignment and execution of the late traitors_, etc., . [ ] see, for instance, _london and the kingdom_ (mainly from the guildhall archives), by reginald r. sharpe, ii. . [ ] p. . [ ] lewis owen, _unmasking of all popish monks_, etc. ( ), p. . [ ] _dom. james i._ lvii. - , october th. appendix m. _sir william waad's memorial inscriptions._ in a room of the queen's house in the tower, in which the conspirators are supposed to have been examined by the lords of the council, sir william waad has left a series of inscriptions as memorials of the events in which he played so large a part. of these the most noteworthy are the following: i. jacobus magnus, magnæ britanniæ rex, pietate, justitia, prudentia, doctrina, fortitudine, clementia, ceterisq. virtutibus regiis clariss'; christianæ fidei, salutis publicæ, pacis universalis propugnator, fautor auctor acerrimus, augustiss', auspicatiss'. anna regina frederici . danorum regis invictiss' filia sereniss^a, henricus princeps, naturæ ornamentis, doctrinæ præsidiis, gratiæ muneribus, instructiss', nobis et natus et a deo datus, carolus dux eboracensis divina ad omnem virtutem indole,[ ] elizabetha utriusq. soror germana, utroque parente dignissima hos velut pupillam oculi tenellam providus muni, procul impiorum impetu alarum tuarum intrepidos conde sub umbra. [this is evidently intended for a sapphic stanza, but the last two words of v. have been transposed, destroying the metre.] ii. robertus cecil, comes sarisburiensis, summus et regis secretarius, et angliæ thesaurarius, clariss' patris et de repub. meritissimi filius, in paterna munera successor longe dignissimus; henricus, comes northamptoniæ, quinq. portuum præfectus et privati sigilli custos, disertorum litteratissimus, litteratorum disertissimus; carolus comes nottingamiæ, magnus angliæ admirallus victoriosus; thomas suffolciæ comes, regis camerarius splendidissimus, tres viri nobilissimi ex antiqua howardorum familia, ducumq. norfolciæ prosapia; edwardus somersetus, comes wigorniæ, equis regiis præfectus ornatissimus; carolus blunt, comes devoniæ, hyberniæ prorex et pacificator, joannes areskinus,[ ] illustris marriæ comes, præcipuarum in scotia arcium præfectus; georgius humius, dunbari comes, scotiæ thesaurarius prudentiss' omnes illustriss' ordinis garteri milites; joannes popham, miles, justiciarius angliæ capitalis, et justitiæ consultissimus: hi omnes illustrissimi viri, quorum nomina ad sempiternam eorum memoriam posteritati consecrandam proxime supra ad lineam posita sunt, ut regi a consiliis, ita ab eo delegati quæsitores, reis singulis incredibili diligentia ac cura sæpius appellatis, nec minore solertia et dexteritate pertentatis eorum animis, eos suis ipsorum inter se collatis responsionibus convictos, ad voluntariam confessionem adegerunt: et latentem nefarie conjurationis seriem, remq. omnem ut hactenus gesta et porro per eos gerenda esset, summa fide erutam, æterna cum laude sua, in lucem produxerunt, adeo ut divina singulari providentia effectum sit, ut tam præsens, tamq. f[oe]da tempestas, a regia majestate, liberisq. regiis, et omni regno depulsa, in ipsos autores eorumq. socios redundarit. iii. conjuratorum nomina, ad perpetuam ipsorum infamiam et tantæ diritatis detestationem sempiternam. thomas winter thomas percy robert winter robert catesby _monachi_ { henry garnet john winter john wright _salutare_ { john gerrard guy fawkes christopher wright _jesu_ { oswald tesmond thomas bates francis tresham _nom[=e]_ { ham[=o] everard digby, k. thomas abbington _ementiti_ { baldw[=i] am' rookewood edmond baineham, k. john graunt william stanley, k. robert keyes hughe owen. henry morg[=a] iv. besides the above there is a prolix description of the plot, devised against the best of sovereigns, "a jesuitis romanensibus, perfidiæ catholicæ et impietatis viperinæ autoribus et assertoribus, aliisq. ejusdem amentiæ scelerisq. patratoribus et sociis susceptæ, et in ipso pestis derepente inferendæ articulo (salutis anno , mensis novembris die quinto), tam præter spem quam supra fidem mirifice et divinitus detectæ." there is, moreover, a sentence in hebrew, with waad's cipher beneath, and a number of what seem to be meant for verses. the following lines are evidently the lieutenant's description of his own office: "custodis custos sum, carcer carceris, arcis arx, atque argu' argus; sum speculæ specula; sum vinclum in vinclis; compes cum compede, clav[=u] firmo hærens, teneo tentus, habens habeor. dum regi regnoq. salus stet firma quieta, splendida sim compes compedis usque licet." this is considerably more metrical and intelligible than some of the rest. in waad was dismissed from his post, one of the charges against him being that he had embezzled the jewels of arabella stuart.[ ] in theobald's _memoirs of sir walter raleigh_ (p. ), waad is described as "the lieutenant of the tower, and cecil's great creature." footnotes: [ ] _dom. james i._ lvii. - , october th. [ ] at the time of the plot charles was not quite five years old. [ ] erskine. [ ] _dom. james i._ lxxii. . appendix n. the published confession of guy faukes. a. _the draft, november th, _ (g.p.b. ). *** passages between square brackets have been cancelled. those marked * have been ticked off for omission. _the confession of guy fawkes, taken the of november, ._ he confesseth that a practise in generall was first broken unto him, agaynst his majesty, for the catholique cause, and not invented or propounded by himself, and this was first propounded unto him about easter last was twelvemonth, beyond the seas in the low countreyes, by an english lay-man, and that english man came over with him in his company into england, and they tow and three more weare the first five mencioned in the former examination. and they five resolving to do some thinge for the catholick cause,--a vowe being first taken by all of them for secrecye,--one of the other three propounded to perform it with powder, and resolved that the place should be,--where this action should be performed and justice done,--in or neere the place of the sitting of the parliament, wherein religion had been uniustly suppressed. this beeinge resolved the manner [of it] was as followeth. the published confession of guy faukes. b. _as signed by faukes, november th, _ (g.p.b. ). *** square brackets indicate an erasure. italics an addition or substitution. the [deposition] _declaration_ of guy fawkes prisonner in the tower of london _taken the of nov. , acknowledged before the lords commissioners._[ ] _a._ i confesse that a practise in generall was first broken unto me against his majestie, for releife of the catholique cause, and not invented or propounded by my self. and this was first propounded unto me about easter last was twelvemonth, beyond the seas, in the low countries of the archdukes obeysance by thomas wynter, who came thereupon with me into england, and there wee imparted our purpose to three other englishmen more, namely rob^t catesby, tho^s percy, and john wright, who all five consulting together of the meanes how to execute the same, and taking a vowe among our selves for secresie catesby propounded to have it performed by gunpowder, and by making a myne under the upper house of parliament, which place wee made choice of the rather, [_a. the draft._] first they hyred the howse at westminster of one ferris,[ ] and havinge the howse they sought to make a myne under the upper howse of parliament, and they begann to make the myne in or about the xi of december, and they five first entered into the worke, and soone after toke an other unto them, havinge first sworne him and taken the sacrament, for secrecye. and when they came to the wall,--that was about three yards thicke,--and found it a matter of great difficultie, they tooke to them an other in like manner, with oath and sacrament as afore sayd. all which seaven, were gentlemen of name and bloode, and not any man was employed in or about that action,--noe not so much as in digginge and myning that was not a gentleman. and having wrought to the wall before christmas, they reasted untill after the holydayes, and the day before christmas,--having a masse of earth that came out of the myne,--they carryed it into the garden of the said howse, and after christmas they wrought on the wall till candlemas, and wrought the wall half through, and sayeth that all the tyme while the others wrought he stood as sentynell to descrie any man that came neere, and when any man came neere to the place, uppon warninge given by him they rested untill they had notyce to proceed from hym, and sayeth that they seaven all lay in the howse, and had shott and powder, and they all resolved to dye in that place before they yeilded or weare taken. [_b. the confession as signed._] because religion having been unjustly suppressed there, it was fittest that justice and punishment should be executed there. _b._ this being resolved amongst us, thomas percy hired a howse at westminster for that purpose, neare adjoyning the parl^t howse, and there wee beganne to make a myne about the xi of december . the fyve that entered into the woorck were thomas percye, robert catesby, thomas wynter, john wright, and my self, and soon after we tooke another unto us, christopher wright, having sworn him also, and taken the sacrament for secrecie. _c._ when wee came to the verie foundation of the wall of the house, which was about yeards thick, and found it a matter of great difficultie, we took to us another gentleman robert [wynter] _keys_[ ] in like manner with our oathe and sacrament as aforesaid. * * * * * _d._ it was about christmas when wee brought our myne unto the wall, and about candlemas we had wrought the wall half through. and whilst they were a working, i stood as sentinell, to descrie any man that came neare, whereof i gave them warning, and so they ceased untill i gave them notice agayne to proceede. all wee seaven lay in the house, and had shott and powder, being resolved to dye in that place before we should yeild or be taken. [_a. the draft._] and as they weare workinge, they heard a rushinge in the cellar which grew by _one_[ ] brights selling of his coles whereuppon this examinant, fearinge they had been discovered, went into the cellar and viewed the cellar, and perceivinge the commoditye thereof for their purposs, and understandinge how it would be letten his maister, m^r percy, hyred the cellar for a yeare, for pounds rent. and confesseth that after christmas ^{ty} barrells of powder weare brought by themselves to a howse which they had on the banksyde in hampers, and from that howse removed the powder to the sayd howse, neere the upper howse of parliament. and presently upon hyringe the cellar, they themselfs removed the powder into the cellar, and couvered the same with faggots which they had before layd into the sellar. after, about easter, he went into the low countryes,--as he before hath declared in his former examination,--and that the trew purpos of his goinge over was least beinge a dangerous man he should be known and suspected, and in the meane tyme he left the key [of the cellar] with m^r percye, whoe in his absence caused more billetts to be layd into the cellar, as in his former examination he confessed, and retourned about the end of august or the beginninge of september, and went agayne to the sayd howse, nere to the sayd cellar, and received the key of the cellar agayne of one of the five. and then they brought in five or six barrells of powder more into the cellar, which all soe they couvered with billetts, saving fower little barrells covered with ffaggots, and then this examinant went into the country about the end of september. [_b. the confession as signed._] _e._ as they were working upon the wall, they heard a rushing in a cellar of removing of coles; whereupon wee feared wee had been discovered, and they sent me to go to the cellar, who fynding that the coles were a selling, and that the cellar was to be lett, viewing the commoditye thereof for our purpose, percy went and hired the same for yearly rent. wee had before this provyded and brought into the house barrells of powder, which wee removed into the cellar, and covered the same with billets and fagots, which we provided for that purpose. * * * * * _f._ about easter, the parliament being proroged tyll october next, wee dispersed our selfs and i retired into the low countryes, _by advice and direction of the rest, as well to acquaint owen with the particulars of the plot, as also_[ ] lest by my longer staye i might have grown suspicious, and so have come in question. in the meane tyme percy, having the key of the cellar, layd in more powder and wood into it. i returned about the beginning of september next and then receyving the key againe of percy, we brought in more powder and billets to cover the same againe. [_a. the draft._] * it appeareth the powder was in the cellar, placed as it was found the of november, when the lords came to proroge the parliament, and sayeth that he returned agayne to the sayd howse neare the cellar on wednesday the of october. [he confesseth he was at the erle of montgomeryes marriage, but as he sayeth with noe intention of evill, havinge a sword about him, and was very neere to his majesty and the lords there present.] forasmuch as they knew not well how they should come by the person of the duke charles, beeinge neere london, where they had no forces,--if he had not been all soe blowne upp,--he confesseth that it was resolved amonge them, that the same day that this detestable act should have been performed, the same day should other of their confederacye have surprised the person of the lady elizabeth, and presently have proclaimed her queen [to which purpose a proclamation was drawne, as well to avowe and justify the action, as to have protested against the union, and in no sort to have meddeled with religion therein. and would have protested all soe agaynst all strangers] and this proclamation should have been made in the name of the lady elizabeth. * beinge demanded why they did not surprise the kinges person and draw him to the effectinge of their purpose, sayeth that soe many must have been acquaynted with such an action as it could not have been kept secrett. he confesseth that if their purpose had taken effect untill they had power enough they would not have avowed the deed to be theirs; but if their power,--for their defence and safetye,--had been sufficient they themselfes would have taken it upon them. [_b. the confession as signed._] and so [i] went for a tyme into the country, till the of october. * * * * * _g._ it was farther resolved amongst us that the same day that this action should have been performed some other of our confederates should have surprised the person of the lady elizabeth the kings eldest daughter, who was kept in warwickshire at the lo. harringtons house, and presently have proclaimed her for queene, having a project of a proclamation ready for the purpose, wherein we made no mention of altering of religion,---- * * * * * ---- nor would have avowed the deed to be ours untill we should have had power enough to make our partie good, and then we would have avowed both. [_a. the draft._] * they meant all soe to have sent for the prisoners in the tower to have come to them, of whom particularly they had some consultation. * he confesseth that the place of rendez-vous was in warwickshire, and that armour was sent thither, but the particuler thereof he knowes not. he confesseth that they had consultation for the takinge of the lady marye into their possession, but knew not how to come by her. and confesseth that provision was made by some of the conspiracye of some armour of proofe this last summer for this action. * he confesseth that the powder was bought of the common purse of the confederates. l. admyrall } l. chamberlayne } erle of devonshire } attended by m^r erle of northampton } attorney generall. erle of salisbury } erle of marr } l. cheif justice } [_endorsed_] examination of guy fauks, nov^r th, . [_b. the confession as signed._] _h._ concerning duke charles, the kings second son, we hadd sundrie consultations how to sease on his person, but because wee found no meanes how to compasse it,--the duke being kept near london,--where we had not forces enough, wee resolved to serve ourselves with the lady elizabeth. * * * * * _j._ the names of other principall persons that were made privie afterwards to this horrible conspiracie. [_signed_] guido faukes. everard digby, knight ambrose ruckwood francis tresham john grant robert [keys] _wynter_ [_witnessed_] edw. coke w. waad. [_endorsed_] fawkes his [deposition] _declaration nov. _.[ ] footnotes: [ ] alterations and additions (in italics) made by sir edward coke. [ ] this name has seemingly been tampered with. [ ] changed by cecil; but on november th, writing to edmondes, he included keyes amongst those that "wrought not in the myne," and r. winter amongst those who did. [ ] interlined. [ ] the words italicised are added in the published version. [ ] words in italics added by coke. index. abbot, robert, bishop of salisbury, his version of the missing confessions of faukes, _seq._ acton, robert, . alabaster, thomas, a priest in government employ, _note_. andrew, william, servant to sir e. digby, evidence of, _note_. _annals of england_, cited, . _answere to scandalous papers_ (cecil's manifesto), , _seq._ babington's plot, . baldwin, father william, s.j.; allegations against him, , _seq._; which are not substantiated, ; correspondence with father schondonck, , . bancroft, richard, archbishop of canterbury, , . barlow, thomas, bishop of lincoln, , _note_. barnes, a government agent, . bartlett, george, servant to catesby, his evidence reported, . bates, thomas, servant to catesby, his introduction to the conspiracy, , ; his alleged evidence against greenway, - ; trial and execution, . _see also_ conspirators. batty, matthew, evidence regarding monteagle, _note_. "blackfriars downfall," the, . blount, father richard, s.j., on government intelligence, ; on suffolk's proposal of toleration, ; on cecil's "new stratagem," , . brayley and britton (_palace of westminster_), _note_. brewer, rev. john sherren, on the fate of parry, the conspirator, ; on government devices, ; on cecil's knowledge of the plot, ; on the monteagle letter, . bromley, sir henry, sheriff of worcestershire, _note_. buck, mr., alleged warning given to, _note_, . burnet, gilbert, bishop of salisbury, . "bye," the, _note_. camden, william, the historian, _note_. capon, william, on the old palace of westminster, , ; on traces of the mine, . carleton, dudley, afterwards viscount dorchester, patronized by cecil, ; assists percy to hire the house at westminster, ; reports the french version of the plot, ; and its contradiction, ; his mysterious connection with the conspiracy, _note_; his opinion of percy, . castlemaine, earl of (roger palmer), on state plots, , ; on osborne's qualifications as an historian, _note_; on the fate of decoy ducks, . carte, thomas (_general history of england_), . carey, ----, evidence regarding percy, . catesby, robert, a ringleader in the conspiracy, , ; his character and antecedents, _seq._; persuades his associates not to reveal their project to priests, ; undertakes to proclaim the new sovereign, ; his death, , _seq._; suspicions concerning him, , . _see also_ conspirators. catholics, their numbers, ; their condition under elizabeth, ; their hopes from james, , , , ; his promises to them, ; they welcome his accession, _ibid_, ; temporary relief at his hands, _ibid_; their consequent increase, , ; cecil's hostility, , , , , , ; attempt to charge them with the plot, - , , ; legislation against them on account of it, _seq._; its lasting effects in their regard, , . cecil, robert, first earl of salisbury, his character, _seq._; dignities conferred by james i., _note_; and nicknames, _note_; his unpopularity, _seq._; difficulties and dangers of his position, _seq._; in the pay of spain, ; and probably of france, _note_; his secret correspondence with king james, ; his intrigues against northumberland and raleigh, , , ; hostility to the catholics, , , ; anxiety on account of the king's attitude, ; and dealings with pope clement viii., ; endeavours to commit james to a policy of intolerance, ; his political methods, , ; employs the services of forgers, _note_, ; his knowledge of the plot, _seq._; alleged secret dealings with percy, ; tresham, ; and catesby, ; contradicts himself concerning the "discovery," _seq._; his inexplicable delay in making it, ; and conduct afterwards, ; was not taken by surprise, ; at once turns the plot to his advantage, ; his determination to incriminate priests, _seq._, ; advantages reaped by him, , _seq._; his manifesto, _seq._; suspected of having originated or manipulated the conspiracy, _seq._; alleged attempt to float a second plot, . cecil, thomas, first earl of exeter, _note_, _note_. cecil, william, second earl of salisbury, his testimony reported, . cecil, william, a priest in government employ, _note_. "cellar," the, its situation and character, , _note_; hired by the conspirators, _seq._; problems concerning it, _seq._; its after history, ; accompanies the migrations of the house of lords, _note_. challoner, sir thomas, information addressed to, , . chamberlain, john, m.p., on cecil's death and character, , ; account of the "discovery," ; on the king's lucky day, ; on percy's character, . charles, duke of york, afterwards charles i.; plans of the conspirators regarding him, _seq._ chichester, sir arthur, deputy in ireland, , , . coal, father greenway's description of, _note_. cobham, eighth lord (henry brooke), his charge of forgery against waad, . cobham, ninth lord (william brooke), his evidence reported, . coke, sir edward, attorney-general, his falsification of evidence, ; cecil's instructions to him, _note_; his assertions, , ; interrogatories prepared by him, ; his humour, _note_; proofs against owen, ; witnesses thomas winter's declaration, ; and that of faukes, ; his treatment of raleigh and northumberland, . coleridge, lord chief justice, on the english penal laws, _note_. conspirators, the, list of, , ; their character and antecedents, - ; their enrolment, , , ; their plans and proceedings, - , _seq._; mining operations, , ; incredibility of the story, _seq._, _seq._, ; they hire the "cellar," _seq._; purchase and store gunpowder, ; difficulties concerning it, , , - ; further designs, , - ; alarmed by the prorogation, , ; flight and attempted rebellion, ; their fate, - . cope, sir walter, on the character of cecil, _note_. cornwallis, sir charles, english ambassador in spain, on the character of the conspirators, ; letter to father cresswell, ; on the catholic design to murder cecil, _note_. cresswell, father joseph, s.j., allegations concerning him, ; cornwallis' letter to him, _ibid_. dacre, francis, titular lord, efforts to connect him with the plot, . darnley, henry, lord, father of james i., the victim of a gunpowder plot, , . davenport, father christopher, o.p. (francis à s. clara), _note_. davies, joseph, a government "discoverer," . de beaumont, m., french ambassador, _note_. de la boderie, m., french ambassador, on cecil's insecurity, ; on the ruin of northumberland, . del-rio, father martin, s.j., said to have described the plot a.d. , . derby, earl of (william stanley), attempt to incriminate him, . de ros, lord, on faukes' plan of escape, _note_. devonshire, earl of (charles blount), _note_, _note_, , . digby, sir everard, joins the conspiracy, , ; difficulties and contradictions regarding him, _note_, ; his letter to salisbury, , ; part assigned to him, _note_; his fate, . _see also_ conspirators. digby, sir john, english ambassador in spain, _note_. digby, sir kenelm, his evidence reported, . digby, sir robert, _note_. dixon, hepworth (_her majesty's tower_), on government intelligence, _note_. dodd, rev. charles, on the origin of the plot, , . dorset, earl of (thomas sackville), his esteem for cecil, . dunbar, earl of (george hume), _note_, , . dunfermline, earl of (alexander seaton), on the effective use of torture, . dunsmoor heath, projected hunting match on, . edmondes, sir thomas, english ambassador at brussels, account of the "discovery" sent to him, , ; version of faukes' confession sent to him, ; proofs against owen sent to him, , ; his negotiations with the archdukes, _seq._; letters of, , , , ; letters to, , , , , , , , , . elizabeth, princess, daughter of james i., designs of the conspirators regarding her, . _england's warning peece_, , . _english protestants' plea_, , , _note_, _note_. eudaemon-joannes, father andrew, s.j., . faukes, guy or guido, _alias_ john johnson, his position and character, , ; his spanish mission, ; introduced to the conspiracy, , ; passes as percy's servant, , ; keeps guard while the others work, ; discovers the "cellar," ; has charge of the premises, , , ; visits flanders, , ; appointed to fire the powder, ; plans for his escape, ; arrest, - ; published confession, _seq._, _seq._; evidence falsified, ; missing depositions, ; tortured, , , ; trial and execution, , ; fables respecting him, . _see also_ conspirators. favat, mr., cecil's letter to, , . ferrers, henry, sub-lets the house at westminster to percy, . fifth of november, a propitious day for the "discovery," ; the day solemnized, . floyde, griffith, a government spy, . french historians on the plot, _note_. french official accounts of the plot, , . fuller, mr., m.p., _note_. fuller, thomas (_church history of britain_), , . fulman mss., . gardiner, professor samuel rawson, his favourable estimate of cecil's character, ; on the spanish pension, _note_; repudiates imputations against the government, ; on the conspirators' plans, ; on the monteagle letter, ; on the king's interpretation, _note_; on the desire to incriminate priests, _note_. garnet, father henry, s.j., proclaimed as a principal conspirator, ; his capture, , ; lack of evidence, ; trial and execution, _ibid_.; his account of the conspirators' proceedings, ; his evidence against catesby, ; on the accession of james, _note_. _gentleman's magazine_, _note_, . gerard, col. john, _note_. gerard, father john, s.j., proclaimed as a principal conspirator, ; exonerated by historians, ; his history of the plot, ; his experiences in the tower, ; on the persecution of catholics, ; opinion of the "discovery," ; and of the official narrative, ; on the death of percy and catesby, _note_. goodman, godfrey, bishop of gloucester, on the origin of the conspiracy, ; on the king's promises to catholics, _note_; on the persecution of catholics, ; on the "discovery," _note_; on the death of whynniard, _note_; on percy's intercourse with cecil, ; on the death of percy and catesby, ; his religious views, _note_. gowrie conspiracy, the, , . "great horses," _note_. grange, justice e., _note_. grant, john, . _see also_ conspirators. green, mrs. everett, wrongly describes owen as a jesuit, _note_. green, john richard (_history of the english people_), . greenway, _alias_ tesimond, father oswald, s.j., proclaimed as a principal conspirator, ; bates' alleged evidence against him, - ; his history of the plot, ; opinion of the official narrative, ; on the effects of an explosion, ; on government despatches concerning percy, ; his visit to the rebels at huddington, _note_; fables respecting him, . gregory, arthur, a forger employed by government, . grene, father martin, s.j., notes on the plot, . gunpowder, amount procured by the conspirators, ; difficulties concerning it, _seq._ hagley hall, r. winter and s. littleton captured there, . hallam, henry (_constitutional history_), repudiates imputations against the government, ; on father garnet's capture, _ibid_., _note_; on king james's title to the crown, . harington, sir john, . hawarde, john (_les reportes del cases in camera stellata_), _note_. heiwood, or heywood, peter, _note_, . hendlip house (thomas abbington's), the scene of father garnet's capture, _note_, _note_. henry, prince of wales, anticipations concerning him, ; the conspirators' plans in his regard, , , . herring, francis (_pietas pontificia_), _note_, _note_. higgons, bevil (_english history_), . hoby, sir edward, on the death of percy, . holbeche house (stephen littleton's), the conspirators there slain or captured, , . house of lords, its situation and subsequent migrations, _seq._; never represented in pictures of the plot, . house, percy's, at westminster, its position, , ; circumstances of the bargain for it, ; difficulties concerning it, , , , . howes, edmund (continuation of stowe's _chronicle_), . huddington house (robert winter's), _note_. ichrup, thomas, name given to faukes, , . inglefield, sir francis, . james i., king of great britain, his claim to the succession, ; circumstances of his accession, , ; hopes of the catholics, ; who support his cause, ; his policy at first favourable to them, ; soon reversed, ; his dealings with pope clement viii., ; his supposed interpretation of the letter, , ; tuesday his lucky day, ; his speech to parliament, ; accuses catholics in general and the pope, ; suspected of previous knowledge of the plot, ; anxiety for evidence against priests, ; letter to the archdukes, _note_; alleged subsequent opinion of the plot, ; instructions for the torture of faukes, ; his scotch dialect, _note_; gives his royal word against owen and baldwin, ; his policy permanently affected, . james, john, a supposed dominican, _note_, . jardine, david, on the character of the official narrative, , ; on the falsification of evidence, ; on the monteagle letter, ; on the king's interpretation, _note_; on the established facts of the case, ; not perfectly impartial, , ; on the results of the plot, . jessopp, augustus, d.d., on the value of money, _note_, _note_; on father gerard's innocence, . jesuits, efforts to incriminate, _note_; cecil on their "insolencies," . kennet, white, bishop of peterborough, _note_, , . keyes, robert, contradictions respecting him, _note_, . _see also_ conspirators. "king's book," the, its character, ; cecil's description of it, , . knyvet, or knevet, sir thomas, leads the party which captures faukes, _seq._; receives a peerage, _note_; the countess of suffolk his sister, _note_. lake, sir thomas, , . lenthal, william, speaker of the long parliament, his evidence reported, . lindsay, sir james, conveys messages between king james and pope clement viii., . lingard, john, d.d., _note_, . littleton, humphrey, _note_. littleton, stephen, , , . lodge, edmund, f.s.a. (_illustrations of british history_), . lopez' plot, . "main," the, _note_, , . mar, earl of (john erskine), _note_, , . mary, princess, daughter of james i., , . milton, poems on the plot, . mine, the, story told respecting it, _seq._; difficulties respecting it, _seq._ _mischeefe's mystery_, , , , , _note_, . money, value of, _note_, _note_; amount raised by conspirators, . monteagle, lord (william parker), his character and antecedents, ; relations with the king and court, , ; letter to the king, , ; connection with the conspirators, ; communicates the warning letter to cecil, - , ; attends parliament on the day of the "discovery," _note_; devices of the government on his behalf, ; rewards conferred, ; subsequent conduct, . moore, sir francis, his evidence reported, . moore, sir jonas, . more, father henry, s.j., . morgan, harry, _note_. morgan, thomas, _note_, _note_. naunton, sir robert, on cecil's character, . northampton, earl of (henry howard), a nominal catholic promoted by king james, ; cecil's agent in his secret correspondence, _note_; on cecil's death, ; on the history of the "cellar," _note_; not admitted to all cecil's secrets, . northumberland, earl of (henry percy), a rival of cecil's, ; who secretly traduces him, _note_, , ; the plot turned to his ruin, , , - ; which is attributed to cecil, _note_, , his sentiments in return, . nottingham, earl of, lord admiral (charles howard), _note_, . oates, titus, , . oath taken by the conspirators, . oldcorne, _alias_ hall, father edward, s.j., captured along with garnet, ; never accused of complicity _ib._; catholic demonstration at his execution, _note_; tortured, . oldmixon (_royal house of stuart_), _note_, . osborne, francis, on cecil's unpopularity, ; on the "discovery," ; on the th of august celebration, _note_; on northumberland and cecil, ; his qualifications as an historian, . owen, captain hugh, falsely described as a jesuit, _note_, _note_; particularly obnoxious to the government, , ; evidence fabricated against him, ; cecil's instruction respecting him, _note_; efforts made to secure him, _seq._; his intercourse with phelippes, , _note_. owen, lewis, . paris, henry, . parliament, its successive adjournments, , _note_, , , ; meets on the day of the "discovery," ; activity against catholics, , _seq._ parry, sir thomas, english ambassador at paris, instructions given to, _note_; intelligence supplied by, , , ; account of the discovery furnished to, _seq._ parry, dr. william, his plot, , . parsons, father robert, s.j., letters to, _note_, , ; his views as to the succession, ; on walsingham's "spyery," . percy, sir charles, _note_. percy, thomas, one of the first and principal conspirators, , ; his antecedents, , , ; house hired by him, ; and "cellar," ; strange conduct in both transactions, ; conduct afterwards, , ; undertakes to seize duke charles or princess elizabeth, ; his death, , _seq_; profession of religious zeal, ; bigamy, _ibid_; catholics suspicious of him, ; alleged secret dealings with cecil, ; the case against him, - . _see also_ conspirators. phelippes, thomas, the "decipherer," employed by the government, ; their devices against him, ; correspondence with hugh owen, _note_. pickering, mr., and his horse, . _plain and rational account of the catholick faith_, . plots under elizabeth and james i., , , , _note_, _note_; their common feature, . _polititian's catechism_, _note_, , _note_. pope clement viii., interchanges communications with james i., . pope paul v., represented as an accomplice in the plot, , . popham, sir john, lord chief justice, _note_, , . raleigh, sir walter, cecil's enmity towards him, _note_, _note_, ; his ruin, , ; attempt to implicate him in the powder plot, , . ratcliffe, ralph, a government spy, , , . rich, sir edwin, . richardot, president, . rogers, professor thorold, on the value of money, _note_; on james's title to the throne, . rokewood, ambrose, _note_. _see also_ conspirators. salisbury, first earl of. _see_ cecil, robert. salisbury, second earl of. _see_ cecil, william. sanderson, sir william, . schondonck, father giles, s. j., rector of st. omers, on the innocence of the jesuits, ; on cecil's manifesto, . scott, sir walter, _note_. shakespeare, never alludes to the plot, _note_. sharpe, dr. r. r., _note_. shepherd, john, evidence of, . smith, john thomas (_antiquities of westminster_), _note_, _note_, _note_. soane, sir john, . southwaick, or southwell, a government spy, - . speed, john (_historie_), , _note_. squires, edward, his plot, . stanley, sir william, , _note_. strange, father thomas, s. j., _note_. streete, john, pensioned for killing percy and catesby, . strype, john (_annals_), _note_. suffolk, earl of, lord chamberlain (thomas howard), his venality, . talbot, john, of grafton, _note_. talbot, peter, archbishop of dublin. _see polititian's catechism._ theobald, lewis, . topcliffe, richard, priest-hunter, . torture, use of, , , , , _note_, , . tresham, francis, enlisted in the enterprise, , _seq_.; his previous record, , ; his action on behalf of king james, ; suspected of writing the warning letter, , ; and of collusion with cecil, _ibid._; his conduct after the "discovery," , ; his death in the tower, _note_, . _see also_ conspirators. tresham, sir thomas, proclaims king james, ; summoned to court, . _true and perfect relation_, character of the narrative, , . tytler, patrick fraser, . usher, james, archbishop of armagh, his evidence reported, . _venatio catholica_, . _vetusta monumenta_, , . villeroy, m., on cecil's duplicity, . "vinegar house," _note_. vowell, peter, evidence reported, . waad, sir william, lieutenant of the tower, charged by cobham with forgery of evidence, ; dismissed from his post, _note_, ; his inscriptions in the tower, , ; letters to cecil, , . walsh, sir richard, sheriff of worcestershire, , _note_. ward, samuel, preacher and artist, . webb, john, evidence reported, . weldon, sir anthony, on cecil's unpopularity, . welwood, james (_memoirs_), . westmoreland, titular earl of (henry neville), attempt to implicate him, . whynniard, mr., landlord of percy's house, _note_, ; his sudden death, _note_. whynniard, mrs., evidence of, , , , , . willaston, william, intelligence supplied by, . wimbledon, viscount (edward cecil), his evidence reported, . windsor, lord, his house plundered by the conspirators, . winter, robert, introduced to the conspiracy, ; captured at hagley, ; evidences of foul play in his regard, , ; trial and execution, . _see also_ conspirators. winter, thomas, one of the first conspirators, , ; character, ; spanish mission, , ; brings faukes from flanders, ; attends the prorogation, oct. rd, _note_, ; captured at holbeche, ; his published confession, _seq._; probably tortured, ; trial and execution, . _see also_ conspirators. wood, anthony à, notes addressed to, . worcester, earl of (edward somerset), _note_, . wotton, sir henry, . wren, sir christopher, . wright, christopher, his introduction to the conspiracy, , ; character, , ; previous employment in spain, ; killed at holbeche, , . _see also_ conspirators. wright, henry, his informations, , , . wright, john, one of the first conspirators, , ; character, , ; killed at holbeche, , . _see also_ conspirators. chiswick press:--charles whittingham and co. tooks court, chancery lane, london. transcribers' notes: p : there is no closing quotation mark following the line '"making and fomenting plots was then in fashion; nor can it be denied that good grounds for such an opinion were not lacking.' the closing mark is placed at the end of this sentence, though this may be incorrect. p : continuation of footnote from previous page begins with 'avor'; this is a typo for 'favor'. p : 'the' repeated in footnote , epigram ; one 'the' removed. p : added a closing quotation mark following 'and prepared for them'. p : added . to end of footnote , after 'the spanish treason'. p : inserted , into footnote ; 'james i., lxxxi.'. p : footnote : missing closing bracket; corrected. p : inserted , into footnote ; 'james i., i. '. p : changed ' to " to match quote mark style, footnote . p : footnote : 'englands' changed to 'england's'. p : added missing full-stop: 'give ease to catholics'. p : added opening double-quote marks to the passage entitled 'application to the king.' p : the oe ligature was represented as [oe] p , : uncommon 'inverted asterism' topographic marks are used to signify important notes on conventions used in the text; they have the form of three asterixes arranged in a v-shape. for simplicity, they are replaced with '***' in this document. p : 'incrediblty' changed to 'incredibility', 'o' changed to 'of'. what gunpowder plot was [illustration: view of the river front of the house occupied by whynniard _the words 'prince's chamber, house of lords,' in the foreground can only mean that those buildings are behind the house._] what gunpowder plot was by samuel rawson gardiner, d.c.l., ll.d. fellow of merton college, oxford longmans, green, and co. paternoster row, london new york and bombay all rights reserved works by samuel rawson gardiner, d.c.l. ll.d. history of england, from the accession of james i. to the outbreak of the civil war, - . vols. crown vo. s. each. a history of the great civil war, - . vols. crown vo. s. each. a history of the commonwealth and the protectorate. - . vol. i. - . with maps. vo. s. a student's history of england. from the earliest times to . vol. i. (b.c. -a.d. .) with illustrations. crown vo. s. vol. ii. ( - .) with illustrations. crown vo. s. vol. iii. ( - .) with illustrations. crown vo. s. complete in one volume, with illustrations, crown vo. s. a school atlas of english history. edited by samuel rawson gardiner, d.c.l. ll.d. with coloured maps and plans of battles and sieges. fcp. to. s. this atlas is intended to serve as a companion to mr. s. r. gardiner's 'student's history of england.' in addition to the historical maps of the british isles, in whole or in part, are others of continental countries or districts which were the scenes of events connected more or less closely with english history. indian and colonial development also obtain due recognition. cromwell's place in history, founded on six lectures delivered at oxford. crown vo. s. d. what gunpowder plot was: a reply to father gerard. the first two stuarts and the puritan revolution, - . maps. fcp. vo. s. d. the thirty years' war, - . with a map. fcp. vo. s. d. outline of english history, b.c. -a.d. . with woodcuts and maps. fcp. vo. s. d. the french revolution, - . by mrs. s. r. gardiner. with maps. fcp. vo. s. d. longmans, green, & co. paternoster row, london new york and bombay. contents chapter page i. historical evidence ii. guy fawkes's story iii. the later documentary evidence iv. structural difficulties v. the discovery vi. the government and the catholics vii. the government and the priests illustrations page view of the river front of the house occupied by whynniard _frontispiece_ from a plan of the ancient palace of westminster, by the late mr. w. capon from a plan of part of westminster, from a plan of part of westminster, from a plan of westminster hall and the houses of parliament, east end of the prince's chamber views of the east side of the house of lords, &c. the four walls of the so-called cellar under the house of lords chronological notes (_political events in italics_) . march .--_accession of james i._ june .--_james informs rosny of his intention to remit the recusancy fines._ july .--_james assures a deputation of catholics that the fines will be remitted._ aug. .--_parry writes to announce the overtures of the nuncio in paris._ . feb. .--_proclamation banishing priests._ march.--catesby imparts the design to winter. about the beginning of april.--winter goes to flanders. towards the end of april.--winter returns with fawkes. early in may.--the five conspirators take an oath, and then receive the sacrament. may .--agreement for a lease of part of whynniard's block of houses. june.--(shortly before midsummer keyes sworn in and intrusted with the charge of the powder at lambeth). july .--_the royal consent given to a new recusancy act._ aug.--_executions under the recusancy act._ sept .--_commission appointed to preside over the banishment of the priests._ sept. .--_the council recommends that the act shall not be put in force against lay catholics._ nov. .--_fines required from thirteen catholics rich enough to pay l. a month._ about dec.--bates sworn. about dec. .--the five conspirators begin to dig the mine. before christmas.--the diggers having reached the wall of the house of lords, suspend their work. . jan.--the day cannot be fixed.--john grant and robert winter sworn. about jan. .--work resumed. jan.--christopher wright and keyes brought to join in the work. about feb. .--wall of house of lords excavated halfway through. feb. .--_james orders that the recusancy act be fully executed._ march, before lady day.--the conspirators begin to work a third time, but finding that the 'cellar' is to let, hire it, and having moved the powder into it, disperse. oct. .--monteagle receives the letter. .--ward informs winter. .--winter informs catesby. .--tresham returns to london. .--winter summons tresham. nov. .--meeting of tresham with catesby and winter. .--winter meets tresham at lincoln's inn. .--meeting behind st. clement's. .--percy goes to sion. fawkes taken. .--flight of the conspirators. .--arrival at huddington at p.m. .--arrival at holbeche at p.m. .--capture at holbeche. what gunpowder plot was chapter i historical evidence in 'what was the gunpowder plot? the traditional story tested by original evidence,'[ ] father gerard has set forth all the difficulties he found while sifting the accessible evidence, and has deduced from his examination a result which, though somewhat vague in itself, leaves upon his readers a very distinct impression that the celebrated conspiracy was mainly, if not altogether, a fiction devised by the earl of salisbury for the purpose of maintaining or strengthening his position in the government of the country under james i. such, at least, is what i gather of father gerard's aim from a perusal of his book. lest, however, i should in any way do him an injustice, i proceed to quote the summary placed by him at the conclusion of his argument:-- "the evidence available to us appears to establish principally two points: that the true history of the gunpowder plot is now known to no man, and that the history commonly received is certainly untrue. "it is quite impossible to believe that the government were not aware of the plot long before they announced its discovery. "it is difficult to believe that the proceedings of the conspirators were actually such as they are related to have been. "it is unquestionable that the government consistently falsified the story and the evidence as presented to the world, and that the points upon which they most insisted prove upon examination to be the most doubtful. "there are grave reasons for the conclusion that the whole transaction was dexterously contrived for the purpose which in fact it opportunely served, by those who alone reaped benefit from it, and who showed themselves so unscrupulous in the manner of reaping." no candid person, indeed, can feel surprise that any english roman catholic, especially a roman catholic priest, should feel anxious to wipe away the reproach which the plot has brought upon those who share his faith. not merely were his spiritual predecessors subjected to a persecution borne with the noblest and least self-assertive constancy, simply in consequence of what is now known to all historical students to have been the entirely false charge that the plot emanated from, or was approved by the english roman catholics as a body, but this false belief prevailed so widely that it must have hindered, to no slight extent, the spread of that organisation which he regards as having been set forth by divine institution for the salvation of mankind. if father gerard has gone farther than this, and has attempted to show that even the handful of catholics who took part in the plot were more sinned against than sinning, i, for one, am not inclined to condemn him very harshly, even if i am forced to repudiate alike his method and his conclusions. erroneous as i hold them, father gerard's conclusions at least call for patient inquiry. up to this time critics have urged that parts at least of the public declarations of the government were inconsistent with the evidence, and have even pointed to deliberate falsification. father gerard is, as far as i know, the first to go a step farther, and to argue that much of the evidence itself has been tampered with, on the ground that it is inconsistent with physical facts, so that things cannot possibly have happened as they are said to have happened in confessions attributed to the conspirators themselves. i can only speak for myself when i say that after reading much hostile criticism of father gerard's book--and i would especially refer to a most able review of it, so far as negative criticism can go, in the _edinburgh review_ of january last--i did not feel that all difficulties had been removed, or that without further investigation i could safely maintain my former attitude towards the traditional story. it is, indeed, plain, as the _edinburgh review_ has shown, that father gerard is unversed in the methods of historical inquiry which have guided recent scholars. yet, for all that, he gives us hard nuts to crack; and, till they are cracked, the story of gunpowder plot cannot be allowed to settle down in peace. it seems strange to find a writer so regardless of what is, in these days, considered the first canon of historical inquiry, that evidence worth having must be almost entirely the evidence of contemporaries who are in a position to know something about that which they assert. it is true that this canon must not be received pedantically. tradition is worth something, at all events when it is not too far removed from its source. if a man whose character for truthfulness stands high, tells me that his father, also believed to be truthful, seriously informed him that he had seen a certain thing happen, i should be much more likely to believe that it was so than if a person, whom i knew to be untruthful, informed me that he had himself witnessed something at the present day. the historian is not bound, as the lawyer is, to reject hearsay evidence, because it is his business to ascertain the truth of individual assertions, whilst the lawyer has to think of the bearing of the evidence not merely on the case of the prisoner in the dock, but on an unrestricted number of possible prisoners, many of whom would be unjustly condemned if hearsay evidence were admitted. the historian is, however, bound to remember that evidence grows weaker with each link of the chain. the injunction, "always leave a story better than you found it," is in accordance with the facts of human nature. each reporter inevitably accentuates the side of the narrative which strikes his fancy, and drops some other part which interests him less. the rule laid down by the late mr. spedding, "when a thing is asserted as a fact, always ask who first reported it, and what means he had of knowing the truth," is an admirable corrective of loose traditional stories. a further test has to be applied by each investigator for himself. when we have ascertained, as far as possible, on what evidence our knowledge of an alleged fact rests, we have to consider the inherent probability of the allegation. is the statement about it in accordance with the general workings of human nature, or with the particular working of the nature of the persons to whom the action in question is ascribed? father gerard, for instance, lavishly employs this test. again and again he tells us that such and such a statement is incredible, because, amongst other reasons, the people about whom it was made could not possibly have acted in the way ascribed to them. if i say in any of these cases that it appears to me probable that they did so act, it is merely one individual opinion against another. there is no mathematical certainty on either side. all we can respectively do is to set forth the reasons which incline us to one opinion or another, and leave the matter to others to judge as they see fit. it will be necessary hereafter to deal at length with father gerard's attack upon the evidence, hitherto accepted as conclusive, of the facts of the plot. a short space may be allotted to the reasons for rejecting his preliminary argument, that it was the opinion of some contemporaries, and of some who lived in a later generation, that salisbury contrived the plot in part, if not altogether. does he realise, how difficult it is to prove such a thing by any external evidence whatever? if hearsay evidence can be taken as an argument of probability, and, in some cases, of strong probability, it is where some one material fact is concerned. for instance, i am of opinion that it is very likely that the story of cromwell's visit to the body of charles i. on the night after the king's execution is true, though the evidence is only that spence heard it from pope, and pope heard it, mediately or immediately, from southampton, who, as is alleged, saw the scene with his own eyes. it is very different when we are concerned with evidence as to an intention necessarily kept secret, and only exhibited by overt acts in such form as tampering with documents, suggesting false explanation of evidence, and so forth. a rumour that salisbury got up the plot is absolutely worthless; a rumour that he forged a particular instrument would be worth examining, because it might have proceeded from some one who had seen him do it. for these reasons i must regard the whole of father gerard's third chapter on 'the opinion of contemporaries and historians' as absolutely worthless. to ask mr. spedding's question, 'what means had they of knowing the truth?' is quite sufficient to condemn the so-called evidence. professor brewer, lodge, and the author of the 'annals of england,'[ ] to whose statements father gerard looks for support, all wrote in the nineteenth century, and had no documents before them which we are unable to examine for ourselves. nor is reliance to be placed on the statements of father john gerard, because though he is a contemporary witness he had no more knowledge of salisbury's actions than any indifferent person, and had far less knowledge of the evidence than we ourselves possess. bishop talbot, again, we are told, asserted, in , 'that cecil was the contriver, or at least the fomenter, of [the plot],' because it 'was testified by one of his own domestic gentlemen, who advertised a certain catholic, by name master buck, two months before, of a wicked design his master had against catholics.'[ ] was salisbury such an idiot as to inform his 'domestic gentleman' that he had made up his mind to invent gunpowder plot? what may reasonably be supposed to have happened--on the supposition that master buck reported the occurrence accurately--is that salisbury had in familiar talk disclosed, what was no secret, his animosity against the catholics, and his resolution to keep them down. even the puritan, osborne, it seems, thought the discovery 'a neat device of the treasurer's, he being very plentiful in such plots'; and the 'anglican bishop,' goodman, writes, that 'the great statesman had intelligence of all this, and because he would show his service to the state, he would first contrive and then discover a treason, and the more odious and hateful the treason were, his service would be the greater and the more acceptable.'[ ] father grene again, in a letter written in , says that bishop usher was divers times heard to say 'that if the papists knew what he knew, the blame of the gunpowder treason would not be with them.' "in like manner," adds father gerard, citing a book published in , "we find it frequently asserted, on the authority of lord cobham and others, that king james himself, when he had time to realise the truth of the matter, was in the habit of speaking of the fifth of november as 'cecil's holiday.'"[ ] lord cobham (richard temple) was created a peer in , so that the story is given on very second-hand evidence indeed. the allegation about usher, even if true, is not to the point. we are all prepared now to say as much as usher is represented as saying. the blame of the gunpowder treason does not lie on 'the papists.' it lies, at the most, on a small body of conspirators, and even in their case, the government must bear a share of it, not because it invented or encouraged the plot, but because, by the reinforcement of the penal laws, it irritated ardent and excitable natures past endurance. if we had usher's actual words before us we should know whether he meant more than this. at present we are entirely in the dark. as for the evidence of goodman and osborne, it proves no more than this, that there were rumours about to the effect that the plot was got up by salisbury. neither osborne nor goodman are exactly the authorities which stand high with a cautious inquirer, and they had neither of them any personal acquaintance with the facts. yet we may fairly take it from them that rumours damaging to salisbury were in circulation. is it, however, necessary to prove this? it was inevitable that it should be so. granted a government which conducted its investigations in secret, and which when it saw fit to publish documents occasionally mutilated them to serve its own ends; granted, too, a system of trial which gave little scope to the prisoner to bring out the weakness of the prosecution, while it allowed evidence to be produced which might have been extracted under torture, and what was to be expected but that some people, in complete ignorance of the facts, should, whenever any very extraordinary charge was made, assert positively that the whole of the accusation had been invented by the government for political purposes? once, indeed, father gerard proffers evidence which appears to bring the accusation which he has brought against salisbury nearer home. he produces certain notes by an anonymous correspondent of anthony wood, preserved in fulman's collection in the library of corpus christi college, oxford. "these remarkable notes, he tells us,[ ] have been seen by fulman, who inserted in the margin various questions and objections, to which the writer always supplied definite replies. in the following version this supplementary information is incorporated in the body of his statement, being distinguished by italics."[ ] the paper is as follows:-- "i should be glad to understand what your friend driveth at about the fifth of november. it was without all peradventure a state plot. i have collected many pregnant circumstances concerning it. "'tis certain that the last earl of salisbury[ ] confessed to william lenthall it was his father's contrivance; which lenthall soon after told one mr. webb (_john webb, esq._), a person of quality, and his kinsman, yet alive. "sir henry wotton says, 'twas usual with cecil to create plots that he might have the honour of the discovery, or to such effect. "the lord monteagle knew there was a letter to be sent to him before it came. (_known by edmund church, esq., his confidant._) "sir everard digby's sons were both knighted soon after, and sir kenelm would often say it was a state design to disengage the king of his promise to the pope and the king of spain to indulge the catholics if ever he came to be king here; and somewhat to his[ ] purpose was found in the lord wimbledon's papers after his death. "mr. vowell, who was executed in the rump time, did also affirm it so. "catesby's man (_george bartlet_) on his death-bed confessed his master went to salisbury house several nights before the discovery, and was always brought privately in at a back door." father gerard, it is true, does not lay very great stress on this evidence; but neither does he subject it to the criticism to which it is reasonably open. what is to be thought, for instance, of the accuracy of a writer, who states that 'sir everard digby's two sons were both knighted soon after,' when, as a matter of fact, the younger, kenelm, was not knighted till , and the elder, john, not till ? neither sir kenelm's alleged talk, nor that of wotton and vowell, prove anything. on the statement about catesby i shall have something to say later, and, as will be seen, i am quite ready to accept what is said about monteagle. the most remarkable allegation in the paper is that relating to the second earl of salisbury. in the first place it may be noted that the story is produced long after the event. as the words imply that lenthall was dead when they were written down, and as his death occurred in , they relate to an event which occurred at least seventy-six years before the story took the shape in which it here reaches us. the second earl of salisbury, we are told, informed lenthall that the plot was 'his father's contrivance,' and lenthall told webb. are we quite sure that the story has not been altered in the telling? such a very little change would be sufficient. if the second earl had only said, "people talked about my father having contrived the plot," there would be nothing to object to. if we cannot conceive either lenthall or webb being guilty of 'leaving the story better than they found it,'--though wood, no doubt a prejudiced witness, says that lenthall was 'the grand braggadocio and liar of the age in which he lived'[ ]--our anonymous and erudite friend who perpetrated that little blunder about the knighthood of sir everard digby's sons was quite capable of the feat. the strongest objection against the truth of the assertion, however, lies in its inherent improbability. whatever else a statesman may communicate to his son, we may be sure that he does not confide to him such appalling guilt as this. a man who commits forgery, and thereby sends several innocent fellow creatures to torture and death, would surely not unburden his conscience to one of his own children. _maxima debetur pueris reverentia._ moreover the second earl, who was only twenty-one years of age at his father's death, was much too dull to be an intellectual companion for him, and therefore the less likely to invite an unprecedented confidence. it is not only on the reception of second-hand evidence that i find myself at variance with father gerard. i also object to his criticism as purely negative. he holds that the evidence in favour of the traditional story breaks down, but he has nothing to substitute for it. he has not made up his mind whether salisbury invented the whole plot or part of it, or merely knew of its existence, and allowed its development till a fitting time arrived for its suppression. let me not be misunderstood. i do not for an instant complain of a historian for honestly avowing that he has not sufficient evidence to warrant a positive conclusion. what i do complain of is, that father gerard has not started any single hypothesis wherewith to test the evidence on which he relies, and has thereby neglected the most potent instrument of historical investigation. when a door-key is missing, the householder does not lose time in deploring the intricacy of the lock, he tries every key at his disposal to see whether it will fit the wards, and only sends for the locksmith when he finds that his own keys are useless. so it is with historical inquiry, at least in cases such as that of the gunpowder plot, where we have a considerable mass of evidence before us. try, if need be, one hypothesis after another--salisbury's guilt, his connivance, his innocence, or what you please. apply them to the evidence, and when one fails to unlock the secret, try another. only when all imaginable keys have failed have you a right to call the public to witness your avowal of incompetence to solve the riddle. at all events, this is the course which i intend to pursue. my first hypothesis is that the traditional story is true--cellar, mine, the monteagle letter and all. i cannot be content with merely negativing father gerard's inferences. i am certain that if this hypothesis of mine be false, it will be found to jar somewhere or another with established facts. in that case we must try another key. of course there must be some ragged ends to the story--some details which must be left in doubt; but i shall ask my readers to watch narrowly whether the traditional story meets with any obstacles inconsistent with its substantial truth. before proceeding further, it will be well to remind my readers what the so-called traditional story is--or, rather, the story which has been told by writers who have in the present century availed themselves of the manuscript treasures now at our disposal, and which are for the most part in the public record office. with this object, i cannot do better than borrow the succinct narrative of the edinburgh reviewer.[ ] early in , the three men, robert catesby, john wright, and thomas winter, meeting in a house at lambeth, resolved on a powder plot, though, of course, only in outline. by april they had added to their number wright's brother-in-law, thomas percy, and guy fawkes, a yorkshire man of respectable family, but actually a soldier of fortune, serving in the spanish army in the low countries, who was specially brought over to england as a capable and resolute man. later on they enlisted wright's brother christopher; winter's brother robert; robert keyes, and a few more; but all, with the exception of thomas bates, catesby's servant, men of family, and for the most part of competent fortune, though keyes is said to have been in straitened circumstances, and catesby to have been impoverished by a heavy fine levied on him as a recusant.[ ] percy, a second cousin of the earl of northumberland, then captain of the gentleman pensioners, was admitted by him into that body in--it is said--an irregular manner, his relationship to the earl passing in lieu of the usual oath of fidelity. the position gave him some authority and license near the court, and enabled him to hire a house, or part of a house, adjoining the house of lords. from the cellar of this house they proposed to burrow under the house of lords; to place there a large quantity of powder, and to blow up the whole when the king and his family were there assembled at the opening of parliament. on december , , they began to dig in the cellar, and after a fortnight's labour, having come to a thick wall, they left off work and separated for christmas. early in january they began at the wall, which they found to be extremely hard, so that, after working for about two months,[ ] they had not got more than half way through it. they then learned that a cellar actually under the house of lords, and used as a coal cellar, was to be let; and as it was most suitable for their design, percy hired it as though for his own use. the digging was stopped, and powder, to the amount of thirty-six barrels, was brought into the cellar, where it was stowed under heaps of coal or firewood, and so remained under the immediate care of guy fawkes,[ ] till, on the night of november , --the opening of parliament being fixed for the next day--sir thomas knyvet, with a party of men, was ordered to examine the cellar. he met fawkes coming out of it, arrested him, and on a close search, found the powder, of which a mysterious warning had been conveyed to lord monteagle a few days before. on the news of this discovery the conspirators scattered, but by different roads rejoined each other in warwickshire, whence, endeavouring to raise the country, they rode through worcestershire, and were finally shot or taken prisoners at holbeche in staffordshire. it is this story that i now propose to compare with the evidence. when any insuperable difficulties appear, it will be time to try another key. to reach the heart of the matter, let us put aside for the present all questions arising out of the alleged discovery of the plot through the letter received by monteagle, and let us take it that guy fawkes has already been arrested, brought into the king's presence, and, on the morning of the th, is put through his first examination. chapter ii guy fawkes's story first of all, let us restrict ourselves to the story told by guy fawkes himself in the five[ ] examinations to which he was subjected previously to his being put to the torture on november , and to the letters, proclamations, &c., issued by the government during the four days commencing with the th. from these we learn, not only that fawkes's account of the matter gradually developed, but that the knowledge of the government also developed; a fact which fits in very well with the 'traditional story,' but which is hardly to be expected if the government account of the affair was cut-and-dried from the first. fawkes's first examination took place on the th, and was conducted by chief justice popham and attorney-general coke. it is true that only a copy has reached us, but it is a copy taken for coke's use, as is shown by the headings of each paragraph inserted in the margin in his own hand. it is therefore out of the question that salisbury, if he had been so minded, would have been able to falsify it. each page has the signature (in copy) of 'jhon jhonson,' the name by which fawkes chose to be known. the first part of the examination turns upon fawkes's movements abroad, showing that the government had already acquired information that he had been beyond sea. fawkes showed no reluctance to speak of his own proceedings in the low countries, or to give the names of persons he had met there, and who were beyond the reach of his examiners. as to his movements after his return to england he was explicit enough so far as he was himself concerned, and also about percy, whose servant he professed himself to be, and whose connection with the hiring of the house could not be concealed. fawkes stated that after coming back to england he 'came to the lodging near the upper house of parliament,' and 'that percy hired the house of whynniard for _l._ rent, about a year and a half ago'; that his master, before his own going abroad, _i.e._, before easter, , 'lay in the house about three or four times.' further, he confessed 'that about christmas last,' _i.e._, christmas, , 'he brought in the night time gunpowder [to the cellar under the upper house of parliament.]'[ ] afterwards he told how he covered the powder with faggots, intending to blow up the king and the lords; and, being pressed how he knew that the king would be in the house on the th, said he knew it only from general report and by the making ready of the king's barge; but he would have 'blown up the upper house whensoever the king was there.' he further acknowledged that there was more than one person concerned in the conspiracy, and said he himself had promised not to reveal it, but denied that he had taken the sacrament on his promise. where the promise was given he could not remember, except that it was in england. he refused to accuse his partners, saying that he himself had provided the powder, and defrayed the cost of his journey beyond sea, which was only undertaken 'to see the country, and to pass away the time.' when he went, he locked up the powder and took the key with him, and 'one gibbons' wife, who dwells thereby, had the charge of the residue of the house.' such is that part of the story told by fawkes which concerns us at present. of course there are discrepancies enough with other statements given later on, and father gerard makes the most of them. what he does not observe is that it is in the nature of the case that these discrepancies should exist. it is obvious that fawkes, who, as subsequent experience shows, was no coward, had made up his mind to shield as far as possible his confederates, and to take the whole of the blame upon himself. he says, for instance, that percy had only lain in the house for three or four days before easter, ; a statement, as subsequent evidence proved, quite untrue; he pretends not to know, except from rumour and the preparations of the barge, that the king was coming to the house of lords on the th, a statement almost certainly untrue. in order not to criminate others, and especially any priest, he denies having taken the sacrament on his promise, which is also untrue. what is more noticeable is that he makes no mention of the mine, about which so much was afterwards heard, evidently--so at least i read the evidence--because he did not wish to bring upon the stage those who had worked at it. if indeed the passage which i have placed in square brackets be accepted as evidence, fawkes did more than keep silence upon the mine. he must have made a positive assertion, soon afterwards found to be untrue, that the cellar was hired several months before it really was.[ ] this passage is, however, inserted in a different hand from the rest of the document. my own belief is that it gives a correct account of a statement made by the prisoner, but omitted by the clerk who made the copy for coke, and inserted by some other person. nobody that i can think of had the slightest interest in adding the words, whilst they are just what fawkes might be expected to say if he wanted to lead his examiners off the scent. at all events, even if these words be left out of account, it must be admitted that fawkes said nothing about the existence of a mine. though fawkes kept silence as to the mine, he did not keep silence on the desperate character of the work on which he had been engaged. "and," runs the record, "he confesseth that when the king had come to the parliament house this present day, and the upper house had been sitting, he meant to have fired the match and have fled for his own safety before the powder had taken fire, and confesseth that if he had not been apprehended this last night, he had blown up the upper house, when the king, lords, bishops, and others had been there, and saith that he spake for [and provided][ ] those bars and crows of iron, some in one place, some in another, in london, lest it should be suspected, and saith that he had some of them in or about gracious street."[ ] after this it will little avail father gerard to produce arguments in support of the proposition that the story of the plot was contrived by the government as long as this burning record is allowed to stand. fawkes here clearly takes the whole terrible design, with the exception of the incident of the mine, on his own shoulders. he may have lied to save his friends; he certainly would not lie to save salisbury. so far, however, there is no proof that salisbury was not long ago cognisant of the plot through one of the active conspirators. yet, in that case, it might be supposed that the accounts that he gave of his discoveries would be less dependent than they were on the partial revelations which came in day by day. there is, however, no hint of superior knowledge in the draft of a letter intended to be sent by salisbury to sir thomas parry, the english ambassador in paris, and dated on november , the day after that on which fawkes's first examination was taken: sir thomas parry, it hath pleased almighty god, out of his singular goodness, to bring to light the most cruel and detestable practice against the person of his majesty and the whole estate of this realm, that ever was conceived by the heart of man at any time or in any place whatsoever, by which practice there was intended not only the extirpation of the king's majesty and his issue royal, but the whole subversion and downfal of this estate, the plot being to take away at an instant the king, queen, prince, council, nobility, clergy, judges, and the principal gentlemen of this realm, as they should have been yesterday altogether assembled at the parliament house, in westminster, the th of november, being tuesday. the means how to have compassed so great an act, was not to be performed by strength of men or outward violence, for that might have be espied and prevented in time; but by a secret conveying of a great quantity of gunpowder into a vault under the upper house of parliament, and so to have blown up all at a clap, if god out of his mercy and his just revenge against so great an abomination had not destined it to be discovered, though very miraculously even some twelve hours before the matter should have been put into execution. the person that was the principal undertaker of it, is one johnson, a yorkshire man, and servant to one thomas percy, a gentleman pensioner to his majesty, and a near kinsman and a special confidant to the earl of northumberland. this percy had about a year and a half ago hired a part of whynniard's house in the old palace, from whence he had access into this vault to lay his wood and coal, and as it seemeth now, taken this place of purpose to work some mischief in a fit time. he is a papist by profession, and so is this his man johnson, a desperate fellow, whom of late years he took into his service. into this vault johnson had, at sundry times, very privately conveyed a great quantity of powder, and therewith filled two hogsheads and some thirty-two small barrels; all which he had cunningly covered with great store of billets and faggots, and on tuesday[ ] at midnight, as he was busy to prepare the things for execution was apprehended in the place itself with a false lantern, booted and spurred.[ ] there is not much knowledge here beyond what salisbury had learnt from fawkes's own statement with all its deceptions. nor, if there had been any such knowledge, was it in any way revealed by the actions of the government on the th or on the morning of the th. on the th a proclamation was issued for the apprehension of percy alone.[ ] on the same day archbishop bancroft forwarded to salisbury a story, afterward known to be untrue, that percy had been seen riding towards croydon; whilst popham sent another untrue story that he had been seen riding towards gravesend.[ ] a letter from waad, the lieutenant of the tower, of the same date, revealed the truth that percy had escaped northwards. of course, percy's house was searched for papers, but those discovered were of singularly little interest, and bore no relation to the plot.[ ] an examination of a servant of ambrose rokewood, a catholic gentleman afterwards known to have been involved in the plot, and of the landlady of the house in london in which rokewood had been lodging, brought out the names of persons who had been in his company, some of whom were afterwards found to be amongst the conspirators; but there was nothing in these examinations to connect them with the plot, and there is no reason to suppose that they were prompted by anything more than a notion that it would generally be worth while to trace the movements of a noted catholic gentleman. on the same day a letter from chief justice popham shows that inquiries were being directed into the movements of other catholics, and amongst them christopher wright, keyes, and winter; but the tone of the letter shows that popham was merely acting upon general suspicion, and had no special information on which to work.[ ] up to the morning of november th, the action of government was that of men feeling in the dark, so far as anything not revealed by fawkes was concerned. commissioners were now appointed to conduct the investigation further. they were--nottingham, suffolk, devonshire, worcester, northampton, salisbury, mar, and popham, with attorney-general coke in attendance.[ ] this was hardly a body of men who would knowingly cover an intrigue of salisbury's:--worcester is always understood to have been professedly a catholic, northampton was certainly one, though he attended the king's service, whilst suffolk was friendly towards the catholics;[ ] and nottingham, if he is no longer to be counted amongst them,[ ] was at least not long afterwards a member of the party which favoured an alliance with spain, and therefore a policy of toleration towards the catholics. it is not the least of the objections to the view which father gerard has taken, that it would have been impossible for salisbury to falsify examinations of prisoners without the connivance of these men. before five of these commissioners--nottingham, suffolk, devonshire, northampton, and salisbury--fawkes was examined a second time on the forenoon of the th. in some way the government had found out that percy had had a new door made in the wall leading to the cellar, and they now drew from fawkes an untrue statement that it was put in about the middle of lent, that is to say, early in march .[ ] they had also discovered a pair of brewer's slings, by which barrels were usually carried between two men, and they pressed fawkes hard to say who was his partner in removing the barrels of gunpowder. he began by denying that he had had a partner at all, but finally answered that 'he cannot discover the party, but'--_i.e._ lest--'he shall bring him in question.' he also said that he had forgotten where he slept on wednesday, thursday or friday in the week before his arrest.[ ] upon this james himself intervened, submitting to the commissioners a series of questions with the object of drawing out of the prisoner a true account of himself, and of his relations to percy. a letter had been found on fawkes when he was taken, directed not to johnson, but to fawkes, and this amongst other things had raised the king's suspicions. in his third examination, on the afternoon of the th, in the presence of northampton, devonshire, nottingham, and salisbury, fawkes gave a good deal of information, more or less true, about himself; and, whilst still maintaining that his real name was johnson, said that the letter, which was written by a mrs. bostock in flanders, was addressed to him by another name 'because he called himself fawkes,' that is to say, because he had acquired the name of fawkes as an alias. 'if he will not otherwise confess,' the king had ended by saying, 'the gentler tortures are to be first used unto him, _et sic per gradus ad ima tenditur_.' to us living in the nineteenth century these words are simply horrible. as a scotchman, however, james had long been familiar with the use of torture as an ordinary means of legal investigation, whilst even in england, though unknown to the law, that is to say, to the practice of the ordinary courts of justice, it had for some generations been used not infrequently by order of the council to extract evidence from a recalcitrant witness, though, according to bacon, not for the purpose of driving him to incriminate himself. surely, if the use of torture was admissible at all, this was a case for its employment. the prisoner had informed the government that he had been at the bottom of a plot of the most sanguinary kind, and had acknowledged by implication that there were fellow-conspirators whom he refused to name. if, indeed, father gerard's view of the case, that the government, or at least salisbury, had for some time known all about the conspiracy, nothing--not even the gunpowder plot itself--could be more atrocious than the infliction of torments on a fellow-creature to make him reveal a secret already in their possession. if, however, the evidence i have adduced be worth anything, this was by no means the case. what it shows is, that on the afternoon of the th all that the members of the government were aware of was that an unknown number of conspirators were at large--they knew not where--and might at that very moment be appealing--they knew not with what effect--to catholic landowners and their tenants, who were, without doubt, exasperated by the recent enforcement of the penal laws. we may, if we please, condemn the conduct of the government which had brought the danger of a general catholic rising within sight. we cannot deny that, at that particular moment, they had real cause of alarm. at all events, no immediate steps were taken to put this part of the king's orders in execution. some little information, indeed, was coming in from other witnesses. in his first examination, on november , fawkes had stated that in his absence he locked up the powder, and 'one gibbons' wife who dwells thereby had the charge of the residue of the house.' an examination of her husband on the th, however, only elicited that he, being a porter, had with two others carried , billets into the vault.[ ] on the th ellen, the wife of andrew bright, stated that percy's servant had, about the beginning of march, asked her to let the vault to his master, and that she had consented to abandon her tenancy of it if mrs. whynniard, from whom she held it, would consent. mrs. whynniard's consent having been obtained, mrs. bright, or rather mrs. skinner--she being a widow remarried subsequently to andrew bright[ ]--received _l._ for giving up the premises. the important point in this evidence is that the date of march , given as that on which percy entered into possession of the cellar, showed that fawkes's statement that he had brought powder into the cellar at christmas could not possibly be true. on the th, mrs. whynniard confirmed mrs. bright's statement, and also stated that, a year earlier, in march , 'mr. percy began to labour very earnestly with this examinate and her husband to have the lodging by the parliament house, which one mr. henry ferris, of warwickshire, had long held before, and having obtained the said mr. ferris's good will to part from it after long suit by himself and great entreaty of mr. carleton, mr. epsley,[ ] and other gentlemen belonging to the earl of northumberland, affirming him to be a very honest gentleman, and that they could not have a better tenant, her husband and she were contented to let him have the said lodging at the same rent mr. ferris paid for it.'[ ] mrs. whynniard had plainly never heard of the mine; and that the government was in equal ignorance is shown by the endorsement on the agreement of ferris, or rather ferrers, to make over his tenancy to percy. 'the bargain between ferris and percy for the bloody cellar, found in winter's lodging.' winter's name had been under consideration for some little time, and doubtless the discovery of this paper was made on, or more probably before, the th. the government, having as yet nothing but fawkes's evidence to go upon, connected the hiring of the house with the hiring of the cellar, and at least showed no signs of suspecting anything more. on the same day, the th, something was definitely heard of the proceedings of the other plotters, who had either gathered at dunchurch for the hunting-match, or had fled from london to join them, and a proclamation was issued for the arrest of percy, catesby, rokewood, thomas winter, edward[ ] grant, john and christopher wright, and catesby's servant, robert ashfield. they were charged with assembling in troops in the counties of warwick and worcester, breaking into stables and seizing horses.[ ] fawkes, too, was on that day subjected to a fourth examination.[ ] not very much that was new was extracted from him. he acknowledged that his real name was guy fawkes, that--which he had denied before--he had received the sacrament not to discover any of the conspirators, and also that there had been at first five persons privy to the plot, and afterwards five or six more 'were generally acquainted that an action was to be performed for the catholic cause, and saith that he doth not know that they were acquainted with the whole conspiracy.' being asked whether catesby, the two wrights, winter, or tresham were privy, he refused to accuse any one. the increase of the information received by the government left its trace on salisbury's correspondence. whether the letter to parry, from which a quotation has already been given, was sent away on the th, is unknown; but it was copied and completed, with sundry alterations, for cornwallis and edmondes, the ambassadors at madrid and brussels, and signed by salisbury on the th, though it was kept back and sent off with two postscripts on the th, and it is likely enough that the letter to parry was treated in the same way. one of the alterations concerns fawkes's admission that he had taken the sacrament as well as an oath to keep the secret. what is of greater significance is, that there is absolutely no mention of a mine in the letter. if it had really been written on the th, this silence would have gone far to justify father gerard's suspicions, as the existence of the mine was certainly known to the government at that date. on the th the government knew nothing of it.[ ] that fawkes had already been threatened with torture is known,[ ] and it may easily be imagined that the threats had been redoubled after this last unsatisfactory acknowledgment. on the morning of the th, however, waad, who was employed to worm out his secrets, reported that little was to be expected. "i find this fellow," he wrote, "who this day is in a most stubborn and perverse humour, as dogged as if he were possessed. yesternight i had persuaded him to set down a clear narration of all his wicked plots from the first entering to the same, to the end they pretended, with the discourses and projects that were thought upon amongst them, which he undertook [to do] and craved time this night to bethink him the better; but this morning he hath changed his mind and is [so] sullen and obstinate as there is no dealing with him."[ ] the sight of the examiners, together with the sight of the rack,[ ] changed fawkes's mind to some extent. he was resolved that nothing but actual torture should wring from him the names of his fellow plotters, who so far as was known in london were still at large.[ ] he prepared himself, however, to reveal the secrets of the plot so far as was consistent with the concealment of the names of those concerned in it. his fifth examination on the th, the last before the one taken under torture on the th, gives to the inquirer into the reality of the plot all that he wants to know. "he confesseth," so the tale begins, "that a practice was first broken unto him against his majesty for the catholic cause, and not invented or propounded by himself, and this was first propounded unto him about easter last was twelvemonth, beyond the seas in the low countries, by an english layman,[ ] and that englishman came over with him in his company, into england, and they two and three more[ ] were the first five mentioned in the former examination. and they five resolving to do somewhat for the catholic cause (a vow being first taken by all of them for secrecy), one of the other three[ ] propounded to perform it with powder, and resolved that the place should be (where this action should be performed and justice done) in or near the place of the sitting of the parliament, wherein religion had been unjustly suppressed. this being resolved, the manner of it was as followeth:-- "first they hired the house at westminster, of one ferres, and having his house they sought then[ ] to make a mine under the upper house of parliament, and they began to make the mine in or about the of december, and they five first entered into the works, and soone after took an other[ ] to[ ] them, having first sworn him and taken the sacrament for secrecy; and when they came to the wall (that was about three yards thick) and found it a matter of great difficulty, they took to them an other in like manner, with oath and sacrament as aforesaid;[ ] all which seven were gentlemen of name and blood, and not any[ ] was employed in or about this action (no, not so much as in digging and mining) that was not a gentleman. and having wrought to the wall before christmas, they ceased until after the holidays, and the day before christmas (having a mass of earth that came out of the mine), they carried it into the garden of the said house, and after christmas they wrought the wall till candlemas, and wrought the wall half through; and saith that all the time while the other[ ] wrought, he stood as sentinel, to descry any man that came near, and when any man came near to the place upon warning given by him, they ceased until they had notice to proceed from him, and sayeth that they seven all lay in the house, and had shot and powder, and they all resolved to die in that place, before they yielded or were taken. "and, as they were working, they heard a rushing in the cellar, which grew by one[ ] bright's selling of his coals,[ ] whereupon this examinant, fearing they had been discovered, went into the cellar, and viewed the cellar[ ] and perceiving the commodity thereof for their purpose, and understanding how it would be letten,[ ] his master, mr. percy, hired the cellar for a year for _l._ rent; and confesseth that after christmas twenty barrels of powder were brought by themselves to a house, which they had on the bankside in hampers, and from that house removed[ ] the powder to the said house near the upper house of parliament; and presently, upon hiring the cellar they themselves removed the powder into the cellar, and covered the same with fagots which they had before laid into the cellar. "after, about easter, he went into the low countries (as he before hath declared in his former examination) and that the true purpose of his going over was, lest, being a dangerous man, he should be known and suspected, and in the mean time he left the key of the cellar with mr. percy, who, in his absence caused more billets to be laid into the cellar, as in his former examination he confessed, and returned about the end of august, or the beginning of september, and went again to the said house, near to the said cellar, and received the key of the cellar again of one of the five,[ ] and then they brought in five or six barrels of powder more into the cellar, which also they covered with billets, saving four little barrels covered with fagots, and then this examinant went into the country about the end of september. "it appeareth the powder was in the cellar placed as it was found the of november, when the lords came to prorogue the parliament, and sayeth that he returned again to the said house near the cellar on wednesday the of october. "_he confesseth he was at the earl of montgomery's marriage, but, as he sayeth, with no intention of evil having a sword about him, and was very near to his majesty and the lords there present._[ ] "forasmuch as they knew not well how they should come by the person of the duke charles, being near london, where they had no forces (if he had not been also blown up) he confesseth that it was resolved among them that, the same day that this detestable act should have been performed, the same day should other of their confederacy have surprised the person of the lady elizabeth, and presently have proclaimed her queen, _to which purpose a proclamation was drawn, as well to avow and justify the action, as to have protested against the union, and in no sort to have meddled with religion therein, and would have protested also against all strangers_, and this proclamation should have been made in the name of the lady elizabeth. "being demanded why they did not surprise the king's person, and draw him to the effecting of their purpose sayeth that so many must have been acquainted with such an action as it[ ] would not have been kept secret. "he confesseth that if their purpose had taken effect, until they had had power enough, they would not have avowed the deed to be theirs; but if their power (for their defence and safety) had been sufficient, they themselves would then[ ] have taken it upon them. they meant also to have sent for the prisoners in the tower to have come to them, of whom particularly they had some consultation. "he confesseth that the place of rendezvous was in warwickshire, and that armour was sent thither, but[ ] the particular thereof[ ] he knows not. "he confesseth that they had consultation for the taking of the lady mary into their possession, but knew not how to come by her. "and confesseth that provision was made by some of the conspiracy of some armour of proof this last summer for this action. "he confesseth that the powder was bought by the common purse of the confederates. "l. admiral [earl of nottingham] } l. chamberlain [earl of suffolk] } earl of devonshire } attended by mr. earl of northampton } attorney-general earl of salisbury } [coke]." earl of mar } lord chief justice [popham][ ] } father gerard, who has printed this examination in his appendix,[ ] styles it a draft, placing on the opposite pages the published confession of guy fawkes on november . that later confession, indeed, though embodying many passages of the earlier one, contains so many new statements, that it is a misapplication of words to speak of the one as the draft of the other. a probable explanation of the similarity is that when fawkes was re-examined on the th, his former confession was produced, and he was required to supplement it with fresh information. in one sense, indeed, the paper from which the examination of the th has been printed both by father gerard and myself, may be styled a draft, not of the examination of the th, but of a copy forwarded to edmondes on the th.[ ] the two passages crossed out and printed above[ ] in italics have been omitted in the copy intended for the ambassadors. all other differences, except those of punctuation, have been given in my notes, and it will be seen that they are merely the changes of a copyist from whom absolute verbal accuracy was not required. father gerard, indeed, says that in the original of the so-called draft five paragraphs were 'ticked off for omission.' he may be right, but in winter's declaration of november , every paragraph is marked in the same way, and, at all events, not one of the five paragraphs is omitted in the copy sent to edmondes. in any other sense to call this paper a draft is to beg the whole question. what we want to know is whether it was a copy of the rough notes of the examination, signed by fawkes himself, or a pure invention either of salisbury or of the seven commissioners and the attorney-general. curiously enough, one of the crossed out passages supplies evidence that the document is a genuine one. the first, indeed, proves nothing either way, and was, perhaps, left out merely because it was thought unwise to allow it to be known that the king had been so carelessly guarded that percy had been admitted to his presence with a sword by his side. the second contains an intimation that the conspirators did not intend to rely only on a catholic rising. they expected to have on their side protestants who disliked the union with scotland, and who were ready to protest 'against all strangers,' that is to say, against all scots. we can readily understand that privy councillors, knowing as they did the line taken by the king in the matter of the union, would be unwilling to spread information of there being in england a protestant party opposed to the union, not only of sufficient importance to be worth gaining, but so exasperated that even these gunpowder plotters could think it possible to win them to their side. nor is this all. if it is difficult to conceive that the commissioners could have allowed such a paragraph to go abroad, it is at least equally difficult to think of their inventing it. we may be sure that if fawkes had not made the statement, no one of the examiners would ever have committed it to paper at all, and if the document is genuine in this respect, why is it not to be held genuine from beginning to end? father gerard, indeed, objects to this view of the case that the document 'is unsigned; the list of witnesses is in the same handwriting as the rest, and in no instance is a witness indicated by such a title as he would employ for his signature. throughout this paper fawkes is made to speak in the third person, and the names of accomplices to whom he refers are not given.'[ ] all this is quite true, and unless i am much mistaken, are evidences for the genuineness of the document, not for its fabrication. if salisbury had wished to palm off an invention of his own as a copy of a true confession by fawkes, he surely would not have stuck at so small a thing as an alleged copy of the prisoner's signature, nor is it to be supposed that the original signatures of the commissioners would appear in what, in my contention, is a copy of a lost original. as for the titles lord admiral and lord chamberlain being used instead of their signatures, it was in accordance with official usage. a letter, written on january , - , by the council to the judges, bears nineteen names at the foot in the place where signatures are ordinarily found. the first six names are given thus:--'l. chancellor, l. treasurer, l. admirall, l. chamberlaine, e. of northumberland, e. of worcester.'[ ] fawkes is made to speak in the third person in all the four preceding examinations, three of which bear his autograph signature. that the names of accomplices are not given is exactly what one might expect from a man of his courage. all through the five examinations he refused to break his oath not to reveal a name, except in the case of percy in which concealment was impossible. it required the horrible torture of the th to wring a single name from him. moreover, father gerard further urges what he intends to be damaging to the view taken by me, that a set of questions formed by coke upon the examination of the th, apparently for use on the th, is 'not founded on information already obtained, but is, in fact, what is known as a "fishing document," intended to elicit evidence of some kind.'[ ] exactly so! if coke had to fish, casting his net as widely as father gerard correctly shows him to have done, it is plain that the government had no direct knowledge to guide its inquiries. father gerard's charge therefore resolves itself into this: that salisbury not only deceived the public at large, but his brother-commissioners as well. has he seriously thought out all that is involved in this theory? salisbury, according to hypothesis, gets an altered copy of a confession drawn up, or else a confession purely invented by himself. the clerk who makes it is, of course, aware of what is being done, and also the second clerk,[ ] who wrote out the further copy sent to edmondes. edmondes, at least, received the second copy, and there can be little doubt that other ambassadors received it also. how could salisbury count on the life-long silence of all these? salisbury, as the event proved, was not exactly loved by his colleagues, and if his brother-commissioners--every one of them men of no slight influence at court--had discovered that their names had been taken in vain, it would not have been left to the rumour of the streets to spread the news that salisbury had been the inventor of the plot. nay, more than this. father gerard distinctly sets down the story of the mine as an impossible one, and therefore one which must have been fabricated by salisbury for his own purposes. the allegation that there had been a mine was not subsequently kept in the dark. it was proclaimed on the house-tops in every account of the plot published to the world. and all the while, it seems, six out of these seven commissioners, to say nothing of the attorney-general, knew that it was all a lie--that fawkes, when they examined him on the th, had really said nothing about it, and yet, neither in public, nor, so far as we know, in private--either in salisbury's lifetime or after his death--did they breathe a word of the wrong that had been done to them as well as to the conspirators! chapter iii. the later documentary evidence. having thus, i hope, established that the story of the mine and cellar is borne out by fawkes's own account, i proceed to examine into the objections raised by father gerard to the documentary evidence after november , the date of fawkes's last examination before he was subjected to torture. in the declaration, signed with his tortured hand on the th, before coke, waad and forsett,[ ] and acknowledged before the commissioners on the th, fawkes distinctly refers to the examination of the th. "the plot," he says, "was to blow up the king with all the nobility about him in parliament, as heretofore he hath declared, to which end, they proceeded as is set down in the examination taken (before the lords of the council commissioners) yesternight." here, then, is distinct evidence that fawkes acknowledged that the examination of the th had been taken in presence of the commissioners, and thus negatives the theory that that examination was invented or altered by salisbury, as these words came on the th under the eyes of the commissioners themselves.[ ] the fact is, that the declaration of the th fits the examination of the th as a glove does a hand. on the th, before torture, fawkes described what had been done, and gave the number of persons concerned in doing it. on the th he is required not to repeat what he had said before, but to give the missing names. this he now does. it was thomas winter who had fetched him from the low countries, having first communicated their design to a certain owen.[ ] the other three, who made up the original five, were percy, catesby, and john wright. it was gerard who had given them the sacrament.[ ] the other conspirators were sir everard digby, robert keyes, christopher wright, thomas[ ] grant, francis tresham, robert winter, and ambrose rokewood. the very order in which the names come perhaps shows that the government had as yet a very hazy idea of the details of the conspiracy. the names of those who actually worked in the mine are scattered at hap-hazard amongst those of the men who merely countenanced the plot from a distance. however this may be, the th, the day on which fawkes was put to the torture, brought news to the government that the fear of insurrection need no longer be entertained. it had been known before this that fawkes's confederates had met on the th at dunchurch on the pretext of a hunting match,[ ] and had been breaking open houses in warwickshire and worcestershire in order to collect arms. yet so indefinite was the knowledge of the council that, on the th, they offered a reward for the apprehension of percy alone, without including any of the other conspirators.[ ] on the evening of the th[ ] they received a letter from sir richard walsh, the sheriff of worcestershire:-- "we think fit," he wrote, "with all speed to certify your lordships of the happy success it hath pleased god to give us against the rebellious assembly in these parts. after such time as they had taken the horses from warwick upon tuesday night last,[ ] they came to mr. robert winter's house to huddington upon wednesday night,[ ] where--having entered--[they] armed themselves at all points in open rebellion. they passed from thence upon thursday morning[ ] unto hewell--the lord windsor's house--which they entered and took from thence by force great store of armour, artillery of the said lord windsor's, and passed that night into the county of staffordshire unto the house of one stephen littleton, gentleman, called holbeche, about two miles distant from stourbridge whither we pursued, with the assistance of sir john foliot, knight, francis ketelsby, esquire, humphrey salway, gentleman, edmund walsh, and francis conyers, gentlemen, with few other gentlemen and the power and face of the country. we made against them upon thursday morning,[ ] and freshly pursued them until the next day,[ ] at which time about twelve or one of the clock in the afternoon, we overtook them at the said holbeche house--the greatest part of their retinue and some of the better sort being dispersed and fled before our coming, whereupon and after summons and warning first given and proclamation in his highness's name to yield and submit themselves--who refusing the same, we fired some part of the house and assaulted some part of the rebellious persons left in the said house, in which assault, one mr. robert catesby is slain, and three others verily thought wounded to death whose names--as far as we can learn--are thomas percy, gentleman, john wright, and christopher wright gentlemen, and these are apprehended and taken thomas winter gentleman, john grant gentleman, henry morgan gentleman, ambrose rokewood gentleman, thomas ockley carpenter, edmund townsend servant to the said john grant, nicholas pelborrow, servant unto the said ambrose rokewood, edward ockley carpenter, richard townsend servant to the said robert winter, richard day servant to the said stephen littleton, which said prisoners are in safe custody here, and so shall remain until your honours good pleasures be further known. the rest of that rebellious assembly is dispersed, we have caused to be followed with fresh suite and hope of their speedy apprehension. we have also thought fit to send unto your honours--according unto our duties--such letters as we have found about the parties apprehended; and so resting in all duty at your honours' further command, we take leave, from stourbridge this saturday morning, being the ixth of this instant november . "your honours' most humble to be commanded, "rich. walsh." percy and the two wrights died of their wounds, so that, in addition to fawkes, thomas winter was the only one of the five original workers in the mine in the hands of the government. of the seven others who had been named in fawkes's confession of the th, christopher wright had been killed; rokewood, robert winter, and grant had been apprehended at holbeche; sir everard digby, keyes, and tresham were subsequently arrested, as was bates a servant of catesby. that for some days the government made no effort to get further information about the mine and the cellar cannot be absolutely proved, but nothing bearing on the subject has reached us except that, on the th, when a copy of fawkes's deposition of the th was forwarded to edmondes, the names of the twelve chief conspirators are given, not as fawkes gave them on the th, in two batches, but in three, robert winter and christopher wright being said to have joined after the first five, whilst rokewood, digby, grant, tresham, and keyes are said to have been 'privy to the practice of the powder but wrought not at the mine.'[ ] as keyes is the only one whose christian name is not given, this list must have been copied from one now in the record office, in which this peculiarity is also found, and was probably drawn up on or about the th[ ] from further information derived from fawkes when he certified the confession dragged from him on the preceding day.[ ] what really seems to have been at this time on the minds of the investigators was the relationship of the catholic noblemen to the plot. on the th talbot of grafton was sent for. on the th lords montague and mordaunt were imprisoned in the tower. on the th mrs. vaux and the wives of ten of the conspirators were committed to various aldermen and merchants of london.[ ] when fawkes was re-examined on the th,[ ] by far the larger part of the answers elicited refer to the hints given, or supposed to have been given, to catholic noblemen to absent themselves from parliament on the th. then comes a statement about percy buying a watch for fawkes on the night of the th and sending it 'to him by keyes at ten of the clock at night, because he should know how the time went away.' the last paragraph alone bears upon the project itself. "he also saith he did not intend to set fire to the train [until] the king was come to the house, and then he purposed to do it with a piece of touchwood and with a match also, _which were about him when he was apprehended on the th day of november at of the clock at night_ that the powder might more surely take fire a quarter of an hour after." the words printed in italics are an interlineation in coke's hand. they evidently add nothing of the slightest importance to the evidence, and cannot have been inserted with any design to prejudice the prisoner or to carry conviction in quarters in which disbelief might be supposed to exist. is not the simple explanation sufficient, that when the evidence was read over to the examinee, he added, either of his own motion or on further question, this additional information. if this explanation is accepted here, may it not also be accepted for other interlineations, such as that relating to the cellar in the first examination?[ ] that the examiners at this stage of the proceedings should not be eager to ask further questions about the cellar and the mine was the most natural thing in the world. they knew already quite enough from fawkes's earlier examinations to put them in possession of the general features of the plot, and to them it was of far greater interest to trace out its ramifications, and to discover whether a guilty knowledge of it could be brought home either to noblemen or to priests, than to attain to a descriptive knowledge of its details, which would be dear to the heart of the newspaper correspondent of the present day. yet, after all, even in , the public had to be taken into account. there must be an open trial, and the more detailed the information that could be got the more verisimilitude would be given to the story told. it is probably, in part at least, to these considerations, as well as to some natural curiosity on the part of the commissioners themselves, that we owe the examinations of fawkes on the th and of winter on the rd. "amongst all the confessions and 'voluntary declarations' extracted from the conspirators," writes father gerard, "there are two of exceptional importance, as having furnished the basis of the story told by the government, and ever since generally accepted. these are a long declaration made by thomas winter, and another by guy fawkes, which alone were made public, being printed in the 'king's book,' and from which are gathered the essential particulars of the story, as we are accustomed to hear it." if father gerard merely means that the story published by the government rested on these two confessions, and that the government publications were the source of all knowledge about the plot till the record office was thrown open, in comparatively recent years, he says what is perfectly true, and, it may be added, quite irrelevant. if he means that our knowledge at the present day rests on these two documents, he is, as i hope i have already shown, mistaken. with the first five examinations of fawkes in our hands, all the essential points of the conspiracy, except the names, are revealed to us. the names are given in the examination under torture, and a day or two later the government was able to classify these names, though we are unable to specify the source from which it drew its information. if both the declarations to which father gerard refers had been absolutely destroyed we should have missed some picturesque details, which assist us somewhat in understanding what took place; but we should have been able to set forth the main features of the plot precisely as we do now. nevertheless, as we do gain some additional information from these documents, let us examine whether there are such symptoms of foul play as father gerard thinks he can descry. taking first fawkes's declaration of november , it will be well to follow father gerard's argument. he brings into collocation three documents: first the interrogatories prepared by coke after the examination of the th, then the examination of the th, which he calls a draft, and then the full declaration of the th, which undoubtedly bears the signature of fawkes himself. that the three documents are very closely connected is undeniable. take, for instance, a paragraph to which father gerard not unnaturally draws attention, in which the repetition of the words 'the same day' proves at least partial identity of origin between coke's interrogatories and the examination founded on them on the th.[ ] "was it not agreed," asks coke, "the same day that the act should have been done, the same day, or soon after, the person of the lady elizabeth should have been surprised?" "he confesseth," fawkes is stated to have said, "that the same day this detestable act should have been performed the same day should other of their confederacy have surprised the lady elizabeth." yet before setting down fawkes's replies as a fabrication of the government, let us remember how evidence of this kind is taken and reported. if we take up the report of a criminal trial in a modern newspaper we shall find, for the most part, a flowing narrative put into the mouths of witnesses. john jones, let us say, is represented as giving some such evidence as this: "i woke at two o'clock in the morning, and, looking out of window, saw by the light of the moon john smith opening the stable door," &c. nobody who has attended a law court imagines john jones to have used these consecutive words. questions are put to him by the examining counsel. when did you wake? did you see anyone at the stable door? how came you to be able to see him, and so forth; and it is by combining these questions with the yes and no, and other brief replies made by the witness, that the reporter constructs his narrative with no appreciable violation of truth. is it not reasonable to suppose that the same practice prevailed in ? fawkes, i suppose, answered to coke's question, "yes, others of the confederates proposed to surprise her," or something of the sort, and the result was the combination of question and answer which is given above. what, however, was the relation between the examination of the th and the declaration of the th? father gerard has printed them side by side,[ ] and it is impossible to deny that the latter is founded on the former. some paragraphs of the examination are not represented in the declaration, but these are paragraphs of no practical importance, and those that are represented are modified. the modifications admitted, however, are all consistent with what is a very probable supposition, that the government wanted to get fawkes's previous statements collected in one paper. he had given his account of the plot on one occasion, the names of the plotters on another, and had stated on a third that they were to be classified in three divisions--those who worked first at the mine, those who worked at it afterwards, and those who did not work at all. if the government drew up a form combining the three statements and omitting immaterial matter, and got fawkes to sign it, this would fully account for the form in which we find the declaration. at the present day, we should object to receive evidence from a man who had been tortured once and might be tortured again; but as this declaration adds nothing of any importance to our previous knowledge, it is unnecessary to recur to first principles on this occasion.[ ] winter's examination of the rd, as treated by father gerard, raises a more difficult question. the document itself is at hatfield, and there is a copy of it in the 'gunpowder plot book' in the public record office. "the 'original' document," writes father gerard,[ ] "is at hatfield, and agrees in general so exactly with the copy as to demonstrate the identity of their origin. but while, as we have seen, the 'copy' is dated november rd, the 'original' is dated on the th." in a note, we are told 'that this is not a slip of the pen is evidenced by the fact that winter first wrote , and then corrected it to .' to return to father gerard's text, we find, "on a circumstance so irregular, light is possibly thrown by a letter from waad, the lieutenant of the tower, to cecil[ ] on the th of the same month. 'thomas winter,' he wrote, 'doth find his hand so strong, as after dinner he will settle himself to write that he hath verbally declared to your lordship, adding what he shall remember.' the inference is certainly suggested that torture had been used until the prisoner's spirit was sufficiently broken to be ready to tell the story required of him, and that the details were furnished by those who demanded it. it must, moreover, be remarked that, although winter's 'original' declaration is witnessed only by sir e. coke, the attorney-general, it appears in print attested by all those whom cecil had selected for the purpose two days before the declaration was made." apparently father gerard intends us to gather from his statement that the whole confession of winter was drawn up by the government on or before the rd, and that he was driven on the th by fears of renewed torture to put his hand to a tissue of falsehoods contained in a paper which the government required him to copy out and sign. the whole of this edifice, it will be seen, rests on the assertion that winter first wrote and then corrected it to . so improbable did this assertion appear to me, that i wrote to mr. gunton, the courteous secretary of the marquis of salisbury, requesting him to examine the handwriting of the date in question. he tells me that the confession itself is, as father gerard states, in winter's hand, as is also the date ' { ber} .' two changes have been made; in the first place has been altered to , and there has been added at the head of the paper: "the voluntary declaration of thomas winter, of hoodington, in the county of worcester, gent. the of november, ." "this heading," mr. gunton writes, "is so tucked in at the top, that it must, i think, have been written after the confession itself." he also assures me that the of the substituted date and the in the added heading 'are exactly alike, and both different from the ' at the end of the date of the year, as written by winter. "the heading," mr. gunton writes, "i believe to be in coke's hand. it is more carefully written than he usually writes, and more carefully than his attestation at the end; but as far as my judgment goes, it is decidedly his hand." the alleged fact that lies at the basis of father gerard's argument is therefore finally disposed of. why coke, if coke it was, changed the date can be no more than matter for conjecture. yet an explanation, conjectural though it be, seems to me to be probable enough. we have seen that fawkes's confession under torture bears two dates, the th, when it was taken before coke and waad the lieutenant of the tower, together with a magistrate, edward forsett; the second, on the th, when it was declared before the commissioners. why may not this confession of winter's have been subjected to a similar process. winter, i suppose, writes it on the rd, and it is then witnessed, as father gerard says, by coke alone. though no copy with the autograph signatures of the commissioners exists it is reasonable to suppose that one was made, in which a passage about monteagle--whom the government did not wish to connect with the plot except as a discoverer--was omitted, and that this, still bearing the date of the rd, may have been brought before the commissioners on the th. they would thus receive a statement from winter that it was his own, and the signatures of the commissioners would then be appended to it, together with those of coke and waad. this then would be the document from which copies would be taken for the use of individual commissioners, and we can thus account for salisbury's having appended to his own copy now in the record office, "taken before us, nottingham, suffolk, &c." the recognition before the commissioners would become the official date, and coke, having access to the original, changes the date on which it was written to that on which it was signed by the commissioners. this explanation is merely put forward as a possible one. the important point is that father gerard's argument founded on the alteration of the date is inadmissible, now that mr. gunton has thrown light on the matter. winter's confession having been thus vindicated is here inserted, partly because it gives the story from a different point of view from that of fawkes, and partly because it will enable those who read it to see for themselves whether there is internal evidence of its having been manipulated by the government. _my most honourable lords._ " { ber} . "not out of hope to obtain pardon for speaking--of my temporal part i may say the fault is greater than can be forgiven--nor affecting hereby the title of a good subject for i must redeem my country from as great a danger as i have hazarded the bringing her into, before i can purchase any such opinion; only at your honours' command, i will briefly set down my own accusation, and how far i have proceeded in this business which i shall the faithfuller do since i see such courses are not pleasing to almighty god; and that all, or the most material parts have been already confessed. "i remained with my brother in the country for all-hollantide,[ ] in the year of our lord , the first of the king's reign, about which time, mr. catesby sent thither, entreating me to come to london, where he and other friends would be glad to see me. i desired him to excuse me, for i found not myself very well disposed, and (which had happened never to me before) returned the messenger without my company. shortly i received another letter, in any wise to come. at the second summons i presently came up and found him with mr. john wright at lambeth, where he brake with me how necessary it was not to forsake my country (for he knew i had then a resolution to go over), but to deliver her from the servitude in which she remained, or at least to assist her with our uttermost endeavours. i answered that i had often hazarded my life upon far lighter terms, and now would not refuse any good occasion wherein i might do service to the catholic cause; but, for myself, i knew no mean probable to succeed. he said that he had bethought him of a way at one instant to deliver us from all our bonds, and without any foreign help[ ] to replant again the catholic religion, and withal told me in a word it was to blow up the parliament house with gunpowder; for, said he, in that place have they done us all the mischief, and perchance god hath designed that place for their punishment. i wondered at the strangeness of the conceit, and told him that true it was this strake at the root and would breed a confusion fit to beget new alterations, but if it should not take effect (as most of this nature miscarried) the scandal would be so great which the catholic religion might hereby sustain, as not only our enemies, but our friends also would with good reason condemn us. he told me the nature of the disease required so sharp a remedy, and asked me if i would give my consent. i told him yes, in this or what else soever, if he resolved upon it, i would venture my life; but i proposed many difficulties, as want of a house, and of one to carry the mine; noise in the working, and such like. his answer was, let us give an attempt, and where it faileth, pass no further. but first, quoth he, because we will leave no peaceable and quiet way untried, you shall go over and inform the constable[ ] of the state of the catholics here in england, intreating him to solicit his majesty at his coming hither that the penal laws may be recalled, and we admitted into the rank of his other subjects. withal, you may bring over some confidant gentleman such as you shall understand best able for this business, and named unto me mr. fawkes. shortly after i passed the sea and found the constable at bergen, near dunkirk, where, by the help of mr. owen,[ ] i delivered my message, whose answer was that he had strict command from his master to do all good offices for the catholics, and for his own part he thought himself bound in conscience so to do, and that no good occasion should be omitted, but spake to him nothing of this matter. "returning to dunkirk with mr. owen, we had speach whether he thought the constable would faithfully help us or no. he said he believed nothing less, and that they sought only their own ends, holding small account of catholics. i told him, that there were many gentlemen in england, who would not forsake their country until they had tried the uttermost, and rather venture their lives than forsake her in this misery; and to add one more to our number as a fit man, both for counsel and execution of whatsoever we should resolve, wished for mr. fawkes whom i had heard good commendations of. he told me the gentleman deserved no less, but was at brussels, and that if he came not, as happily he might, before my departure, he would send him shortly after into england. i went soon after to ostend, where sir william stanley as then was not, but came two days after. i remained with him three or four days, in which time i asked him, if the catholics in england should do anything to help themselves, whether he thought the archduke would second them. he answered, no; for all those parts were so desirous of peace with england as they would endure no speach of other enterprise, neither were it fit, said he, to set any project afoot now the peace is upon concluding. i told him there was no such resolution, and so fell to discourse of other matters until i came to speak of mr. fawkes whose company i wished over into england. i asked of his sufficiency in the wars, and told him we should need such as he, if occasion required. he gave very good commendations of him; and as we were thus discoursing and i ready to depart for nieuport and taking my leave of sir william, mr. fawkes came into our company newly returned and saluted us. this is the gentleman, said sir william, that you wished for, and so we embraced again. i told him some good friends of his wished his company in england; and that if he pleased to come to dunkirk, we would have further conference, whither i was then going: so taking my leave of both, i departed. about two days after came mr. fawkes to dunkirk, where i told him that we were upon a resolution to do somewhat in england if the peace with spain helped us not, but had as yet resolved upon nothing. such or the like talk we passed at gravelines, where i lay for a wind, and when it served, came both in one passage to greenwich, near which place we took a pair of oars, and so came up to london, and came to mr. catesby whom we found in his lodging. he welcomed us into england, and asked me what news from the constable. i told him good words, but i feared the deeds would not answer. this was the beginning of easter term[ ] and about the midst of the same term (whether sent for by mr. catesby, or upon some business of his own) up came mr. thomas percy. the first word he spake (after he came into our company) was shall we always, gentlemen, talk and never do anything? mr. catesby took him aside and had speech about somewhat to be done, so as first we might all take an oath of secrecy, which we resolved within two or three days to do, so as there we met behind st. clement's, mr. catesby, mr. percy, mr. wright, mr. guy fawkes, and myself, and having, upon a primer given each other the oath of secrecy in a chamber where no other body was, we went after into the next room and heard mass, and received the blessed sacrament upon the same. then did mr. catesby disclose to mr. percy,[ ] and i together with jack wright tell to mr. fawkes the business for which they took this oath which they both approved; and then mr. percy sent to take the house, which mr. catesby, in my absence, had learnt did belong to one ferris, which with some difficulty in the end he obtained, and became, as ferris before was, tenant to whynniard. mr. fawkes underwent the name of mr. percy's man, calling himself johnson, because his face was the most unknown,[ ] and received the keys of the house, until we heard that the parliament was adjourned to the of february. at which time we all departed several ways into the country, to meet again at the beginning of michaelmas term.[ ] before this time also it was thought convenient to have a house that might answer to mr. percy's, where we might make provision of powder and wood for the mine which, being there made ready, should in a night be conveyed by boat to the house by the parliament because we were loth to foil that with often going in and out. there was none that we could devise so fit as lambeth where mr. catesby often lay, and to be keeper thereof, by mr. catesby's choice, we received into the number keyes, as a trusty honest man.[ ] "some fortnight after, towards the beginning of the term, mr. fawkes and i came to mr. catesby at moorcrofts, where we agreed that now was time to begin and set things in order for the mine, so as mr. fawkes went to london and the next day sent for me to come over to him. when i came, the cause was for that the scottish lords were appointed to sit in conference on the union in mr. percy's house. this hindered our beginning until a fortnight before christmas, by which time both mr. percy and mr. wright were come to london, and we against their coming had provided a good part of the powder, so as we all five entered with tools fit to begin our work, having provided ourselves of baked-meats, the less to need sending abroad. we entered late in the night, and were never seen, save only mr. percy's man, until christmas-eve, in which time we wrought under a little entry to the wall of the parliament house, and underpropped it as we went with wood. "whilst we were together we began to fashion our business, and discourse what we should do after this deed were done. the first question was how we might surprise the next heir; the prince happily would be at the parliament with the king his father: how should we then be able to seize on the duke?[ ] this burden mr. percy undertook; that by his acquaintance he with another gentleman would enter the chamber without suspicion, and having some dozen others at several doors to expect his coming, and two or three on horseback at the court gate to receive him, he would undertake (the blow being given, until which he would attend in the duke's chamber) to carry him safe away, for he supposed most of the court would be absent, and such as were there not suspecting, or unprovided for any such matter. for the lady elizabeth it were easy to surprise her in the country by drawing friends together at a hunting near the lord harrington's, and ashby, mr. catesby's house, being not far off was a fit place for preparation. "the next was for money and horses, which if we could provide in any reasonable measure (having the heir apparent) and the first knowledge by four or five days was odds sufficient. then, what lords we should save from the parliament, which was agreed in general as many as we could that were catholics or so disposed. next, what foreign princes we should acquaint with this before or join with after. for this point we agreed that first we would not enjoin princes to that secrecy nor oblige them by oath so to be secure of their promise; besides, we know not whether they will approve the project or dislike it, and if they do allow thereof, to prepare before might beget suspicion and[ ] not to provide until the business were acted; the same letter that carried news of the thing done might as well entreat their help and furtherance. spain is too slow in his preparations to hope any good from in the first extremities, and france too near and too dangerous, who with the shipping of holland we feared of all the world might make away with us. but while we were in the middle of these discourses, we heard that the parliament should be anew adjourned until after michaelmas, upon which tidings we broke off both discourse and working until after christmas. about candlemas we brought over in a boat the powder which we had provided at lambeth and layd it in mr. percy's house because we were willing to have all our danger in one place. we wrought also another fortnight in the mine against the stone wall, which was very hard to beat through, at which time we called in kit wright, and near to easter[ ] as we wrought the third time, opportunity was given to hire the cellar, in which we resolved to lay the powder and leave the mine. "now by reason that the charge of maintaining us all so long together, besides the number of several houses which for several uses had been hired, and buying of powder, &c., had lain heavy on mr. catesby alone to support, it was necessary for to call in some others to ease his charge, and to that end desired leave that he with mr. percy and a third whom they should call might acquaint whom they thought fit and willing to the business, for many, said he, may be content that i should know who would not therefore that all the company should be acquainted with their names. to this we all agreed. "after this mr. fawkes laid into the cellar (which he had newly taken) a thousand of billets and five hundred of faggots, and with that covered the powder, because we might have the house free to suffer anyone to enter that would. mr. catesby wished us to consider whether it were not now necessary to send mr. fawkes over, both to absent himself for a time as also to acquaint sir william stanley and mr. owen with this matter. we agreed that he should; provided that he gave it them with the same oath that we had taken before, viz., to keep it secret from all the world. the reason why we desired sir william stanley should be acquainted herewith was to have him with us so soon as he could, and, for mr. owen, he might hold good correspondency after with foreign princes. so mr. fawkes departed about easter for flanders and returned the later end of august. he told me that when he arrived at brussels, sir william stanley was not returned from spain, so as he uttered the matter only to owen, who seemed well pleased with the business, but told him that surely sir william would not be acquainted with any plot as having business now afoot in the court of england, but he himself would be always ready to tell it him and send him away so soon as it were done. "about this time did mr. percy and mr. catesby meet at the bath where they agreed that the company being yet but few, mr. catesby should have the others' authority to call in whom he thought best, by which authority he called in after sir everard digby, though at what time i know not, and last of all mr. francis tresham. the first promised, as i heard mr. catesby say, fifteen hundred pounds. mr. percy himself promised all that he could get of the earl of northumberland's rent,[ ] and to provide many galloping horses, his number was ten.[ ] meanwhile mr. fawkes and myself alone bought some new powder, as suspecting the first to be dank, and conveyed it into the cellar and set it in order as we resolved it should stand. then was the parliament anew prorogued until the of november; so as we all went down until some ten days before. when mr. catesby came up with mr. fawkes to a house by enfield chase called white webbs, whither i came to them, and mr. catesby willed me to inquire whether the young prince[ ] came to parliament, i told him that his grace thought not to be there. then must we have our horses, said mr. catesby, beyond the water,[ ] and provision of more company to surprise the prince and leave the duke alone. two days after, being sunday[ ] at night, in came one to my chamber and told me that a letter had been given to my lord monteagle to this effect, that he wished his lordship's absence from the parliament because a blow would there be given, which letter he presently carried to my lord of salisbury. on the morrow i went to white webbs and told it to mr. catesby, assuring him withal that the matter was disclosed and wishing him in any wise to forsake his country. he told me he would see further as yet and resolved to send mr. fawkes to try the uttermost, protesting if the part belonged to myself he would try the same adventure. on wednesday mr. fawkes went and returned at night, of which we were very glad. thursday[ ] i came to london, and friday[ ] mr. catesby, mr. tresham and i met at barnet, where we questioned how this letter should be sent to my lord monteagle, but could not conceive, for mr. tresham forsware it, whom we only suspected. on saturday night[ ] i met mr. tresham again in lincoln's inn walks, where he told such speeches that my lord of salisbury should use to the king, as i gave it lost the second time, and repeated the same to mr. catesby, who hereupon was resolved to be gone, but stayed to have mr. percy come up whose consent herein we wanted. on sunday night[ ] came mr. percy, and no 'nay,' but would abide the uttermost trial. "this suspicion of all hands put us into such confusion as mr. catesby resolved to go down into the country the monday[ ] that mr. percy went to sion and mr. percy resolved to follow the same night or early the next morning. about five o'clock being tuesday[ ] came the younger wright to my chamber and told me that a nobleman called the lord monteagle, saying "rise and come along to essex house, for i am going to call up my lord of northumberland," saying withal 'the matter is discovered.' "go back mr. wright," quoth i, "and learn what you can at essex gate." shortly he returned and said, "surely all is lost, for leyton is got on horseback at essex door, and as he parted, he asked if their lordship's would have any more with him, and being answered "no," is rode as fast up fleet street as he can ride." "go you then," quoth i, "to mr. percy, for sure it is for him they seek, and bid him begone: i will stay and see the uttermost." then i went to the court gates, and found them straitly guarded so as nobody could enter. from thence i went down towards the parliament house, and in the middle of king's street found the guard standing that would not let me pass, and as i returned, i heard one say, "there is a treason discovered in which the king and the lords shall have been blown up," so then i was fully satisfied that all was known, and went to the stable where my gelding stood, and rode into the country. mr. catesby had appointed our meeting at dunchurch, but i could not overtake them until i came to my brother's which was wednesday night.[ ] on thursday[ ] we took the armour at my lord windsor's, and went that night to one stephen littleton's house, where the next day, being friday,[ ] as i was early abroad to discover, my man came to me and said that a heavy mischance had severed all the company, for that mr. catesby, mr. rokewood and mr. grant were burnt with gunpowder, upon which sight the rest dispersed. mr. littleton wished me to fly and so would he. i told him i would first see the body of my friend and bury him, whatsoever befel me. when i came i found mr. catesby reasonable well, mr. percy, both the wrights, mr. rokewood and mr. grant. i asked them what they resolved to do. they answered "we mean here to die." i said again i would take such part as they did. about eleven of the clock came the company to beset the house, and as i walked into the court was shot into the shoulder, which lost me the use of my arm. the next shot was the elder wright struck dead; after him the younger mr. wright, and fourthly ambrose rokewood. then, said mr. catesby to me (standing before the door they were to enter), "stand by, mr. tom, and we will die together." "sir," quoth i, "i have lost the use of my right arm and i fear that will cause me to be taken." so as we stood close together mr. catesby, mr. percy and myself, they two were shot (as far as i could guess, with one bullet), and then the company entered upon me, hurt me in the belly with a pike and gave me other wounds, until one came behind and caught hold of both my arms, and so i remain, your &c." "[taken before us "nottingham, suffolk, northampton, salisbury, mar, dunbar, popham. edw. coke, w. waad.]"[ ] i have printed this interesting statement in full, because it is the only way in which i can convey to my readers the sense of spontaneity which pervades it from beginning to end. to me, at least, it seems incredible that it was either written to order, or copied from a paper drawn up by some agent of the government. nor is it to be forgotten that if there was one thing the government was anxious to secure, it was evidence against the priests, and that no such evidence can be extracted from this confession. what is, perhaps, still more to the point is, that no candid person can, i imagine, rise from the perusal of these sentences without having his estimate of the character of the conspirators raised. there is no conscious assumption of high qualities, but each touch as it comes strengthens the belief that the men concerned in the plot were patient and loyal, brave beyond the limits of ordinary bravery, and utterly without selfish aims. could this result have been attained by a confession written to order or dictated by salisbury or his agents, to whom the plotters were murderous villains of the basest kind? there is nothing to show that winter's evidence was procured by torture. father gerard, indeed, quotes a letter from waad, written on the st, in which he says that 'thomas winter doth find his hand so strong as after dinner he will settle himself to write that he hath verbally declared to your lordship adding what he shall remember.' considering that he had a ball through his shoulder a fortnight before, the suggestion of torture is hardly needed to find a cause for his having for some time been unable to use his hand. before turning to another branch of the investigation, it will be advisable to clear up one difficulty which is not quite so easy to solve. "fawkes," writes father gerard,[ ] "in the confession of november , mentioned robert keyes as amongst the first seven of the conspirators who worked at the mine, and robert winter as one of the five introduced at a later period. the names of these two were deliberately interchanged in the published version, robert winter appearing as a worker in the mine, and keyes, who was an obscure man, of no substance, among the gentlemen of property whose resources were to have supported the subsequent rebellion. moreover, in the account of the same confession sent to edmondes by cecil three days before fawkes signed it--_i.e._, november --the same transposition occurs, keyes being explicitly described as one of those 'who wrought not at the mine,' although, as we have seen, he is one of the three who alone make any mention of it. "still more irregular is another circumstance. about november , sir edward coke, the attorney-general, drew up certain further notes of questions to be put to various prisoners. amongst these we read: 'winter[ ] to be examined of his brother, for no man else can accuse him.' but a fortnight or so before this time the secretary of state had officially informed the ambassador in the low countries that robert winter was one of those deepest in the treason, and, to say nothing of other evidence, a proclamation for his apprehension had been issued on november th. yet coke's interrogatory seems to imply that nothing had yet been established against him, and that he was not known to the general body of the traitors as a fellow-conspirator." if this tangled skein is to be unravelled, the first thing to be done is to place the facts in their chronological order, upon which many if not all the difficulties will disappear, premising that, as a matter of fact, keyes did work at the mine, and robert winter did not. in his examination of november , in which no names appear, and nothing is said about a mine, fawkes spoke of five original conspirators, and of five or six subsequently joining them, and being generally acquainted with the plot.[ ] on the th,[ ] when the mine was first mentioned, he divided the seven actual diggers into two classes: first, the five who worked from the beginning, and, secondly, two who were afterwards added to that number, saying nothing of the conspirators who took no part in the mining operations. on the th, under torture, he gave the names of the first five apart, and then lumped all the other conspirators together, so that both keyes and robert winter appear in the same class. on the th he gave, as the names of two, who, as he now said, subsequently worked at the mine, christopher wright and robert winter, but the surname of the latter is deleted with pen-strokes, and that of keyes substituted above it; whilst, in the list of the persons made privy to the plot but not engaged in digging, we have the name of keyes, afterwards deleted, and that of wynter substituted for it.[ ] the only question is, when was the double substitution effected? as far as the action of the government is known, we have the list referred to at pp. , , and probably written on or about the th.[ ] in this the additional workers are first said to have been john grant and christopher wright. the former name is, however, scratched out, and that of 'robyn winter' substituted for it, and from this list is taken the one forwarded to edmondes on the th.[ ] even if we could discover any conceivable motive for the government wishing to accuse keyes rather than winter, it would not help us to explain why the name of winter was substituted for that of grant at one time, and the name of keyes substituted for that of winter at another. on the other hand, fawkes, if he had any knowledge of what was going on, had at least a probable motive for putting winter rather than keyes in the worse category. keyes had been seized, whilst winter was still at large, and fawkes may have thought that as winter might make his escape beyond sea, it was better to load him with the burden which really belonged to keyes. if this solution be accepted as a possible one, it is easy to understand how the government fixed on winter as one of the actual diggers. on the th, the day after his name had been given by fawkes, a proclamation is issued for his apprehension as one 'known to be a principal.'[ ] it is not for ten days that any sign is given of a belief that keyes was the right man. then, on the th, coke suggests that thomas winter may be examined about his brother, 'for no man else can accuse him,' a suggestion which would be absurd if fawkes's statement had still held good. on the th keyes himself acknowledges that he bought some of the powder and assisted in carrying it to ferrers' house, and that he also helped to work at the mine. i am inclined therefore to assign the alteration of the name which fawkes gave in his examination of the th to some day shortly before the th, and to think that the sending of the 'king's book'[ ] to press took place on some day between the rd, the date of thomas winter's examination, and the th. if so, the retention of the name of robert winter amongst the diggers, and that of keyes amongst those made privy afterwards, needs no further explanation.[ ] cromwell once adjured the presbyterians of edinburgh to believe it possible that they might be mistaken. if father gerard would only believe it possible that salisbury may have been mistaken, he would hardly be so keen to mark conscious deception, where deception is not necessarily to be found. after all, the government left the names of winter and keyes perfectly legible under the pen-strokes drawn across them, and the change they made was at least the erasure of a false statement and the substitution of a true one. chapter iv. structural difficulties. from a study of the documentary evidence, i pass to an examination of those structural conditions which father gerard pronounces to be fatal to the 'traditional' story. the first step is obviously to ascertain the exact position of whynniard's house, part of which was rented by percy. the investigator is, however, considerably assisted by father gerard, who has successfully exploded the old belief that this building lay to the southwest of the house of lords. his argument, which appears to me to be conclusive, runs as follows:-- "that the lodging hired by percy stood near the southeast corner of the old house of lords (_i.e._ nearer to the river than that building, and adjacent to, if not adjoining the prince's chamber) is shown by the following arguments:-- " . john shepherd, servant to whynniard, gave evidence as to having on a certain occasion seen from the river 'a boat lie close to the pale of sir thomas parry's garden, and men going to and from the water through the back door that leadeth into mr. percy, his lodging.--[_gunpowder plot book_, , part .] " . fawkes, in his examination of november , , speaks of the window in his chamber near the parliament house towards the water-side. " . it is said that when digging their mine the conspirators were troubled by the influx of water from the river, which would be impossible if they were working at the opposite side of the parliament house."[ ] i think, however, that a still closer identification is possible. on page will be seen a frontage towards the river, marked 'very old walls, remaining in & ,' of which the line corresponds fairly with that of the house in the view given as the frontispiece to this volume. on part of the site behind it is written 'very old house,' and the remainder is said to have been occupied by a garden for many years. it may, however, be gathered from the view that this piece of ground was covered by part of the house in , and i imagine that the 'many years' must have commenced in , when the house was demolished (see view at p. ). if any doubt remains as to the locality of the front it will be removed by capon's pencilled note on the door to the left,[ ] stating that it led to parliament place.[ ] the house marked separately to the right in the plan, as mrs. robe's house, , is evidently identical with the more modern building in the frontispiece, and therefore does not concern us. with this comparatively modern plan should be compared the three which follow in succession (pp. , , ), respectively dated , , and . they are taken from the crace collection of plans in the print room of the british museum, portfolio xi. nos. , , . the first of these three plans differs from the later ones in two important particulars. in the first place, the shaded part indicating buildings is divided by dark lines, and, in the second place, this shaded part covers more ground. i suppose there can be little doubt that the dark lines indicate party walls, and we are thus enabled to understand how it is that, whilst in writing to parry[ ] salisbury speaks of percy as having taken a part of whynniard's house, percy is spoken of in all the remaining evidence that has reached us as taking a house. salisbury, no doubt, was thinking of the whole tenement held by whynniard as a house, whilst others gave that name to such a part of it as could be separately held by a single tenant. the other difference between the plans is less easy to explain. neither of the later ones show that excrescence towards the river-bank, abutting on its northern side on cotton garden, which is so noted a feature in the plan of . at one time i was inclined to think that we had here the 'low room new builded,' that in which percy at first stored his powder; but this would be to make the house rented by him far larger than it is likely to have been. a more probable explanation is given by the plan itself. it will be seen that the shading includes the internal courtyard, perceptible in the two later plans, and it does not therefore necessarily indicate the presence of buildings. may not the shaded part reaching to the river mean no more than that in there was some yard or garden specially attached to the house? [illustration: part of a plan of the ancient palace of westminster, by the late mr. william capon, measured and drawn between and .--_vetusta monumenta_, vol. v. the houses at the edge of the river were not in existence in , the ground on which they were built having been reclaimed since that date.] [illustration: from a plan of part of westminster, . a. probable position of the chamber attached to the house of lords. b. probable position of the house leased to percy. these references are not in the original plan.] [illustration: from a plan of part of westminster, with intended improvements of the houses of lords and commons, by w. kent, . a red line showing the ground set apart by kent for building is omitted.] [illustration: from a plan of westminster hall and the houses of parliament as it appeared in part of this lettering is in pencil in the original plan.] before giving reasons for selecting any one part of whynniard's block as that rented from him by percy, it is necessary to face a difficulty raised by father gerard:-- "neither," he writes, "does the house appear to have been well suited for the purposes for which it was taken. speed tells us, and he is confirmed by bishop barlow, of lincoln, that it was let out to tenants only when parliament was not assembled, and during a session formed part of the premises at the disposal of the lords, whom it served as a withdrawing room. as this plot was of necessity to take effect during a session, when the place would be in other hands, it is very hard to understand how it was intended that the final and all-important operation should be conducted."[ ] this objection is put still more strongly in a subsequent passage:-- "we have already observed on the nature of the house occupied in percy's name. if this were, as speed tells us, and as there is no reason to doubt, at the service of the peers during a session for a withdrawing-room, and if the session was to begin on november , how could fawkes hope not only to remain in possession, but to carry on his strange proceedings unobserved amid the crowd of lacqueys and officials with whom the opening of the parliament by the sovereign must needs have flooded the premises. how was he, unobserved, to get into the fatal 'cellar'?"[ ] it is easy enough to brush away father gerard's alleged confirmation by bishop barlow,[ ] who, writing as he did in the reign of charles ii., carries no weight on such a point. besides, he did not write a book on the gunpowder plot at all. he merely republished, in , an old official narrative of the trial, with an unimportant preface of his own. what father gerard quotes here and elsewhere is, however, not even taken from this republication, but from an anonymous pamphlet published in , and reprinted in _the harleian miscellany_, iii. , which is avowedly a cento made up from earlier writers, and in which the words referred to are doubtless copied directly from speed. speed's own testimony, however, cannot be so lightly dismissed, especially as it is found in the first edition of his _history_, published in , and therefore only six years after the event:-- "no place," he says, "was held fitter than a certain edifice adjoining the wall of the parliament house, which served for withdrawing rooms for the assembled lords, and out of parliament was at the disposal of the keeper of the place and wardrobe thereunto belonging."[ ] this is quite specific, and unless speed's evidence can be in any way modified, fully justifies father gerard in his contention. let us, however, turn to the agreement for the house in question:-- "memorandum that it is concluded between thomas percy of london esquire and henry ferrers of bordesley clinton in the county of warwick gentleman the xxiiii day of march in the second year of our sovereign lord king james.[ ] "that the said henry hath granted to the said thomas to enjoy his house in westminster belonging to the parliament house, the said thomas getting the consent of mr. whynniard, and satisfying me, the said henry, for my charges bestowed thereupon, as shall be thought fit by two indifferent men chosen between us. "and that he shall also have the other house that gideon gibbons dwelleth in, with an assignment of a lease from mr. whynniard thereof, satisfying me as aforesaid, and using the now tenant well. "and the said thomas hath lent unto me the said henry twenty pounds, to be allowed upon reckoning or to be repaid again at the will of the said thomas. "henry ferrers. "sealed and delivered in the presence of jo: white and christopher symons.[ ]" it is therefore beyond question, on the evidence of this agreement, that speed was right in connecting with parliament a house rented by percy. it is, however, also beyond question, on the evidence of the same agreement, that he also took a second house, of which whynniard was to give him a lease. the inference that percy would have been turned out of this second house when parliament met seems, therefore, to be untenable. whynniard, it may be observed, had, on march , , been appointed, in conjunction with his son, keeper of the old palace,[ ] so that the block of buildings concerned, which is within the old palace, may very well have been his official residence. let us now cast our eyes on the plan on p. . we find there a long division of the building running between the wall of the house of lords and the back wall of the remainder of the block. it certainly looks as if this must have been the house, or division of a house, belonging to parliament, and this probability is turned into something like certainty by the two views that now follow, taken from the _crace collection_; views, portfolio xv., nos. , . it will be seen that the first of these two views, taken in (p. ), shows us a large mullioned window, inside which must have been a room of some considerable length to require so large an opening to admit light, as its breadth must evidently have been limited. such a room would be out of place in the rambling building we have been examining, but by no means out of place as a chamber or gallery connected with the house of lords, and capable of serving as a place of meeting for the commissioners appointed to consider a scheme of union with scotland. a glance at the view on page , which was taken in , when the wall of the house of lords was being laid bare by the demolition of the houses abutting on it, shows two apertures, a window with a gothic arch, and an opening with a square head, which may very well have served as a door, whilst the window may have been blocked up. if such a connection with the house of lords can be established, there seems no reason to doubt that we have the withdrawing room fixed beyond doubt. father gerard mentions an old print representing 'the two houses assembled in the presence of queen elizabeth,' and having 'windows on both sides.'[ ] such a print can only refer to a time before the mullioned chamber was in existence, and therefore--unless this print, like a subsequent one, was a mere copy of an earlier one still--we have fair evidence that the large room was not in existence in some year in the reign of elizabeth, whilst the plan at p. shows that it was in existence in . that it was there in is not, indeed, to be proved by other evidence than that it manifestly supplies us with the withdrawing room for the lords and for the commissioners for the union of which we hear so much. [illustration: east end of the prince's chamber. published july , , by j. t. smith.] [illustration: views of the east side of the house of lords, the east end of the prince's chamber, &c. taken october , . n.b. from the doorway out of which a man is peeping, nearly in the centre of the print, guy fawkes was to have made his escape. published nov. , , by j. t. smith.] that in the early part of the nineteenth century the storey beneath this room was occupied by a passage leading from the court opening on parliament place, and cotton garden, is shown in the plan at p. ; and the views at pp. , , rather indicate that that passage was in existence when the old house, which i call whynniard's block, was still undemolished. if this was so, we are able to find a place for the 'little entry,' under which, according to winter, the conspirators worked. this view of the case, too, is borne out by smith's statement, that 'in the further end of that court,' _i.e._ the court running up from parliament place, 'is a doorway, through which, and turning to the left through another doorway, is the immediate way out of the cellar where the powder-plot was intended to take effect.'[ ] it seems likely that the whole long space under the withdrawing room was used as a passage, though, on the other hand, the part of what was afterwards a passage may have been blocked by a room, in which case we have the 'low room new builded'--_i.e._ built in some year in elizabeth's reign--in which the powder was stored. having thus fixed the position of the house belonging to parliament, and shown that it probably consisted of a long room in one storey, we can hardly fail to discover the second house as that marked b in the plan on p. , since that house alone combines the conditions of being close to the house of lords, and having a door and window looking towards the river. according to father gerard, however, the premises occupied by percy were far too small to make this explanation permissible. "we learn," he says, "on the unimpeachable evidence of mrs. whynniard's servant that the house afforded accommodation only for one person at a time, so that when percy came there to spend the night, fawkes, who passed for his man, had to lodge out. this suggests another question. percy's pretext for laying in so much fuel was that he meant to bring up his wife to live there. but how could this be under such conditions?"[ ] mrs. whynniard's servant, however, roger james, did not use the words here put into his mouth. he said that he had heard from mrs. gibbons 'that mr. percy hath lain in the said lodging divers times himself, but when he lay there, his man lay abroad, there being but one bed in the said lodging.' fawkes, therefore, lodged out when his master came, not because there was not a second room in the house, but because there was only one bed. if mrs. percy arrived alone she would probably find one bed sufficient for herself and her husband. if she brought any maidservants with her, beds could be provided for them without much difficulty. is it not likely that the plan of sending fawkes out to sleep was contrived with the object of persuading the whynniards that as matters stood no more than one person could occupy the house at night, and of thus putting them off the scent, at the time when the miners were congregated in it? a more serious problem is presented by father gerard's inquiry 'how proceedings so remarkable' as the digging of the mine could have escaped the notice, not only of the government, but of the entire neighbourhood. "this," he continues, "it must be remembered, was most populous. there were people living in the very building a part of which sheltered the conspirators. around were thickly clustered the dwellings of the keeper of the wardrobe, auditors and tellers of the exchequer, and other such officials. there were tradespeople and workmen constantly employed close to the spot where the work was going on; while the public character of the place makes it impossible to suppose that tenants such as percy and his friends, who were little better than lodgers, could claim the exclusive use of anything beyond the rooms they rented--even when allowed the use of them--or could shut against the neighbours and visitors in general the precincts of so frequented a spot."[ ] to this is added the following footnote:-- "the buildings of the dissolved college of st. stephen, comprising those around the house of lords, were granted by edward vi. to sir ralph lane. they reverted to the crown under elizabeth, and were appropriated as residences for the auditors and tellers of the exchequer. the locality became so populous that in it was forbidden to erect more houses." this statement is reinforced by a conjectural view of the neighbourhood founded on the 'best authorities' by mr. h. w. brewer.[ ] mr. brewer who has since kindly examined with me the drawings and plans in the crace collection, on which i rely, has, i think, been misled by those early semi-pictorial maps, which, though they may be relied on for larger buildings, such as the house of lords or st. stephen's chapel, are very imaginative in their treatment of private houses. in any case i deny the existence of the two large houses placed by him between what i infer to have been whynniard's house and the river side. the history of the land between the wall of the old palace on which stood the river front of whynniard's house, and the bank of the thames, can be traced with tolerable accuracy. it formed part of a larger estate, formerly the property of the dissolved chapel of st. stephen, granted by edward vi. to sir ralph fane;[ ] father gerard's sir ralph lane being a misprint or a mistake. fane, however, was hanged shortly afterwards, and the estate, reverting to the crown, was re-granted to sir john gates.[ ] again reverting to the crown, it was dealt with in separate portions, and the part on which the exchequer officers' residences was built was to the north of cotton garden, and being quite out of earshot of whynniard's house, need not concern us here. in , the queen granted to john whynniard, then an officer of the wardrobe, a lease of several parcels of ground for thirty years.[ ] some of these were near whitehall, others to the south of parliament stairs. the only one which concerns us is a piece of land lying between the wall of the old palace, on which the river-front of whynniard's house was built, and the thames. in the reversion was granted to two men named evershed and holland, who immediately sold it to whynniard, thus constituting him the owner of the land in perpetuity. in the deed conveying it to him, this portion is styled:-- "all that piece of waste land lying there right against the said piece, and lieth and is without the said stone wall, that is to say between the said passage or entry of the said parliament house[ ] on the north part, and abutteth upon the said stone wall which compasseth the said old palace towards the west, and upon the thames aforesaid towards the east, and continueth at length between the passage aforesaid and the sluice coming from the said parliament house, seventy-five foot."[ ] on this piece of waste land i place the garden mentioned in connection with the house rented by percy. this is far more probable than it was where mr. brewer has placed it, in the narrow court which leads from parliament place to the other side of percy's house, and ends by the side of the prince's chamber. if this arrangement be accepted, it gets rid of the alleged populousness of neighbourhood. no doubt people flocked up and down from parliament stairs, but they would be excluded from the garden on the river side, and with few exceptions would pass on without turning to the right into the court. nobody who had not business with percy himself or with his neighbour on the south[ ] would be likely to approach percy's door. as far as that side of the house was concerned, it would be difficult to find a more secluded dwelling. the thames was then the 'silent highway' of london, and the sight of a barge unloading before the back door of a house can have been no more surprising than the sight of a gondola moored to the steps of a palace on a canal in venice. john shepherd, for instance, was not startled by the sight:-- memorandum that john shepherd servant to the said mr. whynniard, saith that the fourth of september last being wednesday before the queen's majesty removed from windsor to hampton court,[ ] he being taken suddenly sick, and therefore sent away to london, and coming late to lie at the queen's bridge,[ ] the tide being high, he saw a boat lie close by the pale of sir thomas parry's garden[ ] and men going to and fro the water through the back door that leadeth into mr. percy's lodging, which he doth now bethink himself of, though then, being sick and late, he did not regard it.[ ] it thus appears that this final supply of powder was carried in at night, and by a way through the garden--not by the more frequented parliament stairs. the story of the mine, no doubt, presents some difficulties which, though by no means insuperable, cannot be solved with absolute certainty without more information than we possess at present. we may, i think, dismiss the suggestion of the edinburgh reviewer that the conspirators may have dug straight down instead of making a tunnel, both because even bunglers could hardly have occupied a fortnight in digging a pit a few feet deep, and because their words about reaching the wall at the end of the fortnight would, on this hypothesis, have no meaning. thomas winter's statement is that he and his comrades 'wrought under a little entry to the wall of the parliament house.'[ ] the little entry, as i have already argued,[ ] must be the covered passage under the withdrawing room; a tunnel leading from the cellar of percy's house would be about seven or eight feet long. the main difficulty at the commencement of the work would be to get through the wall of percy's house, and this, it may be noticed, neither fawkes nor winter speak of, though they are very positive as to the difficulties presented by the wall of the house of lords. if, indeed, the wall on this side of percy's house was, as may with great probability be conjectured, built of brick, as the river front undoubtedly was,[ ] the difficulty cannot have been great, as i have been informed by mr. henry ward[ ] that the brick used in those days was, both from its composition and from the method in which it was dried, far softer than that employed in building at present. we may, therefore, fairly start our miners in the cellar of their own house with a soft brick wall to penetrate, and a tunnel afterwards to construct, having wood ready to prop up the earth, and appropriate implements to carry out their undertaking.[ ] here, however, father gerard waves us back:-- "it is not easy," he writes, "to understand how these amateurs contrived to do so much without a catastrophe. to make a tunnel through soft earth is a very delicate operation, replete with unknown difficulties. to shore up the roof and sides there must, moreover, have been required a large quantity of the 'framed timber'[ ] of which speed tells us, and the provision and importation of this must have been almost as hard to keep dark as the exportation of the earth and stones. a still more critical operation is that of meddling with the foundations of a house--especially of an old and heavy structure--which a professional craftsman would not venture upon except with extreme care, and the employment of many precautions of which these light-hearted adventurers knew nothing. yet, recklessly breaking their way out of one building, and to a large extent into another, they appear to have occasioned neither crack nor settlement in either."[ ] i have already dealt with the problem of bringing in articles by night, and of getting through percy's wall. for the rest, father gerard forgets that though six of the seven miners were amateurs, the seventh was not. fawkes had been eight years in the service of the archdukes in the low countries, and to soldiers on either side the war in the low countries offered the most complete school of military mining then to be found in the world. though every soldier was not an engineer, he could not fail to be in the way of hearing about, if not of actually witnessing, feats of engineering skill, of which the object was not merely to undermine fortifications with tunnels of far greater length than can have been required by the conspirators, but to conduct the operation as quietly as possible. it must surely have been the habit of these engineers to use other implements than the noisy pick of the modern workman.[ ] fawkes, indeed, speaks of himself merely as a watcher whilst others worked. but he was a modest man, and there can be no reasonable doubt that he directed the operations. when the main wall was attacked after christmas the conditions were somewhat altered. the miners, indeed, may still have been able to avoid the use of picks, and to employ drills and crowbars, but some noise they must necessarily have made. yet the chances of their being overheard were very slight. having taken the precaution to hire the long withdrawing room and the passage or passage-room beneath it, the sounds made on the lower part of the main wall could not very well reach the ears of the tenants of the other houses in whynniard's block. the only question is whether there was any one likely to hear them in the so-called 'cellar' underneath the house of lords, beneath which, again, they intended to deposit their store of powder. what that chamber was had best be told in father gerard's own words:-- "the old house of lords,"[ ] he writes, "was a chamber occupying the first floor of a building which stood about fifty yards from the left bank of the thames,[ ] to which it was parallel, the stream at this point running about due north. beneath the peers' chamber on the ground floor was a large room, which plays an important part in our history. this had originally served as the palace kitchen, and, though commonly described as a 'cellar' or a 'vault,' was in reality neither, for it stood on the level of the ground outside, and had a flat ceiling formed by the beams which supported the flooring of the lords apartment above. it ran beneath the said peers' chamber from end to end, and measured seventy-seven feet in length by twenty-four feet four inches in width. "at either end the building abutted upon another running transversely to it; that on the north being the 'painted chamber,' probably erected by edward the confessor, and that on the south the 'prince's chamber,' assigned by its architectural features to the reign of henry iii. the former served as a place of conference for lords and commons, the latter as the robing-room of the lords. the royal throne stood at the south end of the house, near the prince's chamber."[ ] according to the story told by fawkes this place was let to mrs. skinner by whynniard to store her coals in. in an early draft of the narrative usually known as the 'king's book,'[ ] we are told that there was 'some stuff of the king's which lay in part of a cellar under those rooms'--_i.e._ the house of lords, and 'that whynniard had let out some part of a room directly under the parliament chamber to one that used it for a cellar.' this statement is virtually repeated in the 'king's book' itself, where whynniard is said to have stated 'that thomas percy had hired both the house and part of the cellar or vault under the same.'[ ] that part was so let is highly probable, as the internal length of the old kitchen was about seventy-seven feet, and it would therefore be far too large for the occupation of a single coalmonger. we must thus imagine the so-called vault divided into two portions, probably with a partition cutting off one from the other. if, therefore, the conspirators restricted their operations to the night-time, there was little danger of their being overheard. there was not much likelihood either that whynniard would get out of bed to visit the tapestry or whatever the stuff belonging to the king may have been, or that mrs. skinner would want to examine her coal-sacks whilst her customers were asleep. the only risk was from some belated visitor coming up the quiet court leading from parliament place to make his way to one of the houses in whynniard's block. against this, however, the plotters were secured by the watchfulness of fawkes. the precautions taken by the conspirators did not render their task easier. it was in the second fortnight, beginning after the middle of january, when the hard work of getting through the strong and broad foundation of the house of lords tried their muscles and their patience, that they swore in christopher wright, and brought over keyes from lambeth together with the powder which they now stored in 'a low room new-builded.'[ ] after a fortnight's work, reaching to candlemas (feb. ), they had burrowed through about four feet six inches into the wall, after which they again gave over working.[ ] some time in the latter part of march they returned to their operations, but they had scarcely commenced when they found out that it would be possible for them to gain possession of a locality more suited to their wants, and they therefore abandoned the project of the mine as no longer necessary.[ ] before passing from the story of the mine, the more important of father gerard's criticisms require an answer. how, he asks, could the conspirators have got rid of such a mass of earth and stones without exciting attention?[ ] fawkes, indeed, says that 'the day before christmas having a mass of earth that came out of the mine, they carried it into the garden of the said house.' then goodman declares that he saw it,[ ] but, even if we assume that his memory did not play him false, it is impossible that the whole of the produce of the first fortnight's diggings should be disposed of in this way. the shortest length that can be ascribed to the mine before the wall was reached is eight feet, and if we allow five feet for height and depth we have cubical feet, or a mass more than six feet every way, besides the stones coming out of the wall after christmas. some of the earth may have been, as fawkes said, spread over the garden beds, but the greater part of it must have been disposed of in some other way. is it so very difficult to surmise what that was? the nights were long and dark, and the river was very close. we are further asked to explain how it was that, if there was really a mine, the government did not find it out for some days after the arrest of fawkes. why should they? the only point at which it was accessible was at its entrance in percy's own cellar, and it is an insult to the sharp wits of the plotters, to suppose that they did not close it up as soon as the project of the mine was abandoned. all that would be needed, if the head of the mine descended, as it probably did, would be the relaying of a couple or so of flagstones. how careful the plotters were of wiping out all traces of their work, is shown by the evidence of whynniard's servant, roger james, who says that about midsummer , percy, appearing to pay his quarter's rent, 'agreed with one york, a carpenter in westminster, for the repairing of his lodging,' adding 'that he would send his man to pay the carpenter for the work he was to do.'[ ] either the mine had no existence, or all traces of it must have been effectually removed before a carpenter was allowed to range the house in the absence of both percy and fawkes. i must leave it to my readers to decide which alternative they prefer. according to the usually received story, the conspirators, hearing a rustling above their heads, imagined that their enterprise had been discovered, but having sent fawkes to ascertain the cause of the noise, they learnt that mrs. skinner (afterwards mrs. bright) was selling coals, and having also ascertained that she was willing to give up her tenancy to them for a consideration, they applied to whynniard--from whom the so-called 'cellar' was leased through his wife, and obtained a transfer of the premises to percy. all that remained was to convey the powder from the house to the 'cellar,' and after covering it with billets and faggots, to wait quietly till parliament met. father gerard's first objection to this is, that whilst they were mining, 'ridiculous as is the supposition, the conspirators appear to have been ignorant of the existence of the "cellar," and to have fancied that they were working their way immediately beneath the chamber of peers.' the supposition would be ridiculous enough if it were not a figment of father gerard's own brain. he relies on what he calls 'barlow's gunpowder treason,'[ ] published in , and on a remark made by tierney in , adding that it is 'obviously implied' by fawkes and winter. what fawkes says on november is:-- "as they were working upon the wall, they heard a rushing in a cellar of removing of coals; whereupon we feared we had been discovered, and they sent me to go to the cellar, who finding that the coals were a selling, and that the cellar was to be let, viewing the commodity thereof for our purpose, percy went and hired the same for yearly rent."[ ] what winter says is that, 'near to easter ... opportunity was given to hire the cellar, in which we resolved to lay the powder and leave the mine.' what single word is there here about the conspirators thinking that there was no storey intervening between the foundation and the house of lords? the mere fact of percy having been in the house close to the passage from which there was an opening closed only by a grating into the 'cellar' itself,[ ] would negative the impossible supposition. father gerard, however, adds that mrs. whynniard tells us that the cellar was not to let, and that bright, _i.e._ mrs. skinner, had not the disposal of the lease, but one skinner, and that percy 'laboured very earnestly before he succeeded in obtaining it.' what mrs. whynniard says is that the cellar had been already let, and that her husband had not the disposal of it. percy then 'intreated that if he could get mrs. skinner's good-will therein, they would then be contented to let him have it, whereto they granted it.'[ ] is not this exactly what one might expect to happen on an application for a lease held by a tenant who proves willing to remove? father gerard proceeds to raise difficulties from the structural nature of the cellar itself. mr. william capon, he says, examined the foundations of the house of lords when it was removed in , and did not discover the hole which the conspirators were alleged to have made. his own statement, however, printed in the fifth volume of _vetusta monumenta_,[ ] says nothing about the foundations; and besides, as father gerard has shown, he had a totally erroneous theory of the place whence he supposes the conspirators to have had access to the 'cellar.' nothing--as i have learnt by experience--is so likely as a false theory to blind the eyes to existing evidence. then we have remarks upon the mode of communication between percy's house and the cellar. father gerard tells us that:-- "fawkes says (november th, ) that about the middle of lent[ ] of that year, percy caused 'a new door' to be made into it, that he might have a nearer way out of his own house into the cellar. "this seems to imply that percy took the cellar for his firewood when there was no convenient communication between it and his house. moreover, it is not very easy to understand how a tenant--under such conditions as his--was allowed at discretion to knock doors through the walls of a royal palace. neither did the landlady say anything of this door-making, when detailing what she knew of percy's proceedings." without perceiving it, father gerard proceeds to dispose of the objection he had raised. "in some notes of sir e. coke, it is said 'the powder was first brought into percy's house, and lay there in a low room new built, and could not have been conveyed into the cellar but that all the street must have seen it; and therefore he caused a new door out of his house into the cellar to be made, where before there had been a grate of iron."[ ] to father gerard this 'looks very like an afterthought.' considering, however, that every word except the part about the grating is based on evidence which has reached us, it looks to me very like the truth. it is, indeed, useless to attempt to reconcile the position of the doors opening out of the 'cellar' apparently indicated on capon's plan (p. ) with those given in smith's views (p. ) of the four walls taken from the inside of the cellar, and i therefore conclude that the apertures shown in the former are really those of the house of lords on the upper storey, a conjecture which is supported by the insertion of a flight of steps, which would lead nowhere if the whole plan was intended to record merely the features of the lower level. in any case, smith's illustration shows three entrances--one through the north wall which i have marked a, another with a triangular head near the north end of the east wall marked b, and a third with a square head near the south end of the same wall marked c. the first of these would naturally be used by mrs. skinner, as it opened on a passage leading westwards, and we know that she lived in king street; the second would be used by whynniard, whilst, either he or some predecessor might very well have put up a grating at the third to keep out thieves. that third aperture was, however, just opposite percy's house, and when he hired mrs. skinner's part of the 'cellar,' he would necessarily wish to have it open and a door substituted for the grating. there was no question of knocking about the walls of a royal palace in the matter. if he had not that door opened he must either use whynniard's, of which whynniard presumably wished to keep the key, or go round by parliament place to reach the one hitherto used by mrs. skinner. it is true that, if the north door was really the one used by mrs. skinner, it necessitates the conclusion that there was no insurmountable barrier between whynniard's part of the cellar, and that afterwards used by percy. moreover, it is almost certainly shown that this was the case by the ease with which the searchers got into percy's part of the cellar on the night of november th, though entering by another door. in this case the conspirators must have been content with the strong probability that whenever their landlord came into his end of the 'cellar,' he would not come further to pull about the pile of wood with which their powder barrels were covered. on the other hand, the entrances knocked in blocked-up arches may not have been the same in and in . at all events, the square-headed aperture in smith's view agrees so well with that in the view at p. , that it can be accepted without doubt as the one in which percy's new door was substituted for a grating, and which led out of the covered passage opening from the court leading from parliament place. [illustration: four walls of the so-called cellar under the house of lords. from smith's _antiquities of westminster_, p. .] though it is possible that whynniard might, if he chose, come into the plotters' 'cellar,' we are under no compulsion to accept father gerard's assertion that winter declared 'that the confederates so arranged as to leave the cellar free for all to enter who would.'[ ] "it is stated," writes father gerard, in another place, "in winter's long declaration on this subject, that the barrels were thus completely hidden 'because we might have the house free to suffer anyone to enter that would,' and we find it mentioned by various writers, subsequently, that free ingress was actually allowed to the public."[ ] as the subsequent writers appear to be an anonymous writer, who wrote on _the gunpowder plot_ under the pseudonym of l., in , and hugh f. martyndale, who wrote _a familiar analysis of the calendar of the church of england_ in , i am unable to take them very seriously. the extraordinary thing is that father gerard does not see that his quotation from winter is fatal to his argument. winter says that fawkes covered the powder in the cellar 'because we might have the house free to suffer anyone to enter that would.[ ] the cellar was not part of the house; and, although the words are not entirely free from ambiguity, the more reasonable interpretation is that fawkes disposed of the powder in the cellar, in order that visitors might be freely admitted into the house. winter, in fact, makes no direct statement that the powder was moved, and it is therefore fair to take this removal as included in what he says about the faggots. as for the quantity of the gunpowder used, the opinion of the writer discussed in the _edinburgh review_ (january, ), appears reasonable enough:-- "apart from the hearsay reports, father gerard seems to base his computations on the statement that a barrel of gunpowder contained pounds. this is an error. the barrel of gunpowder contained pounds;[ ] the last, which is rightly given at , pounds, contained twenty-four barrels. the quantity of powder stored in the cellar is repeatedly said, both in the depositions and the indictment to have been thirty-six barrels--that is, a last and a half, or about one ton twelve hundredweight; and this agrees very exactly with the valuation of the powder at _l._ in , the cost of a barrel of pounds was _l._ but to carry, and move, and stow, a ton and a half in small portable barrels is a very different thing from the task on which father gerard dwells of moving and hiding, not only the large barrels of pounds, but also the hogsheads that were spoken of."[ ] i will merely add that father gerard's surprise that the disposal of so large a mass of powder is not to be traced is the less justifiable, as the ordnance accounts of the stores in the tower have been very irregularly preserved, those for the years with which we are concerned being missing. having thus, i hope, shown that the traditional account of the mine and the cellar are consistent with the documentary and structural evidence, i pass to the question of the accuracy of the alleged discovery of the conspiracy. chapter v the discovery in one way the evidence on the discovery of the plot differs from that on the plot itself. the latter is straightforward and simple, its discrepancies, where there are any, being reducible to the varying amount of the knowledge of the government. the same cannot be said of the evidence relating to the mode in which the plot was discovered. if we accept the traditional story that its discovery was owing to the extraordinary letter brought to monteagle at hoxton, there are disturbing elements in the case. in the first place, the commissioners would probably wish to conceal any mystery connected with the delivery of the letter, if it were only for the sake of monteagle, to whom they owed so much; and, in the second place, when they had once committed themselves to the theory that the king had discovered the sense of the letter by a sort of divine inspiration, there could not fail to be a certain amount of shuffling to make this view square with the actual facts. other causes of hesitancy to set forth the full truth there may have been, but these two were undeniably there. father gerard, however, bars the way to the immediate discussion of these points by a theory which he has indeed adopted from others, but which he has made his own by the fulness with which he has treated it. he holds that salisbury knew of the plot long before the incident of the letter occurred, a view which is by no means inconsistent with the belief that the plot itself was genuine, and, it may be added, is far less injurious to salisbury's character than the supposition that he had either partially or wholly invented the plot itself. if the latter charge could have been sustained salisbury would have to be ranked amongst the most infamous ministers known to history. if all that can be said of him is that he kept silence longer than we should have expected, we may feel curious as to his motives, or question his prudence, but we shall have no reason to doubt his morality. father gerard, having convinced himself that in all probability the government, or, at least salisbury, had long had a secret agent amongst the plotters, fixes his suspicions primarily on percy. beginning by an attack on percy's moral character, he writes as follows:-- "it unfortunately appears that, all the time, this zealous convert was a bigamist, having one wife living in the capital and another in the provinces. when his name was published in connection with the plot, the magistrates of london arrested the one and those of warwickshire the other, alike reporting to the secretary what they had done, as may be seen in the state paper office."[ ] the papers in the public record office here referred to prove nothing of the sort. on november justice grange writes to salisbury that percy had a house in holborne 'where his wife is at this instant. she saith her husband liveth not with her, but being attendant on the right honourable the earl of northumberland, liveth and lodgeth as she supposeth with him. she hath not seen him since midsummer.[ ] she liveth very private and teacheth children. i have caused some to watch the house, as also to guard her until your honour's pleasure be further known.'[ ] there is, however, nothing to show that salisbury did not within a couple of hours direct that she should be set free, as she had evidently nothing to tell; nor is there anything here inconsistent with her having been arrested in warwickshire on the th, especially as she was apprehended in the house of john wright,[ ] her brother. what is more likely than that, when the terrible catastrophe befell the poor woman, she should have travelled down to seek refuge in her brother's house, where she might perchance hear some tidings of her husband? it is adding a new terror to matrimony to suggest that a man is liable to be charged with bigamy because his wife is seen in london one day and in warwickshire a week afterwards. the fact probably is that father gerard received the suggestion from goodman, whose belief that percy was a bigamist rested on information derived from some lady who may very well have been as hardened a gossip as he was himself.[ ] his own attempt to bolster up the story by further evidence can hardly be reckoned conclusive. in any case the question of percy's morality is quite irrelevant. it is more to the purpose when father gerard quotes goodman as asserting that percy had been a frequent visitor to salisbury's house by night.[ ] "sir francis moore," he tells us, "... being the lord keeper egerton's favourite, and having some occasion of business with him at twelve of the clock at night, and going then homeward from york house to the middle temple at two, several times he met mr. percy, coming out of that great statesman's house, and wondered what his business should be there."[ ] there are many ways in which the conclusion that percy went to tell tales may be avoided. in the days of james i., the streets of london were inconceivably dark to the man who at the present day is accustomed to gas and electricity. not even lanterns were permanently hung out for many a year to come. except when the moon was shining, the only light was a lantern carried in the hand, and by the light of either it would be easy to mistake the features of any one coming out from a door way. yet even if moore's evidence be accepted, the inference that percy betrayed the plot to salisbury is not by any means a necessary one. percy may, as the edinburgh reviewer suggests, have been employed by northumberland. nor does father gerard recognise that it was clearly percy's business to place his connection with the court as much in evidence as possible. the more it was known that he was trusted by northumberland, and even by salisbury, the less people were likely to ask awkward questions as to his reasons for taking a house at westminster. in a royalist gentleman arriving from the continent to take part in an insurrection against the protector, went straight to cromwell's court in order to disarm suspicion. why may not percy have acted in a similar way in ? all that we know of percy's character militates against the supposition that he was a man to play the dastardly part of an informer. other pieces of evidence against percy may be dismissed with equal assurance. we are told, for instance,[ ] that salisbury found a difficulty in tracing percy's movements before the day on which parliament was to have been blown up; whereas, ten days before, the same percy had received a pass issued by the commissioners of the north, as posting to court for the king's especial service. the order, however, is signed, not by the commissioners of the north as a body, but by two of their number, and was dated at seaton delaval in northumberland.[ ] as percy's business is known to have been the bringing up the earl of northumberland's rents, and he might have pleaded that it was his duty to be in his place as gentleman pensioner at the meeting of parliament, two gentlemen living within hail of alnwick were likely enough to stretch a point in favour of the servant of the great earl. in any case it was most unlikely that they should have thought it necessary to acquaint the secretary of state with the terms in which a posting order had been couched. the supposition that salisbury sent secret orders to the sheriff of worcestershire not to take percy alive is sufficiently disposed of, as the edinburgh reviewer has remarked, by sheriff walsh's own letter, and by the extreme improbability that if salisbury had known percy to have been a government spy he would have calculated on his being such a lunatic as to join the other conspirators in their flight, apparently for the mere pleasure of getting himself shot.[ ] it may be added that it is hard to imagine how salisbury could know beforehand in what county the rebels would be taken, and consequently to what sheriff he should address his compromising communication. as to the suggestion that there was something hidden behind the failure of the king's messenger to reach the sheriff with orders to avoid killing the chief conspirators, on the ground that 'the distance to be covered was about miles, and there were three days to do it in, for not till november were the fugitives surrounded,' it may fairly be answered, in the first place, that the whereabouts of the conspirators was not known at westminster till the proclamation for their arrest was issued on the th, and in the second place, that as the sheriff was constantly on the move in pursuit, it must have been hard to catch him in the time which sufficed to send a message to a fixed point at westminster.[ ] it is needless to argue that catesby was not the informer. the evidence is of the slightest, depending on the alleged statement by a servant,[ ] long ago dead when it was committed to paper, and even father gerard appears hardly to believe that the charge is tenable. there remains the case of tresham. since the publication of jardine's work tresham has been fixed on as the author or contriver of the letter to monteagle which, according to the constant assertion of the government, gave the first intimation of the existence of the plot, and this view of the case was taken by many contemporaries. tresham was the last of three wealthy men--the others being digby and rokewood--who were admitted to the plot because their money could be utilised in the preparations for a rising. he was a cousin of catesby and the two winters, and had taken part in the negotiations with spain before the death of elizabeth. during the weeks immediately preceding november there had been much searching of heart amongst the plotters as to the destruction in which catholic peers would be involved, and it is probable that hints were given to some of them that it would be well to be absent from parliament on the morning fixed for the explosion. amongst the peers connected with one or other of the plotters was lord monteagle, who had married tresham's sister. that tresham should have desired to warn his brother-in-law was the most likely thing in the world. we know that he was in london on october or , because thomas winter received _l._ from him on one of those days at his chambers in clerkenwell.[ ] it was in the evening of the th that monteagle arrived at his house at hoxton though he had not been there for more than twelve months. as he was sitting down to supper one of his footmen brought him a letter. monteagle on receiving it, took the extraordinary course of handing it to one of his gentlemen named ward, and bade him read it aloud. the letter was anonymous, and ran as follows:-- "my lord, out of the love i bear to some of your friends, i have a care of your preservation. therefore i would advise you, as you tender your life, to devise some excuse to shift of your attendance at this parliament; for god and man hath concurred to punish the wickedness of this time. and think not slightly of this advertisement but retire yourself into your country, where you may expect the event in safety, for though there be no appearance of any stir, yet i say they shall receive a terrible blow this parliament, and yet they shall not see who hurts them. this counsel is not to be contemned, because it may do you good, and can do you no harm, for the danger is past as soon as you have burnt this letter; and i hope god will give you the grace to make good use of it, to whose holy protection i commend you." monteagle took the letter to salisbury, and if the protestations of the government are to be trusted, this was the first that salisbury or any one of his fellow councillors heard of the conspiracy. father gerard follows jardine and others in thinking this to be improbable if not incredible. it may at least be freely granted that it is hardly probable that monteagle had not heard of the plot before. as jardine puts it forcibly:-- "the circumstance of lord monteagle's unexpected visit to his house at hoxton, without any other assignable reason, on the evening in question, looks like the arrangement of a convenient scene; and it is deserving of notice that the gentleman to whom his lordship gave the letter to read at his table was thomas ward, an intimate friend of several of the conspirators, and suspected to have been an accomplice in the treason. the open reading of such a letter before his household (which, unless it be supposed to be part of a counterplot, seems a very unnatural and imprudent course for lord monteagle to adopt) might be intended to secure evidence that the letter was the first intimation he had of the matter, and would have the effect of giving notice to ward that the plot was discovered, in order that he might communicate the fact to the conspirators. in truth he did so on the very next morning; and if they had then taken the alarm, and instantly fled to flanders (as it is natural to suppose they would have done) every part of tresham's object would have been attained. this scheme was frustrated by the unexpected and extraordinary infatuation of the conspirators themselves, who, notwithstanding their knowledge of the letter, disbelieved the discovery of the plot from the absence of any search at the cellar, and, omitting to avail themselves of the means afforded for their flight, still lingered in london."[ ] it is unnecessary to add any word to this, so far as it affects the complicity of tresham with monteagle. i submit, however, that the stronger is the evidence that the letter was prearranged with monteagle the more hopeless is the reasoning of those who, like father gerard, hold that it was prearranged with salisbury. salisbury's object, according to father gerard's hypothesis, was to gain credit by springing upon the king and the world a partly or totally imaginary plot. if he was to do this, he must have some evidence to bring which would convince the world that the affair was not a mere imposture; and yet it is to be imagined that he contrives a scheme which threatens to leave him in possession of an obscure letter, and the knowledge that every one of the plotters was safely beyond the sea. as a plan concocted by monteagle and tresham to stop the plot, and at the same time secure the escape of their guilty friends, the little comedy at hoxton was admirably concocted. from the point of view of the government its advantages are not obvious. add to this that all salisbury's alleged previous knowledge did not enable him to discover that a mine had been dug till fawkes told him as late as november , and that the government for two or three days after fawkes was taken were in the dark as to the whereabouts of the conspirators, and we find every reason to believe that the statement of the government, that they only learnt the plot through the monteagle letter, was absolutely true. that the government dealt tenderly with tresham in not sending him to the tower till the th, and allowing him the consolation of his wife's nursing when he fell ill, is only what was to have been expected if they had learnt from monteagle the source of his information, whilst they surely would have kept his wife from all access to him if he had had reason to complain to her that he had been arrested in spite of his services to the government. after his death, which took place in the tower, there was no further consideration of him, and, on december , the council ordered that his head should be cut off and preserved till further directions, but his body buried in the tower.[ ] it is unnecessary to go deeply into the question of the discrepancy between the different accounts given by the government of the manner in which the monteagle letter was expounded. the probable truth is that salisbury himself interpreted it correctly, and that his fellow-councillors came to the same conclusion as himself. it was, however, a matter of etiquette to hold that the king was as sharp-witted as elizabeth had been beautiful till the day of her death, and as the solution of the riddle was not difficult, some councillor--perhaps salisbury himself--may very well have suggested that the paper should be submitted to his majesty. when he had guessed it, it would be also a matter of etiquette to believe that by the direct inspiration of god his majesty had solved a problem which no other mortal could penetrate. we are an incredulous race nowadays, and we no more believe in the divine inspiration of james i. than in the loveliness of elizabeth at the age of seventy; and we even find it difficult to understand father gerard's seriousness over the strain which the poor councillors had to put upon themselves in fitting the facts to the courtly theory. nor is there any reason to be surprised at the postponement by the government of all action to the night of november . it gave them a better chance of coming upon the conspirators preparing for the action, and if their knowledge was, as i hold it was, confined to the monteagle letter, they may well have thought it better not to frighten them into flight by making premature inquiries. no doubt there was a danger of gunpowder exploding and blowing up not only the empty house of lords, but a good many innocent people as well; but there had been no explosion yet, and the powder was in the custody of men whose interest it was that there should be no explosion before the th. after all, neither the king nor salisbury, nor indeed any of the other councillors, lived near enough to be hurt by any accident that might occur. smith's wildly improbable view that the shock might have 'levelled and destroyed all london and westminster like an earthquake,'[ ] can hardly be taken seriously. we now come to the alleged discrepancies between various accounts of fawkes's seizure. father gerard compares three documents--(_a_) what he terms 'the account furnished by salisbury for the information of the king of france, november , ,' (_b_) the letter sent on november to edmondes and other ambassadors,[ ] and (_c_) the king's book. on the first, i would remark that there is no evidence, i may add, no probability, that, as it stands, it was ever despatched to france at all. it is a draft written on the th, which was gradually moulded into the form in which it was, as we happen to know, despatched on the th to edmondes and cornwallis. if the despatches received by parry had been preserved, i do not doubt but that we should find that he also received it in the same shape as the other ambassadors. having premised this remark as a caution against examining the document too narrowly, we may admit that the three statements differ about the date at which the monteagle letter was received--(_a_) says it was some four or five days before the parliament; (_b_) that it was eight days; (_c_) that it was ten days. the third and latest statement is accurate; but the mistakes of the others are of no importance, except to show that the draft was carelessly drawn up, probably by munck, salisbury's secretary, in whose handwriting it is; and that the mistake was corrected with an approach to accuracy three days later, and made quite right further on. with respect to the more important point raised by father gerard that--while (_a_) does not mention suffolk's search in the afternoon, (_b_) does not mention the presence of fawkes at the time of the afternoon visit--it is quite true that the hurried draft does not mention suffolk's visit; but it is not true that it in any way denies the fact that such a visit had taken place. father gerard abbreviates the story of (_a_) as follows:-- "it was accordingly determined, the night before, 'to make search about that place, and to appoint a watch in the old palace to observe what persons might resort thereunto.' "sir t. knyvet, being appointed to the charge thereof, _going by chance, about midnight, into the vault, by another door,[ ] found fawkes within_. thereupon he caused some few faggots to be removed, and so discovered some of the barrels, '_merely, as it were, by god's direction, having no other cause but a general jealousy_.'"[ ] the italics are father gerard's own, and i think we are fairly entitled to complain, so far as the first phrase thus distinguished is concerned, because being printed in this manner it looks like a quotation, though as a matter of fact is not so. this departure from established usage is the more unfortunate, as the one important word--'chance'--upon which father gerard's argument depends, is a misprint or a miswriting for the word 'change,' which is to be seen clearly written in the ms. the whole passage as it there stands runs as follows:-- "this advertisement being made known to his majesty and the lords, their lordships found not good, coming as it did in that fashion, to give much credit to it, or to make any apprehension of it by public show, nor yet so to contemn it as to do nothing at all in it, but found convenient the night before under a pretext that some of his majesty's wardrobe stuff was stolen and embezzled to make search about that place, and to appoint a watch in the old palace to observe what persons might resort thereabouts, and appointed the charge thereof to sir thomas knyvet, who about midnight going by change into the vault by another door, found the fellow, as is said before,[ ] whereupon suspicion being increased, he caused some few faggots to be removed, and so discovered some of the barrels of powder, merely, as it were, by god's direction, having no other cause but a general jealousy."[ ] if the word 'chance' had been found in the real letter, it could hardly be interpreted otherwise than to imply a negative of the earlier visit said to have been followed by a resolve on the king's part to search farther. as the word stands, it may be accepted as evidence that an earlier visit had taken place. how could knyvet go 'by change' into the vault by another door, unless he or someone else had gone in earlier by some other approach? it is, however, the positive evidence which may be adduced from this letter, which is most valuable. the letter is, as i said, a mere hurried draft, in all probability never sent to anyone. it is moreover quite inartistic in its harking back to the story of the arrest after giving fuller details. surely such a letter is better calculated to reveal the truth than one subsequently drawn up upon fuller consideration. what is it then, that stares us in the face, if we accept this as a genuine result of the first impression made upon the writer--whether he were munck or salisbury himself? what else than that the government had no other knowledge of the plot than that derived from the monteagle letter, and that not only because the writer says that the discovery of the powder was 'merely as it were, by god's direction, having no other cause but a general jealousy,' but because the whole letter, and still more the amplified version which quickly followed, is redolent with uncertainty. given that suffolk's mission in the afternoon was what it was represented to be, it becomes quite intelligible why the writer of the draft should be inclined to leave it unnoticed. it was an investigation made by men who were afraid of being blown up, but almost as much afraid of being made fools of by searching for gunpowder which had no existence, upon the authority of a letter notoriously ambiguous. "and so," wrote salisbury, in the letter despatched to the ambassadors on the th,[ ] "on monday in the afternoon, accordingly the lord chamberlain, whose office is to see all places of assembly put in readiness when the king's person shall come, took his coach privately, and after he had seen all other places in the parliament house, he took a slight occasion to peruse that vault, where, finding only piles of billets and faggots heaped up, which were things very ordinarily placed in that room, his lordship fell inquiring only who ought[ ] the same wood, observing the proportion to be somewhat more than the housekeepers were likely to lay in for their own use; and answer being made before the lord monteagle, who was there present with the lord chamberlain, that the wood belonged to mr. percy, his lordship straightway conceived some suspicion in regard of his person; and the lord monteagle also took notice that there was great profession between percy and him, from which some inference might be made that it was a warning from a friend, my lord chamberlain resolved absolutely to proceed in a search, though no other materials were visible, and being returned to court about five o'clock took me up with him to the king and told him that, although he was hard of belief that any such thing was thought of, yet in such a case as this whatsoever was not done to put all out of doubt, was as good as nothing, whereupon it was resolved by his majesty that this matter should be so carried as no man should be scandalised by it, nor any alarm taken for any such purpose." even if it be credible that salisbury had invented all this, it is incredible that if he alone had been the depository of the secret, he should not have done something to put other officials on the right track, or have put into the foreground his own clear-sightedness in the matter. the last question necessary to deal with relates to the unimportant point where fawkes was when he was arrested. "to say nothing," writes father gerard, "of the curious discrepancies as to the date of the warning, it is clearly impossible to determine the locality of guy's arrest. the account officially published in the 'king's book,' says that this took place in the street. the letter to the ambassadors assigns it to the cellar and afterwards to the street; that to parry to the cellar only. fawkes himself, in his confession of november , says that he was apprehended neither in the street nor in the cellar, but in his own room in the adjoining house. chamberlain writes to carleton, november , that it was in the cellar. howes, in his continuation of stowes' _annals_, describes two arrests of fawkes, one in the street, the other in his own chamber. this point, though seemingly somewhat trivial, has been invested with much importance. according to a time-honoured story, the baffled desperado roundly declared that had he been within reach of the powder when his captors appeared, he would have applied a match and involved them in his own destruction."[ ] this passage deserves to be studied, if only as a good example of the way in which historical investigation ought not to be conducted, that is to say, by reading into the evidence what, according to preconception of the inquirer, he thinks ought to be there, but is not there at all. in plain language, the words 'cellar' and 'street' are not mentioned in any one of the documents cited by father gerard. there is no doubt a discrepancy, but it is not one between these two localities. the statements quoted by father gerard in favour of a capture in the 'cellar' merely say that it was effected 'in the place.' the letter of the th says 'in the place itself,'[ ] and this is copied from the draft of the th. chamberlain says[ ] that fawkes was 'taken making his trains at midnight,' but does not say where. is it necessary to interpret this as meaning the 'cellar'? there was, as we know, a door out of the 'cellar' into the passage, and probably a door opposite into percy's house. if fawkes were arrested in this passage as he was coming out of the cellar and going into the house, or even if he had come out of the passage into the head of the court, he might very well be said to have been arrested 'in the place itself,' in contradistinction to a place a few streets off. the only real difficulty is how to reconcile this account of the arrest, with fawkes's own statement on his first examination on november , when he said:-- "that he meant to have fired the same by a match, and saith that he had touchwood and a match also, about eight or nine inches long, about him, and when they came to apprehend him he threw the touchwood and match out of the window in his chamber near the parliament house towards the waterside." fawkes, indeed, was not truthful in his early examinations, but he had no inducement to invent this story, and it may be noted that whenever the accounts which have reached us go into details invariably they speak of two separate actions connected with the arrest. the draft to parry, indeed, only speaks of the first apprehension, but the draft of the narrative which finally appeared in the king's book[ ] says that knyvet 'finding the same party with whom the lord chamberlain before and the lord monteagle had spoken newly, come out of the vault, made stay of him.' then knyvet goes into the vault and discovers the powder. "whereupon the caitiff being surely seized, made no difficulty to confess, &c."[ ] the letter to the ambassadors[ ] tells the same story. knyvet going into the vault 'found that fellow johnson newly come out of the vault, and without asking any more questions stayed him.' then after the search 'he perceived the barrels and so bound the caitiff fast.' the king's book itself separates at least the 'apprehending' from the searching. "but before his entry into the house finding thomas percy's alleged man standing without the doors,[ ] his clothes and boots on at so dead a time of the night, he resolved to apprehend him, as he did, and thereafter went forward to the searching of the house ... and thereafter, searching the fellow whom he had taken, found three matches, and all other instruments fit for blowing up the powder ready upon him." all these are cast more or less in the same mould. on the other hand, a story, in all probability emanating from knyvet, which howes interpolated in a narrative based on the official account, gives a possibility of reconciling the usual account of the arrest with the one told by fawkes. after telling, after the fashion of the king's book, of fawkes' apprehension and knyvet's search, he bursts on a sudden into a narrative of which no official document gives the slightest hint:-- "and upon the hearing of some noise sir t. knyvet required master edmond doubleday, esq.[ ] to go up into the chamber to understand the cause thereof, the which he did, and had there some speech of fawkes, being therewithal very desirous to search and see what books or instruments fawkes had about him; but fawkes being wondrous unwilling to be searched, very violently griped m[aster] doubleday by his fingers of the left hand, through pain thereof ma[ster] doubleday offered to draw his dagger to have stabbed fawkes, but suddenly better bethought himself and did not; yet in that heat he struck up the traitor's heels and therewithal fell upon him and searched him, and in his pocket found his garters, wherewith m[aster] doubleday and others that assisted they bound him. there was also found in his pocket a piece of touchwood, and a tinder box to light the touchwood and a watch which percy and fawkes had bought the day before, to try conclusions for the long or short burning of the touchwood, which he had prepared to give fire to the train of powder." surely this life-like presentation of the scene comes from no other than doubleday himself, as he is the hero of the little scene. knyvet plainly had not bound fawkes when he 'stayed' or 'apprehended' him. he must have given him in charge of some of his men, who for greater safety's sake took him out of the passage or the court--whichever it was--into his own chamber within the house. then a noise is heard, and knyvet, having not yet concluded the examination, sends doubleday to find out what is happening, with the result we have seen. when knyvet arrives on the scene, he has fawkes more securely bound than with a pair of garters. the only discrepancy remaining is between fawkes's statement that he threw touchwood and match out of window, and doubleday's that the touchwood at least was found in his pocket. perhaps doubleday meant only that the touchwood thrown out came from fawkes's pocket. perhaps there is some other explanation. after all, this is too trivial a matter to trouble ourselves about. wearisome as these details are, they at least bring once more into relief the hesitancy which characterises every action of the government till the powder is actually discovered. though fawkes has been seen by suffolk in the afternoon, no preparations are made for his arrest. knyvet does not even bring cord with him to tie the wrists of a possible conspirator, and when doubleday at last proceeds to bind him, he has to rely upon the garters found in his pocket. it is but one out of many indications which point to the conclusion that the members of the government had nothing to guide their steps but an uncertain light in which they put little confidence. taken together with the revelations of their ignorance as to the whereabouts of the plotters after fawkes's capture had been effected, it almost irresistibly proves that they had no better information to rest on than the obscure communication which had been handed to monteagle at hoxton. as i have said before, the truth of the ordinary account of the plot would not be in the slightest degree affected if salisbury had known of it six weeks or six months earlier. i feel certain, however, that he had no such previous knowledge, because, if he had, he would have impressed on the action of his colleagues the greater energy which springs from certainty. it is strange, no doubt, that a government with so many spies and intelligencers afoot, should not have been aware of what was passing in the old palace of westminster. it was, however, not the first or the last time that governments, keeping a watchful eye on the ends of the earth, have been in complete ignorance of what was passing under their noses. chapter vi the government and the catholics having thus disposed of father gerard's assaults on the general truth of the accepted narrative of the plot, we can raise ourselves into a larger air, and trace the causes leading or driving the government into measures which persuaded such brave and constant natures to see an act of righteous vengeance in what has seemed to their own and subsequent ages, a deed of atrocious villainy. is it true, we may fairly ask, that these measures were such as no honourable man could in that age have adopted, and which it is therefore necessary to trace to the vilest of all origins--the desire of a half-successful statesman to root himself in place and power? it would, indeed, be difficult to deny that the feeling of advanced english protestants towards the papal church was one of doctrinal and moral estrangement. they held that the teaching of that church was false and even idolatrous, and they were quite ready to use the power of the state to extirpate a falsity so pernicious. on the other hand, the priests, jesuits, and others, who flocked to england with their lives in their hands, were filled with the joy of those whose work it is to disseminate eternal truths, and to rescue souls, lost in heresy, from spiritual destruction. the statesman, whether in his own person aggressively protestant or not, was forced to consider this antagonism from a different point of view. the outbreak against rome which had marked the sixteenth century had only partially a doctrinal significance. it meant also the desire of the laity to lower the authority of the clergy. before the reformation the clergy owed a great part of their power to the organisation which centred in rome, and the only way to weaken that organisation, was to strengthen the national organisation which centred in the crown. hence those notions of the divine right of kings and of _cujus regio ejus religio_, which, however theoretically indefensible, marked a stage of progress in the world's career. the question whether, in the days of elizabeth, england should accept the authority of the pope or the authority of the queen, was political as much as religious, and it is no wonder that roman catholics when they burnt protestants, they placed the religious aspect of the quarrel in the foreground; nor that protestants when they hanged and disembowelled roman catholics, placed the political aspect in the foreground. as a matter of fact, these were but two sides of the shield. protestants who returned to the papal church not merely signified the acceptance of certain doctrines which they had formerly renounced, but also accepted a different view of the relations between church and state, and denied the sufficiency of the national government to decide finally on all causes, ecclesiastical and civil, without appeal. if the religious teaching of the reformed church fell, a whole system of earthly government would fall with it. to the elizabethan statesman therefore the missionary priests who flocked over from the continent constituted the gravest danger for the state as well as for the church. he was not at the bottom of his heart a persecutor. neither elizabeth nor her chief advisers, though, even in the early part of the reign, inflicting sharp penalties for the denial of the royal supremacy, would willingly have put men to death because they held the doctrine of transubstantiation, or any other doctrine which had found favour with the council of trent; but after they could not forget that pius v. had excommunicated the queen, and had, as far as his words could reach, released her subjects from the bond of obedience. hence those excuses that, in enforcing the recusancy laws against the catholic laity, and, in putting catholic priests to death as traitors, elizabeth and her ministers were actuated by purely political motives. it was not exactly the whole truth, but there was a good deal more of truth in it than roman catholic writers are inclined to admit. it was in this school of statesmanship that sir robert cecil--as he was in elizabeth's reign--had been brought up, and it was hardly likely that he would be willing to act otherwise than his father had done. it was, indeed, hard to see how the quarrel was to be lifted out of the groove into which it had sunk. how could statesmen be assured that, if the priests and jesuits were allowed to extend their religious influence freely, the result would not be the destruction of the existing political system? that cecil would have solved the problem is in any case most unlikely. it was, perhaps, too difficult to be as yet solved by any one, and cecil was no man of genius to lead his age. yet there were two things which made for improvement. in the first place, the english government was immensely stronger at elizabeth's death than it had been at her accession, and those who sat at the helm could therefore regard, with some amount of equanimity, dangers that had appalled their predecessors forty-five years before. the other cause for hope lay in the accession of a new sovereign; james had never been the subject of papal excommunication as elizabeth had been, and was consequently not personally committed to extreme views. james's character and actions lend themselves so easily to the caricaturist, and so much that he did was the result either of egotistic vanity or of a culpable reluctance to take trouble, that it is difficult to give him credit for the good qualities that he really possessed. yet hazy as his opinions in many respects were, it is easy to trace through his whole career a tolerably consistent principle. he would have been pleased to put an end, not indeed to the religious dispute, but to the political antagonism between those who were divided in religion, and would gladly have laid aside the weapon of persecution for that of argument. the two chief actions of his reign in england were the attempt to secure religious peace for his own dominions by an understanding with the pope, and the attempt to secure a cessation of religious wars in europe by an understanding with the king of spain. in both cases is revealed a desire to obtain the co-operation of the leader of the party opposed to himself. of course it is possible, perhaps even right, to say that this line of action was hopeless from the beginning, as involving too sanguine an estimate of the conciliatory feelings of those for whose co-operation he was looking. all that we are here concerned with is to point out that james brought with him ideas on the subject of the relations between an english--and, for the matter of that, a scottish--king and the papacy, which were very different from those in which cecil had been trained. on the other hand, james's ideas, even when they had the element of greatness in them, never lifted him into greatness. he looked upon large principles in a small way, usually regarding them through the medium of his own interests. the doctrine that the national government ought to be supreme, took in his mind the shape of a belief that his personal government ought to be supreme. when in scotland he sought an understanding with the pope, his own succession to the english crown occupied the foreground, and the advantage of having the english catholics on his side made him eager to strike a bargain. on the other hand, he refused to strike that bargain unless his own independent position were fully recognised. when, in , he despatched edward drummond to italy, he instructed him to do everything in his power to procure the elevation of a scottish bishop of vaison to the cardinalate, in order that he might advocate his interests at rome. yet he refused to write directly to the pope himself, merely because he objected to address him as 'holy father.'[ ] it was hardly the precise objection that would have been taken by a man of greater practical ability. nor was it only on niceties of this sort that james's desire to come to some sort of understanding with the pope was likely to be wrecked. his correspondence with cecil during the last years of elizabeth, shows how little he had grasped the special difficulties of the situation, whilst on the other hand it throws light on the shades of difference between himself and his future minister. in a letter written to cecil in the spring of , james objects to the immediate conclusion of a peace with spain on three grounds, the last being that the 'jesuits, seminary priests, and that rabble, wherewith england is already too much infected, would then resort there in such swarms as the caterpillars or flies did in egypt, no man any more abhorring them, since the spanish practices was the greatest crime that ever they were attainted of, which now by this peace will utterly be forgotten.' "and now," he proceeds, "since i am upon this subject, let the proofs ye have had of my loving confidence in you plead for an excuse to my plainness, if i freely show you that i greatly wonder from whence it can proceed that not only so great a flock of jesuits and priests dare both resort and remain in england, but so proudly do use their functions through all the parts of england without any controlment or punishment these divers years past: it is true that for remedy thereof there is a proclamation lately set forth, but blame me not for longing to hear of the exemplary execution thereof, _ne sit lex mortua_. i know it may be justly thought that i have the like beam in my own eye, but alas, it is a far more barbarous and stiffnecked people that i rule over. st. george surely rides upon a towardly riding horse, where i am daily bursting in daunting a wild unruly colt, and i protest in god's presence the daily increase that i hear of popery in england, and the proud vauntery that the papists makes daily there of their power, their increase, and their combined faction, that none shall enter to be king there but by their permission; this their bragging, i say, is the cause that moves me, in the zeal of my religion, and in that natural love i owe to england, to break forth in this digression, and to forewarn you of these apparent evils." to this cecil replied as follows:-- "for the matter of priests, i will also clearly deliver your majesty my mind. i condemn their doctrine, i detest their conversation, and i foresee the peril which the exercise of their function may bring to this island, only i confess that i shrink to see them die by dozens, when (at the last gasp) they come so near loyalty, only because i remember that mine own voice, amongst others, to the law (for their death) in parliament, was led by no other principle than that they were absolute seducers of the people from temporal obedience, and consequent persuaders to rebellion, and which is more, because that law had a retrospective to all priests made twenty years before. but contrary-wise for that generation of vipers (the jesuits) who make no more ordinary merchandise of anything than of the blood and crowns of princes, i am so far from any compassion, as i rather look to receive commandment from you to abstain than prosecute." this plain language drove james to reconsider his position. "the fear," he replied, "i have to be mistaken by you in that part of my last letter wherein i discover the desire i have to see the last edict against jesuits and priests put in execution; the fear, i say, of your misconstruing my meaning hereon (as appears by your answer), enforceth me in the very throng of my greatest affairs to pen by post an answer and clear resolution of my intention. i did ever hate alike both extremities in any case, only allowing the midst for virtue, as by my book now lately published doth plainly appear. the like course do i hold in this particular. i will never allow in my conscience that the blood of any man shall be shed for diversity of opinions in religion, but i would be sorry that catholics should so multiply as they might be able to practise their old principles upon us. i will never agree that any should die for error in faith against the first table, but i think they should not be permitted to commit works of rebellion against the second table. i would be sorry by the sword to diminish their number, but i would also be loth that, by so great connivance and oversight given unto them, their numbers should so increase in that land as by continual multiplication they might at least become masters, having already such a settled monarchy amongst them, as their archpriest with his twelve apostles keeping their terms in london, and judging all questions as well civil as spiritual amongst all catholics. it is for preventing of their multiplying, and new set up empire, that i long to see the execution of the last edict against them, not that thereby i wish to have their heads divided from their bodies, but that i would be glad to have both their heads and bodies separated from this whole island and safely transported beyond seas, where they may freely glut themselves upon their imaginated gods. no! i am so far from any intention of persecution, as i protest to god i reverence their church as our mother church, although clogged with many infirmities and corruptions, besides that i did ever hold persecution as one of the infallible notes of a false church. i only wish that such order might be taken as the land might be purged of such great flocks of them that daily diverts the souls of many from the sincerity of the gospel, and withal, that some means might be found for debarring their entry again, at least in so great swarms. and as for the distinction of their ranks, i mean between the jesuits and the secular priests, although i deny not that the jesuits, like venomed wasps and firebrands of sedition, are far more intolerable than the other sort that seem to profess loyalty, yet is their so plausible profession the more to be distrusted that like married women or minors, whose vows are ever subject to the controlment of their husbands and tutors,[ ] their consciences must ever be commanded and overruled by their romish god as it pleases him to allow or revoke their conclusions."[ ] the agreement and disagreement between the two writers is easily traced in these words. both are averse to persecute for religion. both are afraid lest the extension of the firmly organised roman church should be dangerous to the state as well as to religion. on the other hand, whilst cecil is content to plod on in the old ways, james vaguely adumbrates some scheme by which the priests, being banished, might be kept from returning, and thus the chance of a dangerous growth of their religion being averted, it would be possible to protect the existing forms of government without having recourse to the old persecuting laws. we feel, in reading james's words, that we are reading the phrases of a pedant who has not imagination enough to see how his scheme would work out in real life; but at all events we have before us, as we so often have in james's writings, a glimpse of new possibilities, and a desire to escape from old entanglements. with such ideas floating in his mind, and with a strong desire to gain the support of the english catholics to his succession, james may easily have given assurances to thomas percy of an intention to extend toleration to the english catholics, which may have overrun his own somewhat fluid intentions, and may very well have been interpreted as meaning more than his words literally meant. james's engagement to percy's master, northumberland, was certainly not devoid of ambiguity. "as for the catholics," he wrote, "i will neither persecute any that will be quiet and give but an outward obedience to the law, neither will i spare to advance any of them that will by good service worthily deserve it."[ ] when james reached england in he seemed inclined to carry out his intentions. he is reported, at least, to have told cecil in june that the fines were not to be levied, adding that he did not wish to make merchandise of consciences, nor to set a price on faith. yet, in spite of this, the meshes of the administrative system closed him in, and the fines continued to be collected.[ ] the result was the conspiracy of copley and others, including watson, a secular priest. this foolish plot was, however, betrayed to the government by some of the roman catholic clergy, who were wise enough to see that any violence attempted against james would only serve to aggravate their lot. the discovery that there were those amongst the priests who were ready to oppose disloyalty quickened james to carry out his earlier intention. on june he informed rosny, the french ambassador, of his intention to remit the recusancy fines, and, after some hesitation, he resolved to put his engagement in execution. on july , , he allowed a deputation from the leading catholics to be heard by the privy council in his own presence, and assured them that as long as they remained loyal subjects their fines would be remitted. if they would obey the law--in other words, if they would soil their consciences by attending church--the highest offices in the state should be open to them.[ ] the assurance thus given was at once carried out as far as possible. the _l._ fines ceased, and the greater part of the two-thirds of the rents of convicted recusants were no longer required. if some of the latter were still paid, it is probable that this was only done in cases in which the rents had been granted to lessees on a fixed payment to the crown by contracts which could not be broken. obviously there were two ways in which attempts might be made to obviate danger from catholic disloyalty. individual catholics might be won over to confidence in the government by the redress of personal grievances, or the pope, as the head of the catholic organisation, might be induced to prohibit conspiracies as likely to injure rather than to advance the cause which he had at heart. it is unnecessary to say that the latter was a more delicate operation than the former. an opening, indeed, had been already given. when james refused to sign a letter to pope clement viii., on the ground that he could not address him as 'holy father,'[ ] his secretary, elphinstone, surreptitiously procured his signature, and sent it off without his knowledge.[ ] clement, therefore, was under the impression that he had received a genuine overture from james, and replied by a complimentary letter, which he intrusted to sir james lindsay, a scottish catholic then in rome. in lindsay reached scotland, and delivered his letter. as he was to return to rome, james instructed him to ask clement to excuse him for not writing in reply, and for being unable to accept some proposal contained in the pope's letters, the reasons in both cases having been verbally communicated to lindsay. finally, lindsay was to assure clement that james was resolved to observe two obligations inviolably. in the first place he would openly and without hypocrisy declare his opinion, especially in such matters as bore upon religion and conscience. in the second place, that his opinion might not be too obstinate where reason declared against it, he would, laying aside all prejudice, admit whatever could be clearly proved by the laws and reason.[ ] it is no wonder that james had rejected the pope's proposal, as clement had not only offered to oppose all james's competitors for the english succession, but had declared his readiness to send him money on condition that he would give up his eldest son to be educated as clement might direct.[ ] that such a proposal should have been made ought to have warned james that it was hopeless to attempt to come to an understanding with the pope on terms satisfactory to a protestant government. for a time no more was heard of the matter. lindsay was taken ill, and was unable to start before james was firmly placed on the english throne. the announcement to the lay catholics that their fines would be remitted had been preluded by invitations to james to come to terms with the authorities of the papal church. del bufalo, bishop of camerino, the nuncio at paris, despatched a certain degl' effetti to england in rosny's train, to feel the way, and the nuncio at brussels sent over his secretary, sandrino, to inquire, though apparently without the sanction of the pope himself, whether james would be willing to receive a '_legate_,'[ ] which may probably be interpreted merely as a negotiator, not as a 'legate' in the full sense of the term. on july / , del bufalo, writing to cardinal aldobrandino, reports that the strongest argument used by james against toleration for the catholics was, that if they were allowed to live in catholic fashion they must obey the pope, and consequently disobey the king; whilst those who were favourable to toleration were of opinion that this argument would be deprived of strength if james could be assured that the pope might remove this impediment by commanding catholics under the highest possible penalty, to make oath of fidelity and obedience to his majesty. when this reached rome the following note was written on it in the pope's hand:-- "it is rather heresy which leads to disobedience. the catholic religion teaches obedience to princes, and defends them. as to reaching the king's ears, we shall be glad to do so, and we wish him to know with what longing for the safety[ ] and quiet of himself and his kingdom we have proceeded and are proceeding. it is our conscientious desire so to proceed as we have written to one king and the other."[ ] as the letter referred to must have been the one in which clement asked to have the education of prince henry, this note does not sound very promising. nor was james's language, on the other hand, such as would be counted satisfactory at rome. after his return from england rosny informed del bufalo that james had assured him that he would not persecute the catholics as long as they did not trouble the realm, and had praised the pope as a temporal sovereign, adding that if he could find a way of agreeing with him he would gladly adopt it, provided that he might remain at the head of his own church.[ ] a letter written on august / , by barneby, a priest recently liberated from prison, to del bufalo, throws further light on the situation. from this it appears that what the nuncio at brussels had proposed was not the sending of a fully authorised legate to england, but merely the appointment of someone who, being a layman, would, without offending james's susceptibility, be at hand to plead the cause of the catholics and to give account of anything relating to their interests. we are thus able to understand how it was that the nuncio had made the proposal without special orders from the pope. more germane to the present inquiry is the account given by barneby of james's own position:-- "for though," he writes, "it is certain that his majesty conscientiously follows a religion contrary to us, and will therefore, as he says, never suffer his subjects to exercise lawfully and freely any other religion than his own--and that, both on account of his civil position, as on account of certain reasons and considerations relating to his conscience--nevertheless he openly promises to persecute no one on the ground of religion. and this he has so far happily begun to carry out with great honour to himself, and with the greatest joy advantage and pleasure to ourselves, though some of our most truculent enemies revolt, desiring that nothing but fine and sword may be used against us. what will happen in the end i can hardly imagine before the meeting of parliament.[ ]" as far as it is possible to disengage james's real intentions from these words, it would seem that he had positively declared against liberty of worship, but that he would not levy the legal fines for not going to church on those who remained obedient subjects. did he mean to wink at the mass being said in the private houses of the recusants, or at the activity of the priests in making converts? these were the questions he would have to face before he was out of his difficulties. on the other side of the channel del bufalo was doing his best to convey assurances to james of the pope's desire to keep the english catholics in obedience. with this view he communicated with james's ambassador in paris, sir thomas parry, who on august , gave an account of the matter to cecil:-- "the pope's nuncio," he wrote, "sent me a message, the effect whereof was that he had received authority and a mandate from rome to call out of the king our master's dominions the factious and turbulent priests and jesuits, and that, at m. de rosny's[ ] passage into the realm, he had advertised them thereof by a gentleman of his train, and that he was desirous to continue that service to the king, and further to stop such as at rome shall move any suit with any such intent, and would advertise his majesty of it; that he had stayed two english monks in that city whose names he sent me in writing, who had procured heretofore faculty from thence to negotiate in england among the catholics for such bad purposes; that not long since a petition had been exhibited to the pope for assistance of the english catholics with money promising to effect great matters for advancement of the catholic cause upon receipt thereof; that his holiness had rejected the petition and sharply rebuked the movers; that he would no more allow those turbulent courses to trouble the politic governments of christian princes, but by charitable ways of conference and exhortation seek to reduce them to unity. lastly his request was to have this message related to the king, offering for the first trial of his sincere meaning that, if there remained any in his dominions, priest or jesuit, or other busy catholic, whom he had intelligence of for a practice in the state which could not be found out, upon advertisement of the names he would find means that by ecclesiastical censures they should be delivered unto his justice."[ ] the last words are somewhat vague, and as we have not the nuncio's own words, but merely parry's report of them, we cannot be absolutely certain what were the exact terms offered, or how far they went beyond the offers previously made by the nuncio at brussels.[ ] nor does a letter written by the nuncio to the king on sept. / , throw any light on the subject, as del bufalo confines himself to general expressions of the duty of catholics to obey the king.[ ] that the nuncio's proposals met with considerable resistance among james's councillors is not only probable in itself, but is shown by the length of time which intervened before an answer was despatched at the end of november or the beginning of december.[ ] the covered language with which cecil opened the despatch in which he forwarded to parry the letter giving the king's authorisation to the ambassador to treat with the nuncio, leaves no doubt as to his own feelings. "but now, sir," writes cecil, "i am to deliver you his majesty's pleasure concerning a matter of more importance, though for mine own part it is so tender as i could have wished i had little dealt in it; not that the king doth not most prudently manage it, as you see, but because envious men suspect verity itself." parry, cecil went on to say, was to offer to the nuncio a latin translation of the king's letter, and also to give him a copy of the instructions formerly given to sir james lindsay. the object of this was to prevent lindsay from going beyond them. cecil then proceeds to hint that lindsay, who was now at last about to start from italy, would not have been allowed to meddle further in the business but that it would disgrace him if he were deprived of the mission with which he had formerly been intrusted. the main negotiation, however, was to pass between parry and the nuncio, though only by means of a third person; and, as a matter of fact, lindsay did not start for many months to come. so far as concerns us, the king's letter accepts the pope's objections to the sending of a 'legatus,' as he would be unable to show him proper respect; and then proceeds to contrast the catholics who are animated by pure religious zeal with those who have revolutionary designs. with respect to both of these he professes his readiness to deal in such a way that neither the pope nor any right-minded or sane man shall be able to take objection. in an earlier part of the letter he had assumed that the pope was prepared actually to excommunicate those catholics who were of an unquiet and turbulent disposition. whether this were justified or not by the nuncio's words, it was an exceedingly large assumption that the pope would bind himself to excommunicate catholics practically at the bidding of a protestant king. on or about december / , , the king's letter was forwarded by the nuncio to rome.[ ] nor did james confine his assurances to mere words. a person who left england on january ,[ ] , assured the nuncio that peaceful catholics were living quietly, and that those who were devout were able 'to serve god according to their consciences without any danger.' he himself, he added, could bear witness to this, as, during the whole time he had been in london, he had heard mass daily in the house of one catholic or another.[ ] this idyllic state of things--from the roman catholic point of view--was soon to come to an end. clement viii. refused, at least for the present, either to send a representative to england or to promise to call off turbulent persons under pain of excommunication.[ ] possibly nothing else was to be expected, as the idea of turning the pope into a kind of spiritual policeman was not a happy one. still, it is easy to understand that james must have felt mortified at the pope's failure to respond to his overtures, and it is easy, also, to understand that cecil would take advantage of the king's irritation for furthering his own aims. nor were other influences wanting to move james in the same direction. sir anthony standen had lately returned from a mission to italy, and had brought with him certain relics as a present to the queen, who was a roman catholic, and had entered into communication with father persons. still more disquieting was it that a census of recusants showed that their numbers had very considerably increased since the king's accession. no doubt many of those who apparently figured as new converts were merely persons who had concealed their religion as long as it was unsafe to avow it, and who made open profession of it when no unpleasant consequences were to be expected; but there can also be little doubt that the number of genuine conversions had been very large. from the roman catholic point of view, this was a happy result of a purely religious nature. from the point of view of an elizabethan statesman, it constituted a grave political danger. it is unnecessary here to discuss the first principles of religious toleration. it is enough to say that no pope had reprimanded philip ii. for refusing to allow the spread of protestantism in his dominions, and that james's councillors, as well as james himself, might fairly come to the conclusion that if the roman catholics of england increased in future years as rapidly as they had increased in the first year of the reign, it would not be long before a pope would be found ready to launch against james the excommunication which had been launched against elizabeth, and that his throne would be shaken, together with that national independence which that throne implied. for the time james--pushed hard by his councillors,[ ] as he was--might fancy that he had found a compromise. there was to be no enforcement of the recusancy laws against the laity, but on february , , a proclamation was issued ordering the banishment of the priests[ ]. it was not a compromise likely to be of long endurance. for our purposes the most important of its results was that it produced the gunpowder plot. a few days after its issue that meeting of the five conspirators took place behind st. clement's, at which they received the sacrament in confirmation of their mutual promise of secrecy. all that has been said of the tyranny of the penal laws upon the laity, as affording a motive for the plot, is so much misplaced rhetoric. moreover, if we accept fawkes's evidence[ ] of the date at which he first heard of the plot as being about easter, , _i.e._ about april , the communication of the design to winter must have taken place towards the end of march, that is to say after the issue of the proclamation and before any other step had been taken to enforce the penal laws. consequently all arguments, attributing the invention of the plot to cecil for the sake of gaining greater influence with the king fall to the ground. he had just achieved a triumph of no common order, the prelude, as he must have been keen enough to discern, of greater triumphs to come. granted, for argument's sake, that cecil was capable of any wickedness--we at least require some motive for the crime which father gerard attributes to him by innuendo. as time went on, there was even less cause for the powerful minister to invent or to foster a false plot. it is unnecessary to tell again in detail the story which i have told elsewhere of the way in which james fell back upon the elizabethan position, and put in force once more the penal laws against the laity. on november , , he decided on requiring the _l._ fines from the thirteen wealthy recusants who were liable to pay them, and on february , [ ]--a few days after the plotters had got half through the wall of the house of lords--he announced his resolution that the penal laws should be put in execution. on may , , cecil, who in august, , had been made viscount cranborne, was raised to the earldom of salisbury. yet this is the politician who is supposed by father gerard to have been necessitated to keep himself in favour by the atrocious wickedness he is pleased to ascribe to him. in plain truth, salisbury did not need to gain favour and power. he had both already. a policy of intolerance is so opposed to the instincts of the present day, that it is worth while to hear a persecutor in his own defence. on march , , less than a month after the king's pronouncement, nicolo molin, the venetian ambassador, writes, that he had lately spoken to cranborne on the recent treatment of the catholics. "he replied that, through the too great clemency of the king, the priests had gone with great freedom through all the country, the city of london and the houses of many citizens, to say mass, which they had done with great scandal, and thereupon had arrived advices from rome that the pope had constituted a congregation of cardinals to treat of the affairs of this kingdom which gave occasion to many to believe that the king was about to grant liberty of conscience,[ ] and had caused a great stir amongst our bishops and other ministers, the pope having come to this resolution mainly through the offices of that light-headed man lindsay,[ ] and then his majesty, whose thoughts were far from it, resolved to use a rather unusual diligence to restrict a little the liberty of these priests of yours, as also to assure those of our religion that there was not the least thought of altering things in this direction. sir james lindsay, he said, had disgusted his majesty, and the pope would in the end discover that he was a lightheaded, unstable man. i understood, said i, that he had gone to rome with the king's permission. it is quite true, said he, and if your lordship wishes to understand the matter i will explain it. sir james lindsay, he continued, a year before the death of queen elizabeth asked leave to go to rome, and his request was easily granted. when he arrived there he got means, with the help of friends, to be introduced to the pope to whom, as is probable, he addressed many impertinencies, as he has done at the present time. in short, he was presented to the pope, and got from him a good sum of money, perhaps promising to do here what he will never do, and obtained an autograph letter from the pope to our king to the effect that he had understood from sir james lindsay his majesty's good disposition, if not to favour the catholic religion, at least not to persecute it, for which he felt himself to be under great obligations to him, and promised to assist him when queen elizabeth died, and to help him as far as possible to gain the succession to her realm as was just and reasonable, but that if his majesty would consent to have the prince, his son, educated in the catholic religion, he would bind himself to engage his state and life to assist him, and would do what he could[ ] that the christian princes should act in union with the same object.[ ] with this letter sir james arrived, two months before the queen's death, repeating to his majesty many things besides to the same effect. the king was willing enough to look at the letter, as coming from a prince, and filled with many affectionate and courteous expressions, but he never thought of answering it, though he was frequently solicited by sir james. the reason of this was that it would be necessary in writing to the pope to give him his titles of holiness and blessedness, to which, being held by us to be impertinent, after the teaching of our religion, his majesty could not be in any way persuaded, so that the affair remained asleep till the present time. then came the queen's death, on which sir james again urged the king to answer the letter, assuring him that he would promise himself much advantage from the pope's assistance if occasion served; but it pleased god to show such favour to the king that he met with no opposition, as every one knows. some months ago, however, it again occurred to sir james to think of going to rome; he asked licence from his majesty, and obtained it courteously enough. at his departure he said, 'i shall have occasion to see the pope, and am certain that he will ask me about that letter of his. what answer am i to make?' 'you are to say,' replied the king, 'that you gave me the letter, and that i am much obliged to him for the love and affection he has shown me, to which i shall always try to correspond effectually.' 'sire,' said sir james, 'the pope will not believe me. will your majesty find some means of assuring the pope of the truth of this?' on which his majesty took the pen and drew up a memoir with his own hand, telling sir james that if he had occasion to talk to the pope he should assure him of his desire to show, by acts, the good will of which he spoke, and the esteem he felt for him as a temporal prince. he then directed sir james to dwell on this as much as he could, and that as to religion[ ] he wished to preserve and maintain that in which he had been brought up, being assured that it was the best, but that, not having a sanguinary disposition, he had not persecuted the catholics in their property or their life, as long as they remained obedient subjects. as to instructing the prince, his son, in the catholic religion, he would never do it, because he believed it would bring down on him a heavy punishment from god, and the reproach of the world, if he were willing, whilst he himself professed a religion as the best, to promise that his son should be brought up in one full of corruptions and superstitions. cecil then recounted the substance of the memoir, which was sealed with the king's seal, in order that the pope and every one else might give credence to it on these points. now, sir james, to gain favour and get money, has transgressed these orders, as we understand that he has given occasion to the pope to appoint a congregation of cardinals on our affairs, and to us to have our eyes a little more open to the catholics, and especially to the priests. to this i replied that i did not think that his majesty should for this reason act against his constant professions not to wish to take any one's property or life, on account of religion. 'sir,' he replied, 'be content as to blood, so long as the catholics remain quiet and obedient. as to property, it is impossible to do less than observe[ ] the laws in this respect, but even in that we shall proceed dexterously and much more gently than in the times of the late queen, as the catholics who refuse to attend our churches, and who are rich, will not think it much to pay £ a month. those who are less rich and have not the means to pay as much, and from whom two thirds of their revenue is taken during their lifetime will now have this advantage by the king's clemency that whereas in the queen's time their property was granted to strangers who, to get as much as they could, did not hesitate to ruin their houses and possessions, it will now be granted to their own patrons, at the lowest rate, so that they will pay rather a quarter than two thirds of their estate. this arrangement has been come to in order not to afflict the catholics too much, and to prevent our own people from believing that we wish to give liberty to the catholic religion, as they undoubtedly will if the payments are absolutely abolished." after a further remonstrance from the ambassador, cranborne returned to the charge. "sir," he replied, "nothing else can be done. these are the laws, and they must be observed. their object is undoubtedly to extinguish the catholic religion in this kingdom, because we do not think it fit, in a well-governed monarchy, to increase the number of persons who profess to depend on the will of other princes as the catholics do, the priests not preaching anything more constantly than this, that the good catholic ought to be firmly resolved in himself to be ready to rise for the preservation of his religion even against the life and state of his natural prince.[ ] this is a very perilous doctrine, and we will certainly never admit it here, but will rather do our best to overthrow it, and we will punish most severely those who teach it and impress it on the minds of good subjects."[ ] it is unnecessary to pursue the conversation further, or even to discuss how far cranborne was serious when he expressed his intention of moderating the incidence of the laws which the government had resolved to carry out. it is certain that they were not so moderated, and that the enforcement of law rapidly degenerated into mere persecution. what is important for our purposes is that the language i have just quoted leads us to the bed-rock of the situation. between pope and king a question of sovereignty had arisen, a question which could not be neglected without detriment to the national independence till the pope either openly or tacitly abandoned his claim to excommunicate kings, and to release such subjects as looked up to him for guidance from the duty of obedience to their king. that the pope should openly abandon this claim was more than could be expected; but he had not excommunicated james as his predecessor had excommunicated elizabeth, and there was some reason to hope that he might allow the claim to be buried in oblivion. at all events, clement viii. had not only refused to excommunicate james, but had enjoined on the english catholics the duty of abstaining from any kind of resistance to him. james had, however, wished to go further. incapable--as most people in all ages are--of seeing the position with other eyes than his own, he wanted the pope actively to co-operate with him in securing the obedience of his subjects. he even asked him to excommunicate turbulent catholics, a thing to which it was impossible for the pope--who also looked on these matters from his own point of view--to consent. in the meanwhile it was becoming evident that the pope was not working for a protestant england under a protestant king, with a catholic minority accepting what crumbs of toleration that king might fling to them, and renouncing for ever the right to resist his laws however oppressive they might be; but rather for a catholic england under a catholic king. this appeared in clement's demand that prince henry should be educated in a religion which was not that of his father, and it appeared again in the reports of lindsay, which had caused such a commotion at whitehall. "his holiness," wrote lindsay, "hath commanded to continue to pray for your majesty, and he himself stays every night two large hours in prayer for your majesty, the queen, and your children, and for the conversion of your majesty and your dominions. this i may very well witness as one who was present."[ ] we should have thought the worse of the pope if he had done otherwise; but the news of it was hardly likely to be welcome to an english statesman. who was to guarantee that, if the priests were allowed full activity in england a roman catholic majority would not be secured--or, that when such a majority was secured, the suspended excommunication would not be launched, and a rebellion, such as that of the league in france, encouraged against an obstinately protestant sovereign. we may be of opinion that those statesmen who attempted to meet the danger with persecution were men of little faith, who might have trusted to the strength of their religious and political creed--the two could not in those days be separated from one another; but there can be no doubt that the danger was there. we may hold salisbury to have been but a commonplace man for meeting it as he did, but he had on his side nearly the whole of the official class which had stood by the throne of elizabeth, and which now stood by the throne of james. at all events, salisbury's doctrine that there was to be no personal understanding with the pope was the doctrine which prevailed then and in subsequent generations. james's attempt came to nothing through its insuperable difficulties, as well as through his own defects of character. a pleading, from a roman catholic point of view, in favour of such an understanding may be found in a letter written by sir everard digby to salisbury, which father gerard has shown to have been written, not in december, as mrs. everett green suggested, but between may and september, , and which i ascribe to may, or as soon after may as is possible. the letter, after a reference to a conversation recently held between digby himself and salisbury, proceeds as follows:-- "one part of your lordship's speech, as i remember, was that the king could not get so much from the pope (even then, when his majesty had done nothing against the catholics) as a promise that he would not excommunicate him, wherefore it gave occasion to suspect that, if catholics were suffered to increase, the pope might afterwards proceed to excommunication if the king would not change his religion.[ ] but to take away that doubt, i do assure myself that his holiness may be drawn to manifest so contrary a disposition of excommunicating the king, that he will proceed with the same course against all as shall go about to disturb the king's quiet and happy reign[ ]; and the willingness of catholics, especially of priests and jesuits, is such as i dare undertake to procure any priest in england (though it were the superior of the jesuits) to go himself to rome to negotiate this business, and that both he and all other religious men (till the pope's pleasure be known) shall take any spiritual course to stop the effect that may proceed from any discontented or despairing catholic. "and i doubt not but his return would bring both assurance that such course should not be taken with the king, and that it should be performed against any that should seek to disturb him for religion. if this were done, there could then be no cause to fear any catholic, and this may be done only with those proceedings (which, as i understood your lordship) should be used. if your lordship apprehend it to be worth the doing i shall be glad to be the instrument, for no hope to put off from myself any punishment, but only that i wish safety to the king and ease to the catholics. if your lordship and the state think it fit to deal severely with catholics within brief there will be massacres, rebellions and desperate attempts against the king and state. for it is a general received reason amongst catholics that there is not that expecting and suffering course now to be run that was in the queen's time, who was the last of her line, and the last in expectance to run violent courses against catholics; for then it was hoped that the king that now is would have been at least free from persecuting, as his promise was before his coming into this realm, and as divers his promises have been since his coming, saying that he would take no soul-money nor blood. also, as it appeared, was the whole body of the council's pleasure when they sent for divers of the better sort of catholics (as sir thomas tresham and others) and told them it was the king's pleasure to forgive the payment of catholics, so long as they should carry themselves dutifully and well. all these promises every man sees broken, and to thrust them further in despair, most catholics take note of a vehement book written by mr. attorney, whose drift (as i have heard) is to prove that only being a catholic is to be a traitor, whose book coming forth after the breach of so many promises, and before the ending of such a violent parliament, can work no less effect in men's minds than a belief that every catholic will be brought within that compass before the king and state have done with them. and i know, as the priest himself told me, that if he had not hindered, there had somewhat been attempted, before our offence,[ ] to give ease to catholics. but being so safely prevented, and so necessary to avoid, i doubt not but your lordship and the rest of the lords will think of a more mild and undoubted safe course, in which i will undertake the performance of what i have promised, and as much as can be expected; and when i have done i shall be as willing to die as i am ready to offer my service, and expect not nor desire favour for it, either before the doing it, nor in the doing it, nor after it is done, but refer myself to the resolved course for me."[ ] i have thought it well to set forth the pleadings on both sides, though it has led me somewhat out of my appointed track. though our sympathies are with the weaker and oppressed party, it cannot be said that digby's letter meets the whole case which salisbury had raised. whether that be so or not, it is enough, for our present purpose if we are able to discern that salisbury had a case, and was not merely manoeuvring for place or power. at all events, his opinion, whether it were bad or good, had, in the spring of , been accepted by james, and he was therefore in less need even than in the preceding year of producing an imaginary or half-imaginary plot to frighten to his side a king who had already come round to his ideas. chapter vii the government and the priests it was unavoidable that the persecution to which catholics were subjected should bear most hardly on the priests, who were held guilty of disseminating a disloyal religion. it is therefore no matter for surprise that we find, about april ,[ ] an informer, named henry wright, telling cecil that another informer named davies, was able to set, _i.e._ to give information of the localities of above threescore more priests, but that he had told him that twenty principal ones would be enough. davies, adds wright, will not discover the treason till he had a pardon for it himself, and on this father gerard remarks 'that the treason in question was none other than the gunpowder plot there can be no question; unless, indeed, we are to say that the authorities were engaged in fabricating a bogus conspiracy for which there was no foundation whatever in fact.' why this inference should be drawn i do not know. if davies was a renegade priest he would require a pardon, and in order to get it he may very well have told a story about a treason which the authorities, on further inquiry, thought it needless to investigate further. it is to no purpose that father gerard produces an application to james in which it is stated that wright had furnished information to popham and challoner who 'had a hand in the discovery of the practices of the jesuits in the powder plot, and did reveal the same from time to time to your majesty, for two years' space almost before the said treason burst forth.'[ ] that wright, being in want of money, made the most of his little services in spying upon jesuits is likely enough; but if he had come upon gunpowder plot two years before the monteagle letter, that is to say, in october, , some five months before it was in existence, except, perhaps, in catesby's brain, we may be certain that he would have been far more specific in making his claim. the same may be said of wright's letter to salisbury on march , , in which he pleads for assistance 'forasmuch as his majesty is already informed of me that in something i have been, and that hereafter i may be, a deserving man of his majesty and the state in discovering of villainous practices.' very gentle bleating indeed for a man who had found out the gunpowder plot, as i have just said, before it was in existence! nor is much more to be made of the remainder of father gerard's evidence on this head. the world being what it was, what else could be expected but that there should be talk amongst priests of possible risings--sir everard digby in his letter predicted as much--or even that some less wise of their number should discuss half formed plans, or that renegade priests should pick up their reckless words and report them to the government, probably with some additions of their own?[ ] when father gerard says that a vague statement by an informer, made as early as april , refers to the gunpowder plot, because coke said two years later that it did,[ ] he merely shows that he has little acquaintance with the peculiar intellect of that idol of the lawyers of the day. if father gerard had studied, as i have had occasion to do, coke's treatment of the case of the earl and countess of somerset, he would, i fancy, have come to the conclusion that whenever coke smelt a mystery, there was a strong probability that it either never existed at all, or, at all events, was something very different from what coke imagined it to be. that the government believed, with or without foundation, that there were plots abroad, and that priests had their full share in them, may be accepted as highly probable. it must, however, be remembered that in salisbury's eyes merely to be a priest was _ipso facto_ to be engaged in a huge conspiracy, because to convert an englishman to the roman catholic faith, or to confirm him in it, was to pervert him from his due allegiance to the crown. regarded from this point of view, the words addressed by salisbury to edmondes on october , , 'more than a week,' as father gerard says, 'before the first hint of danger is said to have been breathed,'[ ] are seen to be perfectly in character, without imagining that the writer had any special information on the gunpowder plot, or any intention of making use of it to pave the way for more persecuting legislation than already existed. "i have received" writes salisbury, "a letter of yours ... to which there needeth no great answer for the present ... because i have imparted to you some part of my conceit concerning the insolencies of the priests and jesuits, whose mouths we cannot stop better than by contemning their vain and malicious discourses, only the evil which biteth is the poisoned bait, wherewith every youth is taken that cometh among them, which liberty (as i wrote before) must for one cause or other be retrenched."[ ] this language appears to father gerard to be ominous of further persecution. to me it appears to be merely ominous of an intention to refuse passports to young men of uncertain religion wishing to travel on the continent. we can now understand why it was that salisbury and the government in general were so anxious to bring home the plot, after its discovery, to some, at least, of the priests, and more especially to the jesuits. three of these, garnet, greenway and gerard, were in england while the plot was being devised, and were charged with complicity in it. of the three, garnet, the provincial of england, was tried and executed; the other two escaped to the continent. my own opinion is that gerard was innocent of any knowledge of the plot,[ ] and, as far as i am concerned, it is only the conduct of garnet and greenway that is under discussion. that they both had detailed knowledge of the plot is beyond doubt, as it stands on garnet's own admission that he had been informed of it by greenway, and that greenway had heard it in confession from catesby.[ ] a great deal of ink has been spilled on the question whether garnet ought to have revealed matters involving destruction of life which had come to his knowledge in confession; but on this i do not propose to touch. it is enough here to say that the law of england takes no note of the excuse of confession, and that no blame would have been due on this score either to the government which ordered garnet's prosecution, or to the judges and the jury by whom he was condemned, even if there had not been evidence of his knowledge when no question of confession was involved. in considering garnet's case the first point to be discussed is, whether the government tampered with the evidence against the priests, either by omitting that which made in favour of the prisoner, or by forging evidence which made against him. an instance of omission is found in the mark 'hucusque' made by coke in the margin of fawkes's examination of november , implying the rejection of his statement that, though he had received the communion at gerard's hands as a confirmation of his oath, gerard had not known anything of the object which had led him to communicate.[ ] the practice of omitting inconvenient evidence was unfortunately common enough in those days, and all that can be said for coke on this particular occasion is, that the examination contained many obvious falsehoods, and coke may have thought that he was keeping back only one falsehood more. coke, however, at garnet's trial did not content himself with omitting the important passage, but added the statement that 'gerard the jesuit, being well acquainted with all designs and purposes, did give them the oath of secrecy and a mass, and they received the sacrament together at his hands.'[ ] clearly, therefore, coke is convicted, not merely of concealing evidence making in the favour of an accused, though absent, person, but of substituting for it his own conviction without producing evidence to support it. all that can be said is, in the first place, that gerard was not on trial, and could not therefore be affected by anything that coke might say; and that, in the second place, even if coke's words were--as they doubtless were--accepted by the jury, the position of the prisoners actually at the bar would be neither better nor worse. much more serious is father gerard's argument that the confession of bates, catesby's servant, to the effect that he had not only informed greenway of the plot, but that greenway had expressed approval of it, was either not genuine, or, at least, had been tampered with by the government. as father gerard again italicises,[ ] not a passage from the examination itself, but his own abstract of the passage, it is better to give in full so much of the assailed examination as bears upon the matter:-- "examination of thomas bate,[ ] servant to robert catesby, the th of december, , before the lords commissioners. "he confesseth that about this time twelvemonth his master asked this said examinant whether he could procure him a lodging near the parliament house. whereupon he went to seek some such lodging and dealt with a baker that had a room joining to the parliament house, but the baker answered that he could not spare it. "after that some fortnight or thereabouts (as he thinketh) his master imagining, as it seemed, that this examinant suspected somewhat of that which the said catesby went about, called him to him at puddle wharf in the house of one powell (where catesby had taken a lodging) and in the presence of thomas winter, asked him what he thought what business they were about, and this examinant answered that he thought they went about some dangerous business, whereupon they asked him again what he thought the business might be, and he answered that he thought they intended some dangerous matter about the parliament house, because he had been sent to get a lodging near that house. "thereupon they made this examinant take an oath to be secret in the business, which being taken by him, they told him that it was true that they meant to do somewhat about the parliament house, namely, to lay powder under it to blow it up. "then they told him that he was to receive the sacrament for the more assurance, and he thereupon went to confession to a priest named greenway, and in his confession told greenway that he was to conceal a very dangerous piece of work that his master catesby and thomas winter had imparted unto him, and that he being fearful of it, asked the counsel of greenway, telling the said greenway (which he was not desirous to hear) their particular intent and purpose of blowing up the parliament house, and greenway the priest thereto said that he would take no notice thereof, but that he, the said examinant, should be secret in that which his master had imparted unto him, because that was for a good cause, and that he willed this examinant to tell no other priest of it; saying moreover that it was not dangerous unto him nor any offence to conceal it, and thereupon the said priest greenway gave this examinant absolution, and he received the sacrament in the company of his master robert catesby and mr. thomas winter. * * * * * "thomas bate, nottingham, suffolk, e. worcester, h. northampton, salisbury, mar, dunbar." indorsed:--"_the exam._ of tho. bate dec. . _greenway_, §."[ ] out of this document arise two questions which ought to be kept carefully distinct:-- . did the government invent or falsify the document here partially printed? . did bates, on the hypothesis that the document is genuine, tell the truth about greenway? . in the first place, father gerard calls our attention to the fact that the document has only reached us in a copy. it is quite true; though, on the other hand, i must reiterate the argument, which i have already used in a similar case,[ ] that a copy in which the names of the commissioners appear, even though not under their own hands, falls not far short of an original. if this copy, being a forgery, were read in court, as father gerard says it was,[ ] some of the commissioners would have felt aggrieved at their names being misused, unless, indeed, the whole seven concurred in authorising the forgery, which is so extravagant a supposition that we are bound to look narrowly into any evidence brought forward to support it. father gerard's main argument in favour of the conclusion at which he leads up to--one can hardly say he arrives at this or any other clearly announced conviction--is put in the following words:-- "if, however, this version were not genuine, but prepared for a purpose, it is clear that it could not have been produced while bates was alive to contradict it, and there appears to be no doubt that it was not heard of till after his death." the meaning of this is, that the government did not dare to produce the confession till after bates's death, lest he should contradict it. if this were true it would no doubt furnish a strong argument against the genuineness of the confession, though not a conclusive one, because at the trial of that batch of the prisoners among whom bates stood, the government may have wished to reserve the evidence to be used against greenway, whom it chiefly concerned, if they still hoped to catch him. i do not, however, wish to insist on this suggestion, as i hope to be able to show that the evidence was produced at bates's trial, when he had the opportunity, if he pleased, of replying to it. father gerard's first argument is, that in a certain 'manuscript account of the plot,[ ] written between the trial of the conspirators and that of garnet, that is, within two months of the former,' the author, though he argues that the priests must have been cognizant of the design, says nothing of the case of bates's evidence against greenway, 'but asserts him to have been guilty only because his majesty's proclamation so speaks it.'[ ] to this it may be answered that, in the first place, the manuscript does not profess to be a history of the plot. it contains the story of the arrest of garnet and other persons, and is followed by the story of the taking of robert winter and stephen littleton. in the second place, there is strong reason to suppose, not only from the subjects chosen by the writer, but also from his mode of treating them, that he was not only a staffordshire man, or an inhabitant of some county near wolverhampton, but that his narrative was drawn up at no great distance from wolverhampton. it does not follow that because his majesty's proclamation had been heard of in wolverhampton, a piece of evidence produced in court at westminster would have reached so far. another argument used by father gerard in his own favour, appears to me to tell against him. in a copy of a minute of salisbury's to a certain favat, who had been employed by the king to write to him, we find the following statement, which undoubtedly refers to bates's confession, it being written on december , the day on which it was taken:-- "you may tell his majesty that if he please to read privately what this day we have drawn from a voluntary and penitent examination, the point i am persuaded (but i am no undertaker) shall be so well cleared, if he forebear to speak much of this but ten days, as he shall see all fall out to that end whereat his majesty shooteth."[ ] father gerard's comment on this, that the confession of bates, here referred to, 'cannot be that afterwards given to the world; for it is spoken of as affording promise, but not yet satisfactory in its performance.'[ ] yes; but promise of what? the king, it may be presumed, had asked not merely to know what greenway had done, but to know what had been the conduct of all the priests who had confessed the plotters. the early part of the minute is clear upon that. salisbury writes that the king wanted 'to learn the names of those priests which have been confessors and ministers of the sacrament to those conspirators, because it followeth indeed in consequence that they could not be ignorant of their purposes, seeing all men that doubt resort to them for satisfaction, and all men use confession to obtain absolution.' bearing this in mind, and also that salisbury goes on to say that 'most of the conspirators have carefully forsworn that the priests knew anything particular, and obstinately refused to be accusers of them, yea what torture soever they be put to,' i cannot see that anything short of the statement about greenway ascribed to bates would justify salisbury's satisfaction with what he had learnt, though he qualifies his pleasure with the thought that there is much more still to be learnt about greenway himself, as well as about other priests. an autograph postscript to a letter written to edmondes on march , , shows salisbury in exactly the spirit which i have here ascribed to him:-- "you may now confidently affirm that whalley[ ] is guilty _ex ore proprio_. this day confessed of the gunpowder treason, but he saith he devised it not, only he concealed it when father greenway _alias_ tesmond did impart to him all particulars, and catesby only the general. thus do you see that greenway is now by the superintendent as guilty as we have accused him. he confesseth also that greenway told him that father owen was privy to all. more will now come after this."[ ] the tone of the letter to favat is more subdued than this, as befitted writing that was to come under the king's eye; but the meaning is identical:--"i have got much, but i hope for more." we now come to father gerard's argument that the charge against greenway of approving the plot was not produced even at garnet's trial on march , , bates having been tried on january , and being executed on the th:-- "still more explicit is the evidence furnished by another ms. containing a report of father garnet's trial. in this the confession of bates is cited, but precisely the significant passage of which we have spoken, as follows: 'catesby afterwards discovered the project unto him; shortly after which discovery, bates went to mass to tesimond [greenway] and there was confessed and had absolution.' "here, again, it is impossible to suppose that the all-important point was the one omitted. it is clear, however, that the mention of a confession made to greenway would _primâ facie_ afford a presumption that this particular matter had been confessed, thus furnishing a foundation whereon to build; and knowing, as we do, how evidence was manipulated, it is quite conceivable that the copy now extant incorporates the improved version thus suggested." father gerard has quoted the sentence about bates and greenway correctly,[ ] but he has not observed that coke, in his opening speech, is stated on the same authority to have expressed himself as follows:-- "in november following comes bates to greenway the jesuit, and tells him all his master's purpose; he hears his confession, absolves him, and encourageth him to go on, saying it is for the good of the catholic cause, and therefore warrantable."[ ] i acknowledge that coke's unsupported assertion is worth very little; but i submit that so practised an advocate would hardly have produced a confession which, if it contained no more than father gerard supposes, would have directly refuted his own statement. father gerard, i fancy, fails to take into account the difficulties of note-takers in days prior to the invention of shorthand. the report-taker had followed the early part of bates's examination fairly well. then come the words quoted by father gerard at the very bottom of the page. may not the desire to get all that he had to say into that page have been too strong for the reporter, especially as, after what coke had said earlier in the day, the statement that bates 'confessed' might reasonably be supposed to cover the subject of confession? 'catesby ... discovered the project unto him, shortly after which discovery' he confessed. what can he be supposed to have confessed except the project discovered? and, if so, greenway's absolution implies approval. father gerard, moreover, though he quotes from another manuscript garnet's objection that 'bates was a dead man,' thereby meaning that bates's testimony was now worthless, entirely omits to notice that the preceding paragraph is destructive of his contention. a question had arisen as to whether greenway had shown contrition. "nay," replied mr. attorney, "i am sure that he had not, for to bates he approved the fact, and said he had no obligation to reveal it to any other ghostly father, to which effect bates his confession was produced, which verified as much as mr. attorney said, and then mr. attorney added that he had heard by men more learned than he, that if for defect of contrition it was not a sacrament, then it might lawfully be revealed. "mr. garnet rejoined that bates was a dead man, and therefore although he would not discredit him, yet he was bound to keep that secret which was spoken in confession as well as greenway."[ ] having thus shown that father gerard's argument, that the statement about greenway was not produced at garnet's trial, cannot be maintained; that his argument drawn from the account of the arrest of garnet and others is irrelevant, and that salisbury's letter to favat, so far from contradicting the received story, goes a long way to confirm it, i proceed to ask why we are not to accept the report of _a true and perfect relation_, where coke is represented as giving the substance of the confession of bates, beginning with catesby's revelation of the plot to him, followed by his full confession to greenway and greenway's answer, somewhat amplified indeed, as coke's manner was, but obviously founded on bates's confession of december , . "then they," _i.e._ catesby and winter, "told him that he was to receive the sacrament for the more assurance, and thereupon he went to confession to the said tesmond the jesuit, and in his confession told him that he was to conceal a very dangerous piece of work, that his master catesby and thomas winter had imparted unto him, and said he much feared the matter to be utterly unlawful, and therefore thereon desired the counsel of the jesuit, and revealed unto him the whole intent and purpose of blowing up the parliament house upon the first day of the assembly, at what time the king, the queen, the prince, the lords spiritual and temporal, the judges, knights, citizens, burgesses should all have been there convented and met together. but the jesuit being a confederate therein before, resolved and encouraged him in the action, and said that he should be secret in that which his master had imparted unto him, for that it was for a good cause, adding, moreover, that it was not dangerous unto him nor any offence to conceal it; and thereupon the jesuit gave him absolution, and bates received the sacrament of him, in the company of his master, robert catesby, and thomas winter."[ ] we have not, indeed, the evidence set forth, but we have a distinct intimation that amongst the confessions read was one from which 'it appeared that bates was resolved from what he understood concerning the powder treason, and being therein warranted by the jesuits.'[ ] . being now able to assume that the confession ascribed to bates was genuine, the further question arises whether bates told the truth or not. we have, in the first place, greenway's strong protestation that he had not heard of the plot from bates. in the second place, father gerard adduces a retractation by bates of a statement that he thought greenway 'knew of the business.' now, whatever inference we choose to draw, it is a curious fact that this has nothing to do with bates's confession of december --the letter of bates printed in the narrative of the gerard who lived in the seventeenth century running as follows:-- "at my last being before them i told them i thought greenway knew of this business, but i did not charge the others with it, but that i saw them all together with my master at my lord vaux's, and that after i saw mr. whalley," _i.e._ garnet, "and mr. greenway at coughton, and it is true. for i was sent thither with a letter, and mr. greenway rode with me to mr. winter's to my master, and from thence he rode to mr. abington's. this i told them, and no more. for which i am heartily sorry for, and i trust god will forgive me, for i did it not out of malice but in hope to gain my life by it, which i think now did me no good."[ ] this clearly refers not to the confession of december , but to that of january ,[ ] in which these matters were spoken of, and it is to be noted that bates does not acknowledge having spoken falsely, but of having told inconvenient truths. bates's entire silence in this letter as to the confession of december may receive one of two interpretations. either greenway was not mentioned in that confession at all--a solution which in the face of salisbury's letter to favat seems to be an impossible one--or else bates knew that he had at that time made disclosures to which he did not wish to refer. it is, perhaps, not so very unlikely that he compounded for what would in any case be regarded as a great fault by disclosing a smaller one. are we, then, shut up to the conclusion that father greenway sheltered himself by telling a deliberate lie? i do not see that it is absolutely necessary; though i suppose, under correction, that he might feel himself bound to aver that he had never heard what he had only heard in confession. is it not, however, possible that bates in confessing to greenway did not go into the details of the plot, but merely spoke of some design against the government with which his master had entrusted him, and that greenway told him that it was his master's secret, and he might be content to think that it was in a good cause?[ ] as time went on bates would easily read his own knowledge of the plot into the words he had used in confession, or may even have deliberately expanded his statement to please the examiners. life was dear, and he may have hoped to gain pardon if he could throw the blame on a jesuit. besides, greenway, as he probably knew, had not been arrested, and no harm would come if he painted him blacker than he was. this is but a conjecture, but if it is anywhere near the mark, it is easy to understand why bates should not have been eager to call attention to the confession of december , when he wrote the letter which has been already quoted.[ ] on the other hand catesby seems to have had no doubt of greenway's adherence, as is shown by his exclaiming on the priest's arrival at coughton, that 'here, at least, was a gentleman that would live and die with them.' in any case, the general attitude of the priests is not difficult to imagine. not even their warmest advocates can suppose that they received the news of a plot to blow up james i. and his parliament with quite as much abhorrence as they would have manifested if they had heard of a plot to blow up the pope and the college of cardinals. they were men who had suffered much and were exposed at any moment to suffer more. they held that james had broken his promise without excuse. but they had their instructions from rome to discountenance all disturbances; and we may do them the justice to add that both garnet and greenway were shocked when they were informed of the atrocious character of the plot itself; but, at all events, sir everard digby was able to write from prison to his wife:-- "before that i knew anything of the plot, i did ask mr. farmer," _i.e._ garnet, "what the meaning of the pope's brief was; he told me that they were not (meaning priests) to undertake or procure stirs; but yet they would not hinder any, neither was it the pope's mind they should, that should be undertaken for the catholic good. i did never utter thus much, nor would not but to you; and this answer with mr. catesby's proceedings with him and me give me absolute belief that the matter in general was approved, though every particular was not known."[ ] whatever may be thought of the value of this statement garnet's attitude towards the plot was, on his own showing, hardly one of unqualified abhorrence. assuming that all that greenway had informed him of on one particular occasion, when the whole design was poured into his ears, was told under the sanction of the confessional, and that not only the rule of his church, but other more worldly considerations, prohibited the disclosure of anything so heard, there was all the more reason why he should take any opportunity that occurred to learn the secret out of confession, and so to do his utmost to prevent the atrocious design from being carried into execution. let us see whether he did so or not, on his own showing. on june or , ,[ ] catesby asked garnet the question whether it was lawful to kill innocent persons, together with nocents, on the pretence that his inquiry related to the siege of a town in war. at first garnet treated the question as of no other import. "i ... thought it at the first but as it were an idle question, till i saw him, when we had done, make solemn protestation that he would never be known to have asked me any such question so long as he lived." on this garnet began to muse within himself as to catesby's meaning. "and," he continues, "fearing lest he should intend the death of some great persons, and by seeking to draw them together enwrap not only innocents but friends and necessary persons for the commonwealth, i thought i would take fit occasion to admonish him that upon my speech he should not run headlong to so great a mischief." garnet accordingly talked to him when he met him next, towards the end of june, telling him that he wished him 'to look what he did if he intended anything, that he must not have so little regard of innocents that he spare not friends and necessary persons to a commonwealth, and told him what charge we had of all quietness, and to procure the like of others.' it was certainly rather mild condemnation of a design which, as garnet understood, would involve considerable loss of life. soon afterwards garnet received a letter from the general of the society, directing him, in the pope's name, to hinder all conspiracies, and this letter he showed to catesby when next he saw him:-- "i showed him my letter from rome," wrote garnet afterwards, "and admonished him of the pope's pleasure. i doubted he had some device in his head, whatsoever it was, being against the pope's will, it could not prosper. he said that what he meant to do, if the pope knew, he would not hinder, for the general good of the country. but i being earnest with him, and inculcating the pope's prohibition did add this _quia expresse hoc papa non vult et prohibet_, he told me he was not bound to take knowledge by me of the pope's will. i said indeed my own credit was but little, but our general, whose letter i had read to him, was a man everywhere respected for his wisdom and virtue, so i desired him that before he attempted anything he would acquaint the pope. he said he would not for all the world make his particular project known to him, for fear of discovery. i wished him at the last in general to inform him how things stood here by some lay gentleman." this suggestion took shape in the mission of sir edmund baynham. we are only concerned here with garnet's expostulations, and again it must be said that they appear to have been singularly mild, considering all that catesby had admitted. a few days later garnet learnt the whole truth from greenway, in a way which is said to have been tantamount to confession. admitting once more that he may have been bound to keep silence to others on these details, he could not keep silence to himself. there are no partitions in the brain to divide what one wishes to know from what one wishes not to know, and if garnet thoroughly abhorred the plot, he was surely bound to take up catesby's earlier self-revelations, and to strive to the uttermost to probe the matter to the bottom, in all legitimate ways. no doubt he had moments in which his conscience was sorely troubled, but they were followed by no decisive action, and it is useless to say that he expected to meet catesby at 'all-hallowtide.' with all the jesuit machinery under his hands, he could surely have found catesby out between july and november, and this omission is perhaps the most fatal condemnation of garnet's course. if he had for many months known enough otherwise than in confession to enable him to remonstrate with catesby in november, why could he not have remonstrated four months before with much more hope of success? still more serious is garnet's own account of his feelings when greenway imparted the story to him, saying that he thought the plot unlawful, and 'a most horrible thing.' he charged greenway 'to hinder it if he could, for he knew well enough what strict prohibition we had had.' greenway replied 'that in truth he had disclaimed it, and protested that he did not approve it, and that he would do what lay in him to dissuade it.' yet up to the discovery of the plot, garnet, though he met greenway at least once, took no means of inquiring how greenway had fared in his enterprise. "how he performed it after," he explained, "i have not heard but by the report of bates's confession."[ ] on july , garnet writes a letter to the general of his society, in which, as we are told, nothing learnt only in confession ought to have been introduced. accordingly, either in this or a later letter,[ ] he merely speaks in general terms of the danger of any private treason or violence against the king, and asks for the orders of his holiness as to what is to be done in the case, and a formal prohibition of the use of armed force. surely some stronger language would be expected here. it is true that, according to his own account, garnet remained 'in great perplexity,' and prayed that god 'would dispose of all for the best, and find the best means which were pleasing to him to prevent so great a mischief.' he tells us, indeed, that he wrote constantly to rome 'to get a prohibition under censures of all attempts,' but as the answer he got was that the pope was of the opinion that 'his general prohibition would serve,' it does not seem likely that garnet enlarged on the real danger more than he had done in the letter referred to above. he expected, he says, some further action; 'and that hope and mr. catesby's promise of doing nothing until sir edmund had been with the pope made me think that either nothing would be done or not before the end of the parliament; before what time we should surely hear, as undoubtedly we should if baynham had gone to rome as soon as i imagined.'[ ] in a further declaration, garnet disclosed that there was more in his conduct than misplaced hopefulness. speaking of catesby's first consultation with himself, he adds:-- "neither ever did i enter further with him then, as i wrote, but rather cut off all occasions (after i knew his project) of any discoursing with him of it, thereby to save myself harmless both with the state here, and with my superiors at rome, to whom i knew this thing would be infinitely displeasing, insomuch as at my second conference with mr. greenwell," _i.e._ greenway, "i said 'good lord, if this matter go forward, the pope will send me to the galleys, for he will assuredly think i was privy to it.'"[ ] to say that garnet had two consciences, an official and a personal one, would doubtless err by giving too brutally clear-cut a definition of the mysterious workings of the mind. yet we shall probably be right in thinking not only that, as a catholic, a priest, and a jesuit, he was bound to carry out the directions conveyed to him from the pope, but that those directions commended themselves to his own mind whenever he set himself seriously to consider the matter. it was but human weakness[ ] to be so shocked by the persecution going on around him as to regard with some complacency the horrors which sought to put a stop to it, or at least to find excuses for omitting to inquire, where inquiry must necessarily lead to active resistance. the government theory that garnet and the other jesuits had originated the plot was undoubtedly false, but, as far as we are able to judge, they did not look upon it with extraordinary horror, neither did they take such means as were lawful and possible to avert the disaster. to sum up the conclusions to which i have been led. there may be difference of opinion as to my suggested explanations of some details in the 'traditional' story; but as a whole it stands untouched by father gerard's criticisms. what is more, no explanation has been offered by any one which will fit in with the evidence which i have adduced in its favour. as for the plot itself, it was the work of men indignant at the banishment of the priests after the promises made by james in scotland. the worse persecution which followed no doubt sharpened their indignation and led to the lukewarmness with which garnet opposed it; but it had nothing to do with the inception of the plot. as to the action of the government, it was in the main straightforward. it had to disguise its knowledge that james did not discover the plot by divine inspiration, and having firmly persuaded itself that the jesuits had been at the bottom of the whole affair, it suppressed at least one statement to the contrary, which it may very well have believed to be untrue, whilst the attorney general--not a man easily restrained--put forward his own impression as positive truth, though he had no evidence behind it. on the other hand, james, having before him in writing garnet's account of the information gained from greenway in confession, refused to allow it to be used against the prisoner. the attempt to make salisbury the originator of the plot for his own purposes breaks down entirely, if only because, at the time when the plot was started, he had already pushed james to take the first step in the direction in which he wished him to go, and that every succeeding step carried him further in the same direction. it is also highly probable that he had no information about it till the monteagle letter was placed in his hands. that there was a plot at all is undoubtedly owing to james's conduct in receding from his promises. yet, even his fault in this respect raises more difficult questions than roman catholic writers are inclined to admit. the question of toleration was a new one, and james may be credited with a sincere desire to avoid persecution for religion. he was, however, confronted by the question of allegiance. if the roman catholics increased in numbers, so far as to become a power in the land, would they or the pope tolerate a 'heretic' king? this was the real crux of the situation. in the nineteenth century it is not felt, and we can regard it lightly. in the beginning of the seventeenth century men could remember how henry iv. had been driven to submit to the papal church on pain of exclusion from the throne. was there ever to be a possibility of the like happening to james? there can be no doubt that he believed in the doctrines of his own church as firmly as any jesuit believed in those which it was his duty to maintain. but, though this question of doctrine must not be left out of sight, it must by no means be forced into undue prominence. it was the question of allegiance that was at stake. james tried hard to avoid it, and it must be acknowledged that his efforts were, to some extent, reciprocated from the other side,[ ] but the gulf could not be bridged over. in the end the antagonism took its fiercest shape in the disputation on the new oath of allegiance enjoined on all recusants in . the respective claims of pope and king to divine right were then brought sharply into collision. now that we are removed by nearly three centuries from the combatants, we may look somewhat beyond the contentions of the disputants. behind the arguments of the royalist, we may discern the claim of a nation for supreme control over its own legislation and government. behind the arguments of the papalist, we may discern an anxiety to forbid any chance occupant of a throne, or any chance parliamentary majority, from dictating to the consciences of those who in all temporal matters are ready to yield obedience to existing authority. footnotes: [ ] london: osgood, mcilvaine & co., . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _ib._ p. , note . [ ] _goodman_, i. . [ ] _gerard_, pp. , . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] i imagine that the notes in roman type proceed from wood's correspondent, and that fulman's marginal questions are omitted; but father gerard is not clear on this. [ ] _i.e._, the second earl. [ ] ? this. [ ] _athenæ_, iii. . [ ] _edin. review_, january , p. . [ ] this is a mistake. the fine of , _l._ was imposed for his part in the essex rebellion. (see _jardine_, p. .) [ ] off and on, a fortnight at the end of january and beginning of february, and then again probably for a very short time in march. [ ] fawkes was absent part of the time. [ ] mrs. everett green in her 'calendar of domestic state papers,' adds a sixth (_gunpowder plot book_, no. ); but this is manifestly the deposition of november . it must be remembered that, when she produced this volume, mrs. everett green was quite new to the work. she was deceived by an indorsement in the handwriting of the eighteenth century, assigning the document to the th. [ ] the words between brackets are inserted in another hand. [ ] it was not actually hired till about lady day, . [ ] inserted in the same hand as that in which the words about the cellar were written. it will be observed that the insertion cannot serve any one's purpose. [ ] gracechurch street. [ ] a mistake for monday if midnight is to be reckoned with the day preceding it. [ ] the remainder of the draft is occupied with the discovery of the plot. [ ] _proclamation book, r.o._, p. . [ ] bancroft to salisbury, nov. . popham to salisbury, nov. --_g. p. b._ nos. , . [ ] points and names of persons.--_s. p. dom._ xvi. , . [ ] popham to salisbury, november . (_g. p. b._ no. .) the p.s. only is of the th. [ ] narrative, _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] in a letter of advice sent to the nuncio at paris, on sept. / , he is distinctly spoken of as a catholic, as well as worcester.--_roman transcripts, r.o._ [ ] on july / , , father creswell writes to paul v. that nottingham showed him every civility 'that could be expected from one who does not profess our holy religion.' [ ] the 'cellar' was not really hired till a little before easter, march . [ ] second examination of fawkes, november .--_g. p. b._ no. a. [ ] examination of gibbons, november .--_s. p. dom._ xvi. . [ ] "mrs. whynniard, however, tells us," writes father gerard (p. ), "that the cellar was not to let, and that bright had not the disposal of the lease, but one skinner." what mrs. whynniard said was that the vault was 'let to mr. skinner of king street; but that she and her husband were ready to consent if mrs. skinner's good will could be had.' 'mr.' in the first writing of the name is evidently a slip of the clerk's, as mrs. whynniard goes on to speak of 'mrs. skinner then, and now the wife of andrew bright.'--_g. p. b._ no. . [ ] probably 'hippesley.' [ ] father gerard, (p. , note ) accepts goodman's assertion that it was said that whynniard 'as soon as ever he heard of the news what percy intended, he instantly fell into a fright and died: so that it could not be certainly known who procured him the house, or by whose means.' that whynniard was alive on the th is proved by the fact that susan whynniard is styled his wife and not his widow at the head of this examination. as he was himself not questioned it may be inferred that he was seriously ill at the time. that his illness was caused by fright is probably pure gossip. mrs. bright, when examined (_g. p. b._ no. ) speaks of mrs. whynniard as agreeing to change the tenancy of the cellar, which looks as if the husband had been ill and inaccessible at least six months before his death. [ ] properly 'john.' [ ] _s. p. dom._ xvi. . [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . witnessed by northampton and popham only. [ ] the letter to cornwallis, printed in winwood's _memorials_, ii. , is dated nov. , as it is in cott. mss. vesp. cix. fol. , from which it is printed. that volume, however, is merely a letter book. the letter to edmondes, on the other hand, in the stowe mss. , fol. , is the original, with salisbury's autograph signature, and its date has clearly been altered from to . [ ] waad to salisbury, nov. .--hatfield mss. [ ] waad to salisbury, nov. .--_g. p. b._ no. b. [ ] in 'the king's book' it is stated that fawkes was shown the rack, but never racked. probably the torture used on the th was that of the manacles, or hanging up by the wrists or thumbs. [ ] the principal ones were either killed or taken at holbeche on that very day. [ ] thomas winter. [ ] catesby, percy, and john wright. [ ] _i.e._ catesby. in a copy forwarded to edmondes by salisbury (stowe mss. , fol. ) the copyist had originally written 'three or four more,' which is altered to 'three.' [ ] 'then,' omitted in the stowe copy. [ ] christopher wright. [ ] 'unto,' in the stowe copy. [ ] robert winter. the question whether keyes worked at this time will be discussed later on. [ ] 'any man,' in the stowe copy. [ ] 'others,' in the stowe copy. [ ] 'one' is inserted above the line. [ ] this is an obvious mistake, as the widow skinner was not at this time married to bright, but one just as likely to be made by fawkes himself as by his examiners. [ ] 'viewed it,' in the stowe copy. [ ] 'taken,' in stowe copy. [ ] 'thence,' in stowe copy. [ ] percy. [ ] the words in italics are marked by penstrokes across them for omission. [ ] 'with that practice, that,' in the stowe copy. [ ] 'then,' omitted in the stowe copy. [ ] 'but,' omitted in the stowe copy. [ ] 'whereof,' in the stowe copy. [ ] _g. p. b._, no. . in the stowe copy the names of the commissioners are omitted, and a list of fifteen plotters added. as the paper was inclosed in a letter to edmondes of the th, these might easily be added at any date preceding that. [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _stowe mss._, , fol. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _s. p. dom._ xii. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . coke's questions are in _s. p. dom._ xvi. . [ ] the handwriting is quite different. [ ] this declaration, therefore, was not, as mrs. everett green says, 'made to salisbury.' [ ] if anyone chooses to argue that this examination was drawn up regardless of its truth, and only signed by fawkes after torture had made him incapable of distinguishing truth from falsehood, he may be answered that, in that case, those who prepared it would never have added to the allegation that some of the conspirators had received the sacrament from gerard the jesuit to bind them to secrecy, the passage:--"but he saith that gerard was not acquainted with their purpose." this passage is marked for omission by coke, and it assuredly would not have been found in the document unless it had really proceeded from fawkes. [ ] about whom more hereafter. [ ] gerard afterwards denied that this was true, and the late father morris (_life of gerard_, p. ) argues, with a good deal of probability, that fawkes mistook another priest for gerard. for my purpose it is not a matter of any importance. [ ] this should be john. [ ] probably, as father gerard suggests, what would now be known as a coursing match. [ ] _proclamation book, r.o._ p. . [ ] a late postscript added to the letter to the ambassadors sent off on the th (_winwood_, ii. ) shows that before the end of the day salisbury had learnt even more of the details than were comprised in the sheriff's letter. [ ] nov. . [ ] nov. . [ ] nov. . [ ] nov. . [ ] the question whether winter or keyes was one of two workers will be subsequently discussed. [ ] mrs. everett green suggests nov. (_g. p. b._ no. ), but this is merely a deduction from her mistaken date of the examination of the th (see p. , note ). in fawkes's confession of the th keyes's christian name appears to have been subsequently added. [ ] extracts from the council registers, _add. mss._ , , fol. . the volume of the council book itself which recorded the transactions of these years has been lost. [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . there is a facsimile in _national mss._ part iv. no. . [ ] see pp. , . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] the erasure of winter's name, and the substitution of that of keyes, will be dealt with later. [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] father gerard appears to show his dislike of salisbury by denying him his title. [ ] all saints day. [ ] compare this with fawkes's declaration at his second examination (_g. p. b._ , a.) "being demanded when this good act had been done which must have brought this realm in peril to be subdued by some foreign prince, of what foreign prince he and his compliees could have wished to have been governed, one more than another, he doth protest upon his soul that neither he nor any other with whom he had conferred would have spared the last drop of their blood to have resisted any foreign prince whatsoever." are we seriously asked to believe that salisbury placed this crown of sturdy patriotism on the brows of those whom he wished to paint as the most atrocious villains? [ ] juan de velasco, duke of frias, constable of castile, arrived at brussels about the middle of january to conduct a negotiation for peace with england. there he remained, delegating his powers to others. this date of the constable's arrival is important, as showing that winter's conversation with catesby cannot have taken place earlier than the second half of january. [ ] hugh owen was, as father gerard says (p. , note ), 'a soldier and not a priest, though in the _calendar of state papers_ he is continually styled "father owen," or "owen the jesuit."' he is however mistaken in saying that mrs. everett green inserted the title without warrant in the original documents. a paper of intelligence received on april , , begins, "father owen, father baldwin and colonel jaques, three men that rule the archduke at their pleasure," &c. [ ] in easter term began on april , and ended may . [ ] this distinctly implies that percy did not know the secret before, and i therefore wish to retract my former argument--which is certainly not conclusive--in favour of an earlier knowledge by percy. _hist. of engl._ - , i. , note . [ ] "in his declaration, november th, however," writes father gerard (p. , note ), "he gives as a reason for going abroad, 'lest, being a dangerous man, he should be known and suspected.'" i see no discrepancy between the two statements. having been long abroad, fawkes's face would not be known to the ordinary londoner as that of a recusant, and he was therefore better qualified to act as a watchman than others who were so known. on the other hand, when there was no need for anybody to watch at all, somebody who had known him in flanders might notify the government of his appearance in england, and thereby raise suspicions against him. besides, there were other reasons for his going over which fawkes did not think fit to bring to the notice of the government. [ ] began october , ended november . [ ] marginal note: "this was about a month before michaelmas." [ ] the duke of york, afterwards charles i. [ ] some such words as 'we resolved' are probably omitted here. [ ] in ms. 'taken it before.' [ ] interlined in the king's hand 'which was about four thousand pounds.' [ ] altered in the king's hand to 'to the number of ten,' with a marginal note 'unclear phrase,' in the same hand. [ ] prince henry. [ ] perhaps the prince was with his mother at greenwich. [ ] oct. . [ ] oct. . [ ] nov. . [ ] nov. . [ ] nov. . [ ] nov. . [ ] a.m. on nov. . [ ] nov. . [ ] nov. . [ ] nov. . [ ] the attestation in brackets is in salisbury's hand. [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _i.e._, thomas winter. [ ] mrs. everett green's abstract of this, to the effect that fawkes said that the conspiracy 'was confined to five persons at first, then to two, and afterwards five more were added,' has no foundation in the document she had before her. [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] the name 'key' or 'keyes' occurs in both of them without his christian name. [ ] _proclamation book, r.o._ [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] 'the discourse of the powder treason,' published in bishop montague's _works of james i._, p. , only forms part of the original so-called 'king's book,' which was published anonymously in (_i.e._, before march , ) under the title of _his majesty's speech in this last session of parliament ... together with a discourse of the manner of the discovery of this late intended treason, joined with the examination of some of the prisoners_.--brit. mus., press mark e. , no. . in the preface directed by the printer to the reader, the printer states that he was about to commit the speech to the press when there came into his hands 'a discourse of this late intended most abominable treason,' which he has added. the king's speech was delivered on november , and, if it was to be published, it is not likely to have been long kept back. the discourse consists of four parts-- . an account of the discovery of the plot, and arrest of fawkes. . fawkes's declaration of the th. . winter's confession of the rd. . an account of the flight and capture of the conspirators. the whole composition shows signs of an early date. part knows nothing of any names except those of percy and johnson _alias_ fawkes, and was probably, therefore, drawn up before the confession of the th. at the end it slips off from a statement that fawkes, having been 'twice or thrice examined when the rack having been only offered and showed unto him, the mask of his roman fortitude did visibly begin to wear and slide off his face, and then did he begin to confess part of the truth,' into 'and thereafter to open up the whole matter as doth appear by his depositions immediately following.' then comes the declaration of november , with winter amongst the diggers and keyes amongst those afterwards made privy. between parts and we have the following statement: "and in regard that before this discovery could be ready to go to the press, thomas winter, being apprehended and brought to the tower, made a confession in substance agreeing with this former of fawkes's, only larger in some circumstances. i have thought good to insert the same likewise in this place, for the further clearing of the matter and greater benefit of the reader." may we not gather from this that the 'discourse' was finally made up for the press on or very soon after the rd? winter, it may be noted, does not mention the name either of his brother or of keyes. [ ] _gerard_, app. e., p. . [ ] this note is on too small a scale to be reproduced in the frontispiece. [ ] this name is given at a later time to the 'passage leading to the parliament stairs' of capon's plan, and i have, for convenience sake, referred to it throughout by that name. [ ] see p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _gerard_, pp. , . [ ] i suppose thomas barlow is meant. william barlow, who was bishop of lincoln in the reign of james i., did not write about the plot. [ ] speed's _history_, ed. , p. . [ ] march th, . [ ] copy of the agreement, _g. p. b._, no. . [ ] pat. eliz., part . [ ] _gerard_, p. , note . [ ] _smith's antiquities of westminster_, p. . the question of the number of doors in the cellar will be dealt with hereafter. [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] p. . [ ] pat. edw. _vi._, part . [ ] pat. edw. _vi._, part . [ ] pat. eliz., part . [ ] parliament place. [ ] assignment, july , eliz., _land revenue records office_, inrolments v. fol. . i have been unable to trac whynniard's tenure of the house i have assigned to him. it was within the old palace, and was probably the official residence of its keeper. whynniard was appointed keeper of the old palace in . pat. eliz., part . [ ] see plan at p. . was this the baker in whose house catesby tried in vain to secure a room?--'bates's confession, dec. , '; _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] whynniard was keeper of the wardrobe at hampton court, which would account for his servant being concerned in the queen's removal. [ ] otherwise parliament stairs. [ ] i suspect that this was what was afterwards known as cotton garden. i have been unable to trace the date at which it was conveyed to sir robert cotton. [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] see p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] this we know from capon's pencilled notes to the sketch in the frontispiece. [ ] the late chairman of the works department of the london county council; than whom no man is better qualified to speak on such matters. [ ] there are indeed old walls marked in capon's plan beneath the ground, but we do not know of what substance they were composed or how near the surface they came. [ ] speed, no doubt, rested this assertion on winter's evidence that 'we underpropped it, as we went, with wood.' (see p. .) [ ] _gerard_, pp. , . [ ] see the remarks of the edinburgh reviewer on the ease with which baron trenck executed a far harder piece of work without being discovered for a considerable time. [ ] used as such, father gerard notes, till the union with ireland in . [ ] this was true of the general line of the bank, but, as will be seen at pp. , , there was a kind of dock which brought the water within about thirty yards of the house. [ ] _gerard_, pp. , . [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] this is clearly a slip. the cellar was not under the house hired by percy. [ ] for its possible situation see p. ; or it may have been erected in the courtyard shown in the plans at pp. , . [ ] see pp. , . the difficulty of measuring the thickness of the wall was not so great as father gerard fancies. in sir christopher wren reported that 'the walls are seven feet thick below' (_hist. mss._ com. report xi. app. ii. p. ). as he did not dig below the surface this must mean that they were seven feet thick at the level of the floor of the so-called cellar, and this measurement must have been known to the conspirators after they had access to it. i am informed that in the case of a heavy wall, especially when it is built on light soil, as was the case here, the foundations are always constructed to be broader than the wall itself. the diggers, observing the angle of the face they attacked, might roughly calculate that a foot on each side might be added, thus reaching the nine feet. [ ] father gerard (p. , note ) writes: "there is, as usual, hopeless confusion between the two witnesses upon whom, as will be seen, we wholly depend for this portion of the story. fawkes (november , ) makes the mining operations terminate at candlemas, and winter (november ) says that they went on to 'near easter' (march ). the date of the hiring the 'cellar' was about lady day (march )." i can see no contradiction. the resumption of work for a third time in march was, from winter's mode of referring to it, evidently for a very short time. "and," he says, "near to easter, as we wrought the third time, opportunity was given to hire the cellar." fawkes, though less clear and full, implicitly says much the same thing. he says that 'about candlemas we had wrought the wall half through,' and then goes on to describe how he stood sentinel, &c. then at the beginning of another paragraph we have "as they were working upon the wall they heard a rushing in a cellar, &c." fawkes gives no dates, but he says nothing to contradict the third working spoken of by winter. [ ] _gerard_, pp. , . [ ] _goodman_, i. . [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . father gerard (p. ) says that we learn on the unimpeachable testimony of mrs. whynniard, the landlady, that fawkes not only paid the last instalment of rent on sunday, november , but on the following day, the day immediately preceding the intended explosion, had carpenters and other work folk in the house for mending and repairing thereof (_g. p. b._ no. ). "to say nothing of the wonderful honesty of paying rent under the circumstances, what was the sense of putting a house in repair upon monday, which on tuesday was to be blown to atoms?" the rent having fallen due at michaelmas, is it not probable that it was paid in november to avoid legal proceedings, which might at least have drawn attention to the occupier of the house. as to the rest, the 'unimpeachable testimony' is that--not of mrs. whynniard, but of roger james (_g. p. b._ no. ), who says that the carpenter came in about midsummer, not on november . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] see p. . [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] here is another 'discrepancy,' which father gerard has not noticed. as the 'cellar' was not taken till a little before easter, percy could not make a door into it about the middle of lent. my solution is, that in his second examination, on november th, fawkes was trying to conceal the existence of the mine, in order that he might not betray the miners, and therefore antedated the making of the door. see p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] see the table in _state papers relating to the defeat of the spanish armada_, ed. by prof. laughton for the navy records society, i. . [ ] _edinburgh review_, january , p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] we know that percy visited the house at westminster at midsummer. see p. . [ ] grange to salisbury, nov. .--_g. p. b._ no. . [ ] justices of warwickshire to salisbury, nov. .--_ib._ no. . [ ] _goodman_, i. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _goodman_, i. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] warrant, feb. ; commission, feb. ; pass, oct. , .--_s. p. dom._, xii. ; docquet book, ; _s. p. dom._, xv. . [ ] to the theory that salisbury wanted inconvenient witnesses disposed of, because the man who shot percy and catesby got a pension of two shillings a day, i reply that the government was more afraid of a rebellion than of testimony. at all events, _s._ at that time was certainly not worth _l._ now, as father gerard assumes here, and in other passages of his book. it is usual to estimate the value of money as being about four or five times as much as it is in the present day. the relative price, however, depended so much on the commodities purchased that i hesitate to express myself positively on the subject. the only thing that i am quite clear about is that father gerard's estimate is greatly exaggerated. it is true that he grounds his errors on a statement by dr. jessopp that , marks was equivalent to , _l._, but the very exaggeration of these figures should have led him to suspect some error, or, at least--as i have recently been informed by dr. jessopp was the fact--that his calculation was based on other grounds than the relative price of commodities. [ ] father greenway's statement, that while the rebels were in the field, messengers came post haste continually one after the other, from the capital, all bearing proclamations mentioning percy by name (_gerard_, p. ) is disposed of by the fact that there were only three proclamations in which percy's name was mentioned, dated the th, the th, and the th. percy was killed on the morning of the th, and even the messenger who started on the th can hardly have known that the sheriff had gone to holbeche, and consequently could not himself have reached that place while percy was living. [ ] see p. . [ ] t. winter's examination, november (_g. p. b._ no. ). compare tresham's declaration of november (_ib._ no. ). [ ] jardine's _gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] _add. mss._ , , fol. . [ ] smith's _antiquities of westminster_, p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] on this, see p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. , note . [ ] in an earlier part of the letter we are told of 'johnson,' that 'on tuesday at midnight, as he was busy to prepare his things for execution was apprehended in the place itself, with a false lantern, booted and spurred.' [ ] _s. p. france._ [ ] see p. . i give the extract in the form received by edmondes, that printed in _winwood_, ii. , received by cornwallis, being slightly different. [ ] _i.e._ 'owned.' [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] _winwood_, ii. . [ ] chamberlain to carleton, november .--_s. p. dom._ xvi. . [ ] see p. . [ ] _g. p. b._ no. . [ ] _winwood_, ii. . [ ] these words look as if he had been found not in the passage but in the court. [ ] he was a favourite dependent of knyvet's, who, on april , , had recommended him for an office in the tower.--_s. p. dom._ vii. . [ ] see my _history of england_, - , i. , . [ ] _i.e._ guardians. [ ] _correspondence of king james vi. with sir robert cecil_, pp. , , . [ ] _correspondence of king james vi. with sir robert cecil_, p. . [ ] degli effetti to del bufalo, june / .--_roman transcripts, r.o._ [ ] degli effetti to del bufalo, july / .--_roman transcripts, r.o._ [ ] see p. . [ ] _hist. of england_, - , i. . [ ] s. p. scotland, lxix. . [ ] james i. to sir t. parry, nov., .--tierney's _dodd_, iv.; app. p. . [ ] degli effetti to del bufalo, june /july (_roman transcripts, r.o._). there is a plain-spoken marginal note in the pope's hand, 'non sarà vero, nè noi gli habbiamo dato quest' ordine.' in the instructions by the nuncio at brussels to dr. gifford, july /august (tierney's _dodd_, iv.; app. lxvi.), nothing is said about this mission, but a definite promise is given 'eosque omnes e regno evocare quos sua majestas rationabiliter judicaverit regno et statui suo noxios fore.' [ ] 'salute.' does this mean safety or salvation, or is it left doubtful? [ ] _i.e._ to james and to henry iv. del bufalo to cardinal aldobrandino, july / .--_roman transcripts, r.o._ [ ] del bufalo to cardinal aldobrandino, july / .--_roman transcripts, r.o._ [ ] barneby to del bufalo, aug. / .--_roman transcripts, r.o._ (the original is in latin.) [ ] afterwards duke of sully. [ ] parry to cecil, aug. , .--_s. p. france._ [ ] see p. , note . [ ] del bufalo to james i. sept. / ; _compare_ del bufalo to cardinal aldobrandino, sept. /oct. .--_roman transcripts, r.o._ [ ] we have two copies of james's letter to parry translated into latin, but undated (_s. p. france._) cecil's covering letter (_ib._) is in draft and dated nov. . it must, however, have been held back, as both parry's and del bufalo's despatches show that it did not reach paris till early in december. [ ] del bufalo to cardinal aldobrandino, december / .--_roman transcripts, r.o._ [ ] january / . [ ] information given to del bufalo. [ ] he wrote on the margin of del bufalo's letter: "quanto alla facoltà di chiamare sotto pena di scomunica i torbolenti, non ci par da darla per adesso, perchè trattiamo con heretici, e corriamo pericolo di perdere i sicuri, si come non ci par che il nuntio debba premere nella cosa di mandar noi personaggio, perchè dubitiamo che essendo tanta gelosia tra francia e spagna non intrassimo in grandissima difficoltà. e meglio aspettare la conclusione della pace secondo noi, perchè non sapiamo che chi mandassimo fosse per usar la prudentia necessaria." [ ] he told the spanish ambassador, 'che quelli del consiglio gli havevano fatto tanta forza che no haveva potuto far altro, ma che no si sarebbe eseguito con rigore alcuno.' (del bufalo to aldobrandino, march /april .)--_roman transcripts, r. o._ [ ] precisely the course he had recommended in his letter written to cecil whilst he was still in scotland, see p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] a news-letter gives an account of the council meeting, from which it appears that james began by haranguing against the puritans, but cranborne--cecil was now known by this title--and others asked why the catholics were not put on the same footing, on which the king got angry, and finally directed that the catholics should also suffer. (advices from london, feb. /march ).--_roman transcripts, r.o._ [ ] in those days liberty of conscience meant what we should call liberty of worship. [ ] lindsay at last got off to rome in november . on his proceedings there see _history of england_, - , i. . [ ] in the ms. 'et non haverebbe.' mr. rawdon brown, amongst whose papers, now in the record office, this despatch is found, remarks that mistakes of this kind frequently occur in letters first ciphered and then deciphered. [ ] in the margin is 'questo poi è troppo,' perhaps an addition by the ambassador, or even by mr. rawdon brown. [ ] 'religione' is suggested by mr. rawdon brown for the 'ragione' of the decipherer. [ ] in the copy 'non si può far di meno di non observar le leggi,' the 'non' being incorrectly repeated. [ ] "non predicando li preti nessuna cosa più constantemente di questa che il buon cattolico bisogna che habbia questa ferma rissolutione in se medesimo di esser per conservar la religione pronto a solevarsi etiam contra la vita e stato del suo principe naturale." [ ] molin to the doge, march / , , _venetian transcripts, r.o._ [ ] lindsay to james i. jan. /feb. , , _s. p. italian states_. [ ] compare the last passage quoted from molin's despatch, p. . [ ] this is, however, precisely what james had failed to induce the pope to do. [ ] father gerard asks what 'our offence' was. it was clearly nothing personal to the writer, and i am strongly inclined to interpret the words as referring to lindsay's proceedings at rome, of which so much had been made. [ ] sir everard digby to salisbury (_s. p. dom._ xvii. .) as father gerard says, the date cannot be earlier than may , , when the earldom was conferred on cranborne. [ ] father gerard gives the date of davies's pardon from the pardon roll as april , . it should be april , . [ ] _gerard_, , , . father gerard ascribes this application to 'a later date' than march . it was, in fact a good deal later, as the endorsement 'mr. secretary conway' shows that it was not earlier than . the further endorsement 'touching wright and his services performed in the damnable plot of the powder treason,' proves nothing. what did conway's clerk know beyond the contents of the application itself? [ ] father gerard (p. ) tells us of one thomas coe, who wrote on dec. , , telling him that he had forwarded to the king 'the primary intelligence of these late treasons.' if this claim was justified, why do we not find coe's name, either amongst the state papers or on the patent rolls, as recipient of some favour from the crown? a still more indefensible argument of father gerard's is one in which a letter written to sir everard digby about an otter hunt is held (p. ) to show the existence of government espionage, because though written before digby was acquainted with the plot it is endorsed, 'letter written to sir everard digby--powder treason.' any letter in digby's possession would be likely to be endorsed in this way whatever its contents might have been. [ ] _gerard_, pp. , . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] salisbury to edmondes, oct. , .--_stowe mss._ , fol. . [ ] see _history of england_, - , i. , . [ ] garnet's declaration, march , .--_hist. rev._ july, , p. . [ ] father gerard gives a facsimile, p. . [ ] _harl. mss._ , fol. b. [ ] see p. . [ ] as in the case of the merchant who refused to pay the imposition on currants, 'bate' and 'bates' were considered interchangeable. [ ] _g. p. b._, no. . the words in italics are added in a different hand. dunbar's name does not occur in the list of commissioners at p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . i do not think his argument on this point conclusive, but obviously it would be useless to forge a document unless it was to be used in evidence. [ ] _harl. mss._ , fol. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] salisbury's minute to favat, dec. , .--_add. mss._ , fol. . [ ] _gerard_, p. . [ ] an _alias_ for garnet. [ ] salisbury to edmondes, march , .--_stowe mss._ , fol. . [ ] _harl. mss._ , fol. . [ ] _ib._ fol. . [ ] _add. mss._ , fol. b. [ ] _a true and perfect relation._ sig. g., , _verso_. [ ] _ib._, sig. k., . [ ] morris's _condition of catholics_, . a latin translation of part of the letter was printed in , by eudæmon joannes, _ad actionem proditoriam, &c._, p. . [ ] _g. p. b._, no. . [ ] see the express words ascribed to bates at p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] sir e. digby's papers, no. , published at the end of bishop barlow's reprint of _the gunpowder treason_. [ ] the saturday or sunday after the octave of corpus christi, _i.e._, june or , old style, which seems to have been used, as the same day is described as being about the beginning of trinity term, which began on may . [ ] garnet's declaration, march .--_hist. rev._, july pp. - . [ ] the letter is printed in tierney's _dodd_, iv. app. cix., where there is an argument in a note to show that the part from which i am about to quote came from a later letter. for my purpose the date is immaterial. [ ] garnet's declaration, march .--_hist. rev._, july , pp. - . [ ] garnet's declaration, march . _hist. rev._, july , p. . [ ] the author of sir everard digby's life writes:--"i fully admit that if father garnet was weak, his weakness was owing to an excess of kindheartedness and a loyalty to his friends that bordered on extravagance." (_the life of a conspirator_, by 'one of his descendants,' p. .) it will be noticed that i am inclined to go further than this. [ ] in addition to what has been already said, a letter from the nuncio at brussels to dr. gifford, written on july /aug. , , may be quoted. he says that the pope 'paratissimum esse ea omnia pro suâ in catholicos authoritate facere quæ serenissimæ suæ majestati securitatem suæ personæ, et status procurare possunt, eosque omnes e regno evocare quos sua majestas rationabiliter judicaverit regno et statui [ms. statuti] suo noxios fore.'--_tierney's dodd_, app. no. . index aldobrandino, cardinal, report by the nuncio at paris to, bancroft, archbishop, informs salisbury that percy had ridden towards croydon, banishment of the priests, barlow, bishop, mistaken reference to a book of, barneby, reports to the nuncio at paris, bartlet, george, said to have stated that catesby visited salisbury house, bates, thomas, arrest of, ; examination of, ; value of the evidence of, - ; charge brought against greenway by, baynham, sir edmund, mission of, brewer, mr. h. w., author of a conjectural view of the neighbourhood of the old house of lords, brick, softer in than at present, bright, mrs., evidence of, . _see_ skinner, mrs. buck, master, alleged statement by, bufalo, del, _see_ nuncio in paris capon, william, mistakes the position of percy's house, ; worthlessness of the evidence of, catesby, robert, said to visit salisbury, ; cannot have given information, ; informs greenway of the plot, ; his relations with garnet, cecil, sir robert, corresponds with james on toleration, - ; forwards james's reply to the nuncio's overtures, ; has no motive for inventing gunpowder plot, . _see_ cranborne, viscount, and salisbury, earl of cellar, the, fawkes antedates the hiring of, , ; new door made into, ; evidence on the lease of, ; supposed bargain between ferrers and percy for, ; fawkes's account of the hiring of, ; winter's account of the hiring of, ; partly let to mrs. skinner, , ; leased to percy, ; the miners said to be ignorant of the position of, ; capon's evidence on the details of, ; new door into, _ib._; entrances into, ; alleged public access to, ; knyvet's visit to, ; suffolk's search in, clement viii., pope, writes to james, ; annotates a report from the nuncio at paris, , ; rejects james's proposals, ; his conduct towards james, ; lindsay's report on the proceedings of, cobham, lord, reports a saying of james i., coe, thomas, as informer, , _note_ coke, attorney-general, conducts the first examination of fawkes, ; attends the commissioners for the examination of the plot, ; his fishing inquiry, ; omits a passage in fawkes's confession, and brings a false charge against gerard, cornwallis, salisbury's letter to, cranborne, viscount, his conversation with the venetian ambassador, - . _see_ cecil, sir robert, and salisbury, earl of davies, an informer, devonshire, earl of, a commissioner to examine the plot, digby, sir edward, misstatement about the knighting of the sons of, ; arrest of, ; writes to salisbury, ; receives a letter about an otter hunt, , _note_ ; his evidence against garnet, digby, sir kenelm, alleged statement by, doubleday, edmond, secures fawkes, - dunchurch, hunting-match at, _edinburgh reviewer_, the, negative criticism of, ; his summary of the story of the plot, edmondes, salisbury's letter to, favat, salisbury's letter to, , fawkes, guy, first examination of, ; assumes the name of johnson, ; shields his companions by false statements, ; alleged alteration of the examination of, ; confesses the whole of the design, ; second examination of, ; third examination of, ; fourth examination of, ; threatened with torture, ; fifth examination of, ; relation of the fifth examination of, with that of nov. , ; his declaration under torture, ; gives the names of the plotters, ; examined on the hints given to noblemen to absent themselves from parliament, ; a watch bought for, ; doubts as to the genuineness of his full account of the plot examined, - ; capable of directing mining operations, ; ascertains that the cellar is to be let, ; alleged discrepancies in the accounts of the seizure of, ; arrest of, - ferrers, or ferris, henry, gives up his house to percy, ; agreement for the lease by, fulman's collection, notes on the plot preserved in, garnet, henry, receives information of the plot from greenway, ; digby's evidence against, ; his knowledge of the plot, - gerard, john (jesuit in the th century), not to be trusted when in ignorance of the facts, ; said to have given the sacrament to the conspirators, ; probably ignorant of the plot, ; false charge brought by coke against, gibbons, mrs., has charge of the house, goodman, bishop, thinks salisbury contrived the plot, grant, john, his name erroneously given as digging the mine, greenway (_alias_ for oswald tesimond), informs garnet of the plot, ; said to have been informed of the plot by bates, ; discussion on bates's evidence against, - ; his relations with garnet, - grene, father, reports a saying of usher's, gunpowder stored by the plotters, exaggerations about the amount of, ; disposal of, holbeche house, capture or death of the plotters at, house hired by percy, the, fawkes's statement about, ; in charge of mrs. gibbons, ; evidence on the lease of, ; situation of, - ; alleged smallness of, ; alleged populousness of the neighbourhood of, ; position of the garden belonging to, ; powder brought to, ; a carpenter admitted to, house of lords, the old, description of, james, roger, evidence of, james i. said to have called november cecil's holiday, ; orders the use of torture, ; said to have interpreted the monteagle letter by inspiration, , , ; his relations with the catholics, - ; refuses to sign a letter to the pope, ; corresponds with cecil on toleration, _ib._; letter falsely attributed to, ; interruption of lindsay's mission from, ; receives overtures from the nuncio at brussels, ; his position towards the recusants, ; is assured of the pope's desire to keep the catholics in obedience, ; banishes the priests, keyes, robert, inquiry into the movements of, ; arrest of, ; confusion about his working in the mine, ; acknowledges that he worked at the mine, ; mistake in the 'king's book' about, _ib._; brought from lambeth, 'king's book,' the, erroneous account of robert winter's proceedings in, ; probable date of the issue of, , _note_ knyvet, sir thomas, visits the cellar, , lenthall said to have been told that salisbury contrived the plot, ; wood's character of, lindsay, sir james, carries a letter from the pope to james, ; is unable to return with the answer, ; starts for italy, ; cranborne's opinion of, ; reports from rome, mar, earl of, is a commissioner to examine the plot, mine, the, silence of fawkes about, ; mrs. whynniard ignorant of, ; the government ignorant of, ; first mentioned by fawkes, ; described by winter, ; position of, ; made through the wall of percy's house, ; alleged inexperience of the makers of, ; precautions to avoid noise in, ; penetrates the wall under house of lords, ; disposal of the earth and stones from, ; the government ignorant of the position of, montague, lord, sent to the tower, monteagle, lord, the letter addressed to said to have been known beforehand, ; false statements about the interpretation of, ; salisbury said to have been previously informed of, ; delivery of, ; taken to salisbury, mordaunt, lord, sent to the tower, northampton, earl of, a commissioner to examine the plot, ; is a catholic, nottingham, earl of, a commissioner to examine the plot, ; his relations to the catholics, nuncio at brussels, the, makes overtures to james, nuncio at paris, the, reports on james's proceedings, ; writes to parry on the pope's desire to keep the catholics in obedience, ; writes to james, ; james's reply to the overtures of, ; sends the reply to rome, osborne, francis, thinks the plot a device of salisbury, owen, hugh, not a priest, , _note_ parry, sir thomas, draft of a letter to, ; uncertainty when salisbury's letter was sent to, ; receives overtures from the nuncio, percy, thomas, fawkes's statement about the hiring of the house and cellar by, ; proclamation for the apprehension of, ; rumours about the movements of, _ib._; search of his house, ; enters into possession of the house and cellar, ; reward offered for the apprehension of, ; the sheriff of worcestershire announces the death of, ; buys a watch for fawkes, ; winter's account of the proceedings of, - ; agreement for the lease of the house to, ; not likely to be turned out when parliament met, ; takes the cellar, ; alleged bigamy of, ; said to have visited salisbury, ; displays his connection with the court, ; receives a pass for post-horses, _ib._; alleged secret orders to kill, pope, the (_see_ clement viii.) popham, chief justice, examines fawkes, ; sends to salisbury a rumour of percy's movements, ; makes inquiries into the movements of catholics, ; a commissioner to examine the plot, priests, the banishment of, proclamation for, privy councillors, form of publishing the signatures of, recusants, their fines remitted, ; fines reimposed on, rokewood, ambrose, examination of the landlady of, salisbury, earl of, alleged to have invented the plot, ; said to have told his son that he had contrived the plot, ; writes an account of the plot to parry, ; is a commissioner for the examination into the plot, ; his letter to the ambassadors, ; cannot have deceived his fellow-commissioners, ; said to have known of the plot before the monteagle letter, ; said to have received visits from percy, ; said to have issued orders not to take percy alive, ; the monteagle letter delivered to, ; probably knew nothing of the plot independent of the letter, ; was the probable interpreter of the letter, ; receives a letter from sir e. digby, ; has no motive for inventing the plot, ; expects plots, ; writes to favat, ; failure of the charge against, shepherd, john, evidence of, skinner, mrs., gives up the cellar to percy, , spedding, james, his canon of historical evidence, speed, john, his statement that percy's house was only to be let when parliament was not sitting, standen, sir anthony, mission of, suffolk, earl of, a commissioner for examining the plot, ; friendly to the catholics, ; sent to search the cellar, talbot of grafton, john, summoned before the council, tresham, francis, informed of the plot, ; probably informs the government, ; his connection with the letter to monteagle, usher, language used about the plot by, vaux, mrs., committed to the charge of an alderman, vowell, peter, said to assert the plot to have been invented, waad, sir william, gives information of percy's movements, ; pronounces fawkes obstinate, ; informs salisbury that winter is ready to confess, walsh, sir richard, writes to announce the death or capture of the plotters, whynniard, john, fawkes's evidence about his lease to percy, ; position of the house of, ; appointed keeper of the old palace, ; history of the land held by him, , ; position of the garden of, ; leases the cellar to percy, whynniard, mrs., consents to the lease of the cellar, winter, robert, arrest of, ; incorrectly stated to have worked in the mine, ; his name substituted for that of keyes, winter, thomas, inquiry into the movements of, ; captured at holbeche, ; doubts as to the genuineness of his full account of the plot examined, - ; his account of the plot, - ; no evidence of the torture of, ; explanation of the confusion between keyes and, ; coke wishes to examine, wood, anthony, statements by a correspondent of, ; his character of lenthall, worcester, earl of, a commissioner to examine the plot, ; is understood to be a catholic, wotton, sir henry, says that cecil invented plots, wright, christopher, death of, , ; robert winter's name substituted for, wright, henry, an informer, , wright, john, killed at holbeche, , messrs. longmans, green, & co.'s classified catalogue of works in general literature. history, politics, polity, political memoirs, &c. abbott.--a history of greece. by evelyn abbott, m.a., ll.d. part i.--from the earliest times to the ionian revolt. crown vo., s. d. part ii-- - b.c. cr. vo., s. d. acland and ransome.--a handbook in outline of the political history of england to . chronologically arranged. by a. h. dyke acland, m.p., and cyril ransome, m.a. crown vo., s. annual register (the). a review of public events at home and abroad, for the year . vo., s. volumes of the annual register for the years - can still be had. s. each. arnold (t., d.d.), formerly head master of rugby school. introductory lectures on modern history. vo., s. d. miscellaneous works. vo., s. d. baden-powell.--the indian village community. examined with reference to the physical, ethnographic, and historical conditions of the provinces; chiefly on the basis of the revenue-settlement records and district manuals. by b. h. baden-powell, m.a., c.i.e. with map. vo., s. bagwell.--ireland under the tudors. by richard bagwell, ll.d. ( vols). vols. i. and ii. from the first invasion of the northmen to the year . vo., s. vol. iii. - . vo., s. ball.--historical review of the legislative systems operative in ireland, from the invasion of henry the second to the union ( - ). by the rt. hon. j. t. ball. vo., s. besant.--the history of london. by sir walter besant. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. or bound as a school prize book, s. d. brassey (lord).--papers and addresses. naval and maritime, - . vols. crown vo., s. mercantile marine and navigation, - . crown vo., s. imperial federation and colonisation from to . cr. vo., s. political and miscellaneous, - . crown vo., s. bright.--a history of england. by the rev. j. franck bright, d.d. period i. medi�val monarchy: a.d. to . crown vo., s. d. period ii. personal monarchy: to . crown vo., s. period iii. constitutional monarchy: to . cr. vo., s. d. period iv. the growth of democracy: to . cr. vo., s. buckle.--history of civilisation in england and france, spain and scotland. by henry thomas buckle. vols. crown vo., s. burke.--a history of spain, from the earliest times to the death of ferdinand the catholic. by ulick ralph burke, m.a. vols. vo., s. chesney.--indian polity: a view of the system of administration in india. by general sir george chesney, k.c.b. with map showing all the administrative divisions of british india. vo. s. creighton.--a history of the papacy from the great schism to the sack of rome ( - ). by m. creighton, d.d., lord bishop of london. vols. cr. vo., s. each. cuningham.--a scheme for imperial federation: a senate for the empire. by granville c. cuningham of montreal, canada. cr. vo., s. d. curzon.--persia and the persian question. by the right hon. george n. curzon, m.p. with maps, illustrations, appendices, and an index. vols. vo., s. de tocqueville.--democracy in america. by alexis de tocqueville. vols. crown vo., s. dickinson.--the development of parliament during the nineteenth century. by g. lowes dickinson, m.a. vo. s. d. eggleston.--the beginners of a nation: a history of the source and rise of the earliest english settlements in america, with special reference to the life and character of the people. by edward eggleston. with maps. vo., s. d. ewald.--the history of israel. by heinrich ewald. vols., vo., £ s. follett.--the speaker of the house of representatives. by m. p. follett. with an introduction by albert bushnell hart, ph.d. of harvard university. crown vo., s. froude (james a.). the history of england, from the fall of wolsey to the defeat of the spanish armada. popular edition. vols. crown vo. s. d. each. 'silver library' edition. vols. crown vo., s. d. each. the divorce of catherine of aragon. crown vo., s. d. the spanish story of the armada, and other essays. cr. vo., s. d. the english in ireland in the eighteenth century. cabinet edition. vols. cr. vo., s. 'silver library' edition. vols. cr. vo., s. d. english seamen in the sixteenth century. crown vo., s. the council of trent. cr. vo., s. short studies on great subjects. vols. cr. vo., s. d. each. c�sar: a sketch. cr. vo., s. d. gardiner (samuel rawson, d.c.l., ll.d.). history of england, from the accession of james i. to the outbreak of the civil war, - . vols. crown vo., s. each. a history of the great civil war, - . vols. cr. vo., s. each. a history of the commonwealth and the protectorate, - . vol. i., - . with maps. vo., s. cromwell's place in history. founded on six lectures delivered at oxford. what the gunpowder plot was: a reply to father gerard. the student's history of england. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. also in three volumes, price s. each. vol. i. b.c. --a.d. . illustrations. vol. ii. - . illustrations. vol. iii. - . illustrations. greville.--a journal of the reigns of king george iv., king william iv., and queen victoria. by charles c. f. greville, formerly clerk of the council. harvard historical studies: the suppression of the african slave trade to the united states of america, - . by w. e. b. du bois. vo., s. d. the contest over the ratification of the federal constitution in massachusetts. by s. b. harding, a.m. vo., s. a critical study of nullification in south carolina. by d. f. houston, a.m. vo., s. nominations for election office in the united states. by frederick w. dallinger, a.m. vo., s. d. other volumes are in preparation. hearn.--the government of england: its structure and its development. by w. edward hearn. vo., s. historic towns.--edited by e. a. freeman, d.c.l., and rev. william hunt, m.a. with maps and plans. crown vo., s. d. each. bristol. by rev. w. hunt. carlisle. by mandell creighton, d.d. cinque ports. by montagu burrows. colchester. by rev. e. l. cutts. exeter. by e. a. freeman. london. by rev. w. j. loftie. oxford. by rev. c. w. boase. winchester. by g. w. kitchin, d.d. york. by rev. james raine. new york. by theodore roosevelt. boston (u.s.). by henry cabot lodge. joyce.--a short history of ireland, from the earliest times to . by p. w. joyce, ll.d. cr. vo., s. d. kaye and malleson.--history of the indian mutiny, - . by sir john w. kaye and colonel g. b. malleson. with analytical index and maps and plans. cabinet edition. vols. cr. vo., s. each. knight.--madagascar in war time: the experiences of the times special correspondent with the hovas during the french invasion of . by e. f. knight. with illustrations and a map. vo., s. d. lang (andrew). pickle the spy, or, the incognito of prince charles. with portraits. vo., s. st. andrews. with plates and illustrations in the text by t. hodge. vo., s. net. laurie.--historical survey of pre-christian education. by s. s. laurie, a.m., ll.d. crown vo., s. lecky (william edward hartpole). history of england in the eighteenth century. library edition. vols. vo., £ s. cabinet edition. england. vols. cr. vo., s. each. ireland. vols. crown vo., s. each. history of european morals from augustus to charlemagne. vols. crown vo., s. history of the rise and influence of the spirit of rationalism in europe. vols. crown vo., s. democracy and liberty. vols. vo., s. the empire: its value and its growth. an inaugural address delivered at the imperial institute, november , . crown vo., s. d. lowell.--governments and parties in continental europe. by a. lawrence lowell. vols. vo., s. macaulay (lord). the life and works of lord macaulay. 'edinburgh' edition. vols. vo., s. each. vols. i.-iv. history of england. vols. v.-vii. essays; biographies; indian penal code; contributions to knight's 'quarterly magazine'. vol. viii. speeches; lays of ancient rome; miscellaneous poems. vols. ix. and x. the life and letters of lord macaulay. by the right hon. sir g. o. trevelyan, bart., m.p. this edition is a cheaper reprint of the library edition of lord macaulay's life and works. complete works. cabinet ed. vols. post vo., £ s. library edition. vols. vo., £ s. 'edinburgh' edition. vols. vo., s. each. history of england from the accession of james the second. popular edition. vols. cr. vo., s. student's edit. vols. cr. vo., s. people's edition. vols. cr. vo., s. cabinet edition. vols. post vo., s. 'edinburgh' edition. vols. vo., s. each. library edition. vols. vo., £ . critical and historical essays, with lays of ancient rome, in volume. popular edition. crown vo., s. d. authorised edition. crown vo., s. d., or s. d., gilt edges. silver library edition. crown vo., s. d. critical and historical essays. student's edition. vol. cr. vo., s. people's edition. vols. cr. vo., s. 'trevelyan' edit. vols. cr. vo., s. cabinet edition. vols. post vo., s. library edition. vols. vo., s. essays which may be had separately, price d. each sewed, s. each cloth. addison and walpole. croker's boswell's johnson. hallam's constitutional history. warren hastings. the earl of chatham (two essays). frederick the great. ranke and gladstone. milton and machiavelli. lord byron. lord clive. lord byron, and the comic dramatists of the restoration. miscellaneous writings. people's edition. vol. cr. vo., s. d. library edition. vols. vo., s. popular edition. cr. vo., s. d. cabinet edition. including indian penal code. lays of ancient rome, and miscellaneous poems. vols. post vo., s. selections from the writings of lord macaulay. edited, with occasional notes, by the right hon. sir g. o. trevelyan, bart. cr. vo., s. maccoll.--the sultan and the powers. by the rev. malcolm maccoll, m.a., canon of ripon. vo., s. d. mackinnon.--the union of england and scotland: a study of international history. by james mackinnon, ph.d., examiner in history to the university of edinburgh. vo., s. may.--the constitutional history of england since the accession of george iii. - . by sir thomas erskine may, k.c.b. (lord farnborough). vols. crown vo., s. merivale (the late dean). history of the romans under the empire. vols. cr. vo., s. d. each. the fall of the roman republic: a short history of the last century of the commonwealth. mo., s. d. montague.--the elements of english constitutional history. by f. c. montague, m.a. cr. vo., s. d. o'brien.--irish ideas. reprinted addresses. by william o'brien. crown vo., s. d. richman.--appenzell: pure democracy and pastoral life in inner-rhoden. a swiss study. by irving b. richman, consul-general of the united states to switzerland. with maps. crown vo., s. seebohm (frederic). the english village community examined in its relations to the manorial and tribal systems, &c. with maps and plates, vo., s. the tribal system in wales: being part of an inquiry into the structure and methods of tribal society. with maps. vo., s. sharpe.--london and the kingdom: a history derived mainly from the archives at guildhall in the custody of the corporation of the city of london. by reginald r. sharpe, d.c.l., records clerk in the office of the town clerk of the city of london. vols. vo. s. d. each. sheppard.--memorials of st. james's palace. by the rev. edgar sheppard, m.a., sub-dean of h. m. chapels royal. with full-page plates ( photo-intaglio), and illustrations in the text. vols. vo, s. net. smith.--carthage and the carthaginians. by r. bosworth smith, m.a., with maps, plans, &c. cr. vo., s. d. stephens.--a history of the french revolution. by h. morse stephens, vols. vo. vols. i. and ii., s. each. stubbs.--history of the university of dublin, from its foundation to the end of the eighteenth century. by j. w. stubbs. vo., s. d. sutherland.--the history of australia and new zealand, from to . by alexander sutherland, m.a., and george sutherland, m.a. crown vo., s. d. taylor.--a student's manual of the history of india. by colonel meadows taylor, c.s.i., &c. cr. vo., s. d. todd.--parliamentary government in the british colonies, by alpheus todd, ll.d. vo., s. net. wakeman and hassall.--essays introductory to the study of english constitutional history. by resident members of the university of oxford. edited by henry offley wakeman, m.a., and arthur hassall, m.a. crown vo., s. walpole.--history of england from the conclusion of the great war in to . by spencer walpole. vols. crown vo., s. each. wolff.--odd bits of history: being short chapters intended to fill some blanks. by henry w. wolff. vo., s. d. wood-martin.--pagan ireland: an archæological sketch. a handbook of irish pre-christian antiquities. by w. g. wood-martin, m.r.i.a. with illustrations. crown vo., s. wylie.--history of england under henry iv. by james hamilton wylie, m.a., one of h. m. inspectors of schools. vols. crown vo. vol. i., - , s. d. vol. ii. s. vol. iii. s. [vol. iv. in the press. biography, personal memoirs, &c. armstrong.--the life and letters of edmund j. armstrong. edited by g. f. armstrong. fcp. vo., s. d. bacon.--the letters and life of francis bacon, including all his occasional works. edited by j. spedding. vols. vo., £ s. bagehot.--biographical studies. by walter bagehot. cr. vo., s. d. blackwell.--pioneer work in opening the medical profession to women: autobiographical sketches. by dr. elizabeth blackwell. cr. vo., s. boyd (a. k. h.). ('a.k.h.b.'). twenty-five years of st. andrews. - . vols. vo. vol. i., s. vol. ii., s. st. andrews and elsewhere: glimpses of some gone and of things left. vo., s. the last years of st. andrews: september, , to september, . vo., s. brown.--ford madox brown: a record of his life and works. by ford m. hueffer. with full-page plates ( autotypes) and illustrations in the text. vo., s. buss.--frances mary buss and her work for education. by annie e. ridley. with portraits and illustrations. crown vo., s. d. carlyle.--thomas carlyle: a history of his life. by james a. froude. - . vols. crown vo., s. - . vols. crown vo., s. digby.--the life of sir kenelm digby, by one of his descendants, the author of 'the life of a conspirator,' 'a life of archbishop laud,' etc. with illustrations. vo., s. d. erasmus.--life and letters of erasmus. by james a. froude. crown vo., s. fox.--the early history of charles james fox. by the right hon. sir g. o. trevelyan, bart. library edition. vo., s. cabinet edition. crown vo., s. halford.--the life of sir henry halford, bart., g.c.h., m.d., f.r.s. by william munk, m.d., f.s.a. vo., s. d. hamilton.--life of sir william hamilton. by r. p. graves. vo. vols. s. each. addendum. vo., d. sewed. hammond.--a woman's part in a revolution. by mrs. john hays hammond. crown vo., s. d. this book consists mainly of extracts from mrs. hammond's diary, and refers to the incidents of dr. jameson's raid, and the subsequent imprisonment, trial, and sentence of the reform committee, of which mrs. hammond's husband was a prominent member. havelock.--memoirs of sir henry havelock, k.c.b. by john clark marshman. crown vo., s. d. haweis.--my musical life. by the rev. h. r. haweis. with portrait of richard wagner and illustrations. crown vo., s. d. holroyd.--the girlhood of maria josepha holroyd (lady stanley of alderly). recorded in letters of a hundred years ago, from to . with portraits. vo., s. lejeune.--memoirs of baron lejeune, aide-de camp to marshals berthier, davout, and oudinot. vols. vo., s. luther.--life of luther. by julius k�stlin. crown vo., s. d. macaulay.--the life and letters of lord macaulay. by the right hon. sir g. o. trevelyan, bart., m.p. popular edit. vol. cr. vo., s. d. student's edition. vol. cr. vo., s. cabinet edition. vols. post vo., s. library edition. vols. vo., s. 'edinburgh edition.' vols. vo., s. each. marbot.--the memoirs of the baron de marbot. crown vo., s. d. nansen.--fridtiof nansen, - . by w.c. br�gger and nordahl rolfsen. with plates, illustrations in the text, and maps. vo., s. d. richardson.--vita medica: chapters of medical life and work. by sir benjamin ward richardson, m.d., ll.d., f.r.s. vo., s. romanes.--the life and letters of george john romanes. written and edited by his wife. with portrait and illustrations. cr. vo., s. seebohm.--the oxford reformers--john colet, erasmus and thomas more: a history of their fellow-work. by frederic seebohm. vo., s. shakespeare.--outlines of the life of shakespeare. by j. o. halliwell-phillipps. with illustrations and fac-similes. vols. royal vo., £ s. shakespeare's true life.</sc> by jas. walter. with illustrations by gerald e. moira. imp. vo., s. stephen.--essays in ecclesiastical biography. by sir james stephen. crown vo., s. d. turgot.--the life and writings of turgot, comptroller-general of france, - . edited for english readers by w. walker stephens. vo., s. d. verney.--memoirs of the verney family. vols. i. and ii. during the civil war. by frances parthenope verney. with portraits, woodcuts and fac-simile. royal vo., s. vol. iii. during the commonwealth. - . by margaret m. verney. with portraits, &c. vo., s. wakley.--the life and times of thomas wakley. by s. squire sprigge, m.b. cantab. vo., s. thomas wakley was member of parliament for finsbury after the passage of the great reform bill, and played a prominent part in the politics of the day, but it is as founder of the "lancet" and as coroner for middlesex that he is best remembered. wellington.--life of the duke of wellington. by the rev. g. r. gleig, m.a. crown vo., s. d. wolf.--the life of joseph wolf, animal painter. by a. h. palmer, with plates and illustrations in the text. royal vo. s. travel and adventure, the colonies, &c. arnold (sir edwin). seas and lands. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. wandering words. with illustrations. vo., s. east and west. with illustrations by r. t. pritchett. vo., s. australia as it is, or facts and features, sketches and incidents of australia and australian life, with notices of new zealand. by a clergyman, thirteen years resident in the interior of new south wales. cr. vo., s. baker (sir s. w.). eight years in ceylon. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. the rifle and the hound in ceylon. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. bent (j. theodore). the ruined cities of mashonaland: being a record of excavation and exploration in . with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. the sacred city of the ethiopians: being a record of travel and research in abyssinia in . with plates and illustrations in the text. vo., s. d. bicknell.--travel and adventure in northern queensland. by arthur c. bicknell. with plates and illustrations in the text. vo., s. brassey.--voyages and travels of lord brassey, k.c.b., d.c.l., - . arranged and edited by captain s. eardley-wilmot. vols. cr. vo., s. brassey (the late lady). a voyage in the 'sunbeam'; our home on the ocean for eleven months. cabinet edition. with map and illustrations. crown vo., s. d. silver library edition. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. popular edition. with illustrations. to., d. sewed, s. cloth. school edition. with illustrations. fcp., s. cloth, or s. white parchment. sunshine and storm in the east. cabinet edition. with maps and illustrations. crown vo., s. d. popular edition. with illustrations. to., d. sewed, s. cloth. in the trades, the tropics, and the 'roaring forties'. cabinet edition. with map and illustrations. crown vo., s. d. popular edition. with illustrations. to., d. sewed, s. cloth. three voyages in the 'sunbeam'. popular edition. with illustrations to., s. d. browning.--a girl's wanderings in hungary. by h. ellen browning. with map and illustrations. crown vo., s. d. froude. (james a.). oceana: or england and her colonies. with illustrations. crown vo., s. boards, s. d. cloth. the english in the west indies: or the bow of ulysses. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. bds., s. d. cl. howitt.--visits to remarkable places, old halls, battle-fields, scenes illustrative of striking passages in english history and poetry. by william howitt. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. knight (e. f.). the cruise of the 'alerte': the narrative of a search for treasure on the desert island of trinidad. maps and illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. where three empires meet: a narrative of recent travel in kashmir, western tibet, baltistan, ladak, gilgit, and the adjoining countries. with a map and illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. the 'falcon' on the baltic: being a voyage from london to copenhagen in a three-tonner. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. lees and clutterbuck.--b. c. : a ramble in british columbia. by j. a. lees and w. j. clutterbuck. with map and illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. max müller.--letters from constantinople. by mrs. max m�ller. with views of constantinople and the neighbourhood. crown vo., s. nansen (fridtjof). the first crossing of greenland. with numerous illustrations and a map. crown vo., s. d. eskimo life. with illustrations. vo., s. oliver.--crags and craters: rambles in the island of réunion. by william dudley oliver. with illustrations and map. cr. vo., s. peary.--my arctic journal: a year among ice-fields and eskimos. by josephine diebitsch-peary. with plates, sketch maps, and illustrations in the text. vo., s. quillinan.--journal of a few months' residence in portugal, and glimpses of the south of spain. by mrs. quillinan (dora wordsworth). edited, with memoir, by edmund lee, author of 'dorothy wordsworth.' etc. crown vo., s. smith.--climbing in the british isles. by w. p. haskett smith. with illustrations by ellis carr, and numerous plans. part i. england. mo., s. d. part ii. wales and ireland. mo., s. d. part iii. scotland. [in preparation. stephen.--the playground of europe. by leslie stephen, formerly president of the alpine club. new edition, with additions and illustrations. crown vo, s. net. three in norway. by two of them. with a map and illustrations. cr. vo., s. boards, s. d. cloth. tyndall.--the glaciers of the alps: being a narrative of excursions and ascents. an account of the origin and phenomena of glaciers, and an exposition of the physical principles to which they are related. by john tyndall, f.r.s. with numerous illustrations. crown vo., s. d. net. whishaw.--the romance of the woods: reprinted articles and sketches. by fred. j. whishaw. crown vo., s. sport and pastime. the badminton library. edited by his grace the duke of beaufort, k.g.; assisted by alfred e. t. watson. complete in volumes. crown vo., price s. d. each volume, cloth. the volumes are also issued half-bound in leather, with gilt top. the price can be had from all booksellers. archery. by c. j. longman and col. h. walrond. with contributions by miss legh, viscount dillon, major c. hawkins fisher, &c. with maps, plates, and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. athletics and football. by montague shearman. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. big game shooting. by clive phillipps-wolley. vol. i. africa and america. with contributions by sir samuel w. baker, w. c. oswell, f. j. jackson, warburton pike, and f. c. selous. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. vol. ii. europe, asia, and the arctic regions. with contributions by lieut.-colonel r. heber percy, arnold pike, major algernon c. heber percy, &c. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. billiards. by major w. broadfoot, r.e. with contributions by a. h. boyd, sydenham dixon, w. j. ford, dudley d. pontifex, &c. with plates, illustrations in the text, and numerous diagrams and figures. crown vo., s. d. boating. by w. b. woodgate. with plates, illustrations in the text, and from instantaneous photographs, and maps of the rowing courses at oxford, cambridge, henley, and putney. crown vo., s. d. coursing and falconry. by harding cox and the hon. gerald lascelles. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. cricket. by a. g. steel, and the hon. r. h. lyttelton. with contributions by andrew lang, w. g. grace, f. gale, &c. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. cycling. by the earl of albemarle, and g. lacy hillier. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. dancing. by mrs. lilly grove, f.r.g.s. with contributions by miss middleton, the honourable mrs. armytage, &c. with musical examples, and full-page plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. driving. by his grace the duke of beaufort, k.g. with contributions by other authorities. with photogravure intaglio portrait of his grace the duke of beaufort, and plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. fishing. by h. cholmondeley-pennell, late her majesty's inspector of sea fisheries. vol. . salmon and trout. with contributions by h. r. francis, major john p. traherne, &c. with frontispiece, full-page illustrations of fishing subjects, and numerous illustrations of tackle, &c. crown vo., s. d. vol. ii pike and other coarse fish. with contributions by the marquis of exeter, william senior, g. christopher davies, &c. with frontispiece, full-page illustrations of fishing subjects, and numerous illustrations of tackle, &c. crown vo., s. d. fencing, boxing, and wrestling. by walter h. pollock, f. c. grove, c. prevost, e. b. mitchell, and walter armstrong. with intaglio plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. golf. by horace g. hutchinson. with contributions by the rt. hon. a. j. balfour, m.p., sir walter simpson, bart., andrew lang, &c. with plates and illustrations in the text. cr. vo., s. d. hunting. by his grace the duke of beaufort, k.g., and mowbray morris. with contributions by the earl of suffolk and berkshire, rev. e. w. l. davies, j. s. gibbons, g. h. longman, &c. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. mountaineering. by c. t. dent, with contributions by sir w. m. conway, d. w. freshfield, c. e. matthews, &c. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. poetry of sport (the).--selected by hedley peek. with a chapter on classical allusions to sport by andrew lang, and a special preface to the badminton library by a. e. t. watson. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. racing and steeple-chasing. by the earl of suffolk and berkshire, w. g. craven, the hon. f. lawley, arthur coventry, and alfred e. t. watson. with coloured frontispiece and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. riding and polo. riding. by captain robert weir, the duke of beaufort, the earl of suffolk and berksire, the earl of onslow, j. murray brown, &c with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. sea fishing. by john bickerdyke, sir h. w. gore-booth, alfred c. harmsworth, and w. senior. with full-page plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. shooting. vol. i. field and covert. by lord walsingham and sir ralph payne-gallwey, bart. with contributions by the hon. gerald lascelles and a. j. stuart-wortley. with full-page illustrations and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. vol. ii. moor and marsh. by lord walsingham and sir ralph payne-gallwey, bart. with contributions by lord lovat and lord charles lennox kerr. with full-page illustrations and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. skating, curling, tobogganing. by j. m. heathcote, c. g. tebbutt, t. maxwell witham, rev. john kerr, ormond hake, henry a. buck, &c. with plates and illustrations and diagrams in the text. crown vo., s. d. swimming. by archibald sinclair and william henry, hon. secs. of the life-saving society. with plates and illustrations in the text. cr. vo., s. d. tennis, lawn tennis, racquets, and fives. by j. m. and c. g. heathcotee, e. o. pleydell-bouverie, and a. c. ainger. with contributions by the hon. a. lyttelton, w. c. marshall, miss l. dod, &c. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. yachting. vol. i. cruising, construction of yachts, yacht racing rules, fitting-out, &c. by sir edward sullivan, bart., the earl of pembroke, lord brassey, k.c.b., c. e. seth-smith, c.b., g. l. watson, r. t. pritchett, e. f. knight, &c. with plates, and illustrations in the text, and from photographs. crown vo., s. d. vol. ii. yacht clubs, yachting in america and the colonies, yacht racing, &c. by r. t. pritchett, the marquis of dufferin and ava, k.p., the earl of onslow, james mcferran, &c. with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. fur and feather series. edited by a. e. t. watson. crown vo., s. each volume. the volumes are also issued half-bound in leather, with gilt top. the price can be had from all booksellers. the partridge. natural history, by the rev. h. a. macpherson; shooting, by a. j. stuart-wortley; cookery, by george saintsbury. with illustrations and various diagrams in the text. crown vo. s. the grouse. natural history by the rev. h. a. macpherson; shooting, by a. j. stuart-wortley; cookery, by george saintsbury. with illustrations and various diagrams in the text. crown vo., s. the pheasant. natural history by the rev. h. a. macpherson; shooting, by a. j. stuart-wortley; cookery, by alexander innes shand. with illustrations and various diagrams. crown vo., s. the hare. natural history by the rev. h. a. macpherson; shooting by the hon. gerald lascelles; coursing, by charles richardson; hunting, by j. s. gibbons and g. h. longman; cookery, by col. kenney herbert, with illustrations. cr. vo., s. red deer. natural history, by the rev. h. a. macpherson; deer stalking, by cameron of lochiel. stag hunting, by viscount ebrington; cookery, by alexander innes shand. with illustrations by j. charlton and a. thorburn. cr. vo., s. other volumes are in preparation. badminton magazine (the) of sports and pastimes. edited by alfred e. e. watson ('rapier'). with numerous illustrations. price s. monthly. vols. i-iii., s. each. bickerdyke.--days of my life on waters fresh and salt; and other papers. by john bickerdyke. with photo-etched frontispiece and full-page illustrations. crown vo., s. dead shot (the): or, sportsman's complete guide. being a treatise on the use of the gun, with rudimentary bud finishing lessons on the art of shooting game of all kinds. also game-driving, wildfowl and pigeon-shooting, dog-breaking, etc. by marksman. illustrated. crown vo., s. d. ellis.--chess sparks; or, short and bright games of chess. collected and arranged by j. h. ellis, m.a. vo., s. d. falkener.--games, ancient and oriental, and how to play them. by edward falkener. with numerous photographs, diagrams, &c. vo., s. folkard.--the wild-fowler: a treatise on fowling, ancient and modern; descriptive also of decoys and flight-ponds, wild-fowl shooting, gunning-punts, shooting-yachts, etc. by h. c. folkard. with engravings on steel, and several woodcuts. vo., s. d. ford.--the theory and practice of archery. by horace ford. new edition, thoroughly revised and rewritten by w. butt, m.a. with a preface by c. j. longman, m.a. vo., s. francis.--a book on angling: or treatise on the act of fishing in every branch; including full illustrated list of salmon flies. by francis francis. with portrait and coloured plates. crown vo., s. gibson.--tobogganing on crooked runs. by the hon. harry gibson. with contributions by f. de b. strickland and 'lady-tobogganer'. with illustrations. crown vo., s. graham.--country pastimes for boys. by p. anderson graham. with illustrations from drawings and photographs. crown vo., s. lang.--angling sketches. by a. lang. with illus. cr. vo., s. d. lillie.--croquet: its history, rules, and secrets. by arthur lillie, champion, grand national croquet club, ; winner of the 'all comers' championship,' maidstone, . with illustrations by lucien davis. crown vo. longman.--chess openings. by fred. w. longman. fcp. vo., s. d. madden.--the diary of master william silence: a study of shakespeare and of elizabethan sport. by the right hon. d. h. madden, vice-chancellor of the university of dublin. vo. maskelyne.--sharps and flats: a complete revelation of the secrets of cheating at games of chance and skill. by john nevil maskelyne, of the egyption hall. with illustrations. crown vo., s. park.--the game of golf. by william park, junr., champion golfer, - . with plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. payne-gallwey (sir ralph, bart.). letters to young shooters (first series). on the choice and use of a gun. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. letters to young shooters (second series). on the production, preservation, and killing of game. with directions in shooting wood-pigeons and breaking-in retrievers. with portrait and illustrations. crown vo., s. d. letters to young shooters (third series). comprising a short natural history of the wildfowl that are rare or common to the british islands, with complete directions in shooting wildfowl on the coast and inland. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. pole (william). the theory of the modern scientific game of whist. fcp. vo., s. d. the evolution of whist: a study of the progressive changes which the game has undergone. crown vo., s. d. proctor.--how to play whist: with the laws and etiquette of whist. by richard a. proctor. crown vo., s. d. ronalds.--the fly-fisher's entomology. by alfred ronalds. with coloured plates. vo., s. thompson and cannan. hand-in-hand figure skating. by norcliffe g. thompson and f. laura cannan. members of the skating club. with an introduction by captain j. h. thomson, r.a. with illustrations. mo., s. wilcocks. the sea fisherman: comprising the chief methods of hook and line fishing in the british and other seas, and remarks on nets, boats, and boating. by j. c. wilcocks. illustrated. crown vo., s. veterinary medicine &c. steel (john henry). a treatise on the diseases of the dog. illustrations. vo., s. d. a treatise on the diseases of the ox. with illustrations. vo., s. a treatise on the diseases of the sheep. with illustrations. vo., s. outlines of equine anatomy: a manual for the use of veterinary students in the dissecting room. crown vo., s. d. fitzwygram.--horses and stables. by major-general sir f. fitzwygram, bart. with pages of illustrations. vo., s. d. net. 'stonehenge.'--the dog in health and disease. by 'stonehenge'. with illustrations. vo., s. d. youatt (william). the horse. revised and enlarged. by w. watson. m.r.c.v.s. with wood illustrations. vo., s. d. the dog. revised and enlarged. with wood illustrations. vo., s. mental, moral and political philosophy. logic, rhetoric, psychology. &c. abbott.--the elements of logic. by t. k. abbott, b.d. mo., s. aristotle. the politics: g. bekker's greek text of books i., iii., iv. (vii.), with an english translation by w. e. bolland m.a.; and short introductory essays by a. lang, m.a. crown vo., s. d. youth and old age, life and death, and respiration. translated, with introduction and notes, by w. ogle, m.a., m.d., f.r.c.p. vo., s. d. the politics: introductory essays. by andrew lang (from bolland and lang's 'politics'). cr. vo., s. d. the ethics: greek text, illustrated with essay and notes. by sir alexander grant, bart. vols. vo., s. an introduction to aristotle's ethics. books i.-iv. (book x. c. vi.-ix. in an appendix.) with a continuous analysis and notes. by the rev. e. moore, d.d. cr. vo., s. d. bacon (francis). complete works. edited by r. l. ellis, j. spedding, and d. d. heath. vols. vo., £ s. d. letters and life, including all his occasional works. edited by james spedding. vols. vo., £ s. the essays: with annotations. by richard whately, d.d. vo., s. d. the essays: edited, with notes. by f. storr and c. h. gibson. cr. vo., s. d. the essays. with introduction, notes, and index. by e. a. abbott, d.d. vols. fcp. vo., s. the text and index only, without introduction and notes, in one volume. fcp. vo., s. d. bain (alexander). mental science. crown vo., s. d. moral science. crown vo., s. d. the two works as above can be had in one volume, price s. d. senses and the intellect. vo., s. emotions and the will. vo., s. logic, deductive and inductive. part i., s. part ii., s. d. practical essays. crown vo., s. bray (charles). the philosophy of necessity: or law in mind as in matter. cr. vo., s. the education of the feelings: a moral system for schools. crown vo., s. d. bray.--elements of morality, in easy lessons for home and school teaching. by mrs. charles bray. cr. vo., s. d. crozier.--history of intellectual development, vol. i. containing a history of the evolution of greek and hindoo thought, of græco-roman paganism, of judaism, and of christianity down to the closing of the schools of athens by justinian, a.d. by john beattie crozier, author of 'civilisation and progress'. vo., s. davidson.--the logic of definition, explained and applied. by william l. davidson, m.a. crown vo., s. green (thomas hill). the works of. edited by r. l. nettleship. vols. i. and ii. philosophical works. vo., s. each. vol. iii. miscellanies. with index to the three volumes, and memoir. vo., s. lectures on the principles of political obligation. with preface by bernard bosanquet. vo., s. hodgson (shadworth h.). time and space: a metaphysical essay. vo., s. the theory of practice: an ethical inquiry. vols. vo., s. the philosophy of reflection. vols. vo., s. hume.--the philosophical works of david hume. edited by t. h. green and t. h. grose. vols. vo., s. or separately, essays. vols. s. treatise of human nature. vols. s. james.--the will to believe, and other essays in popular philosophy. by william james, ll.d., professor of psychology in harvard university. crown vo., s. d. justinian.--the institutes of justinian: latin text, chiefly that of huschke, with english introduction, translation, notes, and summary. by thomas c. sandars, m.a. vo., s. kant (immanuel). critique of practical reason, and other works on the theory of ethics. translated by t. k. abbott, b.d. with memoir. vo., s. d. fundamental principles of the metaphysic of ethics. translated by t. k. abbott, b.d. (extracted from 'kant's critique of practical reason and other works on the theory of ethics'. cr. vo., s. introduction to logic, and his essay on the mistaken subtilty of the four figures. translated by t. k. abbott. vo., s. killick.--handbook to mill's system of logic. by rev. a. h. killick, m.a. crown vo., s. d. ladd (george trumbull). philosophy of mind: an essay on the metaphysics of psychology. vo., s. elements of physiological psychology. vo., s. outlines of physiological psychology. a text-book of mental science for academies and colleges. vo., s. psychology, descriptive and explanatory: a treatise of the phenomena, laws, and development of human mental life. vo., s. primer of psychology. crown vo., s. d. lewes.--the history of philosophy, from thales to comte. by george henry lewes. vols. vo., s. max müller (f.). the science of thought. vo., s. three introductory lectures on the science of thought. vo., s. d. mill.--analysis of the phenomena of the human mind. by james mill. vols. vo., s. mill (john stuart). a system of logic. cr. vo., s. d. on liberty. cr. vo., s. d. on representative government. crown vo., s. utilitarianism. vo., s. d. examination of sir william hamilton's philosophy. vo., s. nature, the utility of religion, and theism. three essays. vo., s. mosso.--fear. by angelo mosso. translated from the italian by e. lough and f. kiesow. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. romanes.--mind and motion and monism. by george john romanes, ll.d., f.r.s. crown vo., s. d. stock (st. george). deductive logic. fcp. vo., s. d. lectures in the lyceum; or, aristotle's ethics for english readers. crown vo., s. d. sully (james). the human mind: a text-book of psychology. vols. vo., s. outlines of psychology. crown vo., s. the teacher's handbook of psychology. crown vo., s. studies of childhood. vo., s. d. children's ways: being selections from the author's 'studies of childhood,' with new matter. crown vo. swinburne.--picture logic: an attempt to popularise the science of reasoning. by alfred james swinburne, m.a. with woodcuts. post vo., s. weber.--history of philosophy. by alfred weber, professor in the university of strasburg, translated by frank thilly, ph.d. vo., s. whately (archbishop). bacon's essays. with annotations by r. whately. vo., s. d. elements of logic. cr. vo., s. d. elements of rhetoric. cr. vo., s. d. lessons on reasoning. fcp. vo., s. d. zeller (dr. edward, professor in the university of berlin). the stoics, epicureans, and sceptics. translated by the rev. o. j. reichel, m.a. crown vo., s. outlines of the history of greek philosophy. translated by sarah f. alleyne and evelyn abbott. crown vo., s. d. plato and the older academy. translated by sarah f. alleyne and alfred goodwin, b.a. crown vo., s. socrates and the socratic schools. translated by the rev. o. j. reichel, m.a. crown vo., s. aristotle and the earlier peripatetics. translated by b. f. c. costelloe, m.a., and j. h. muirhead, m.a. vols. cr. vo., s. manuals of catholic philosophy. (stonyhurst series.) a manual of political economy. by c. s. devas, m.a. cr. vo., s. d. first principles of knowledge. by john rickaby, s.j. crown vo., s. general metaphysics. by john rickaby, s.j. crown vo., s. logic. by richard f. clarke, s.j. crown vo., s. moral philosophy (ethics and natural law). by joseph rickaby, s.j. crown vo., s. natural theology. by bernard boedder, s.j. crown vo., s. d. psychology. by michael maher, s.j. crown vo., s. d. history and science of language, &c. davidson.--leading and important english words: explained and exemplified. by william l. davidson, m.a. fcp. vo., s. d. farrar.--language and languages. by f. w. farrar, d.d., f.r.s., cr. vo., s. graham.--english synonyms, classified and explained: with practical exercises. by g. f. graham. fcap. vo., s. max müller (f.). the science of language, founded on lectures delivered at the royal institution in and . vols. crown. vo., s. biographies of words, and the home of the aryas. crown vo., s. d. three lectures on the science of language, and its place in general education, delivered at oxford, . crown vo., s. roget.--thesaurus of english words and phrases. classified and arranged so as to facilitate the expression of ideas and assist in literary composition. by peter mark roget, m.d., f.r.s. recomposed throughout, enlarged and improved, partly from the author's notes, and with a full index, by the author's son, john lewis roget. crown vo., s. d. whately.--english synonyms. by e. jane whately. fcap. vo., s. political economy and economics. ashley.--english economic history and theory. by w. j. ashley, m.a. crown vo., part i., s. part ii., s. d. bagehot.--economic studies. by walter bagehot. cr. vo., s. d. barnett.--practicable socialism: essays on social reform. by the rev. s. a. and mrs. barnett. cr. vo., s. brassey.--papers and addresses on work and wages. by lord brassey. edited by j. potter, and with introduction by george howell, m.p. crown vo., s. devas.--a manual of political economy. by c. s. devas, m.a. crown vo., s. d. (manuals of catholic philosophy.) dowell.--a history of taxation and taxes in england, from the earliest times to the year . by stephen dowell. ( vols. vo.) vols. i. and ii. the history of taxation, s. vols. iii. and iv. the history of taxes, s. jordan.--the standard of value. by william leighton jordan, fellow of the royal statistical society, &c. crown vo., s. macleod (henry dunning, m.a.). bimetalism. vo., s. net. the elements of banking. crown vo., s. d. the theory and practice of banking. vol. i. vo., s. vol. ii. s. the theory of credit. vo. vol. i. s. net. vol. ii., part i., s. net. vol ii. part ii., s. d. a digest of the law of bills of exchange, bank notes, &c. [in the press. mill.--political economy. by john stuart mill. popular edition. crown vo., s. d. library edition. vols. vo., s. mulhall.--industries and wealth of nations. by michael g. mulhall, f.s.s. with full-page diagrams. crown vo., s. d. soderini.--socialism and catholicism. from the italian of count edward soderini. by richard jenery-shee. with a preface by cardinal vaughan. crown vo., s. symes.--political economy: a short text-book of political economy. with problems for solution, and hints for supplementary reading; also a supplementary chapter on socialism. by professor j. e. symes, m.a., of university college, nottingham. cr. vo., s. d. toynbee.--lectures on the industrial revolution of the th century in england: popular addresses, notes and other fragments. by arnold toynbee. with a memoir of the author by benjamin jowett, d.d. vo., s. d. webb (sidney and beatrice). the history of trade unionism. with map and full bibliography of the subject. vo., s. industrial democracy: a study in trade unionism. vols. vo. [in the press. this work is an exhaustive analysis of trade unionism and its relation to other democratic movements, to which 'the history of trade unionism,' published in , may be regarded as an introduction. studies in economics and political science. issued under the auspices of the london school of economics and political science. the history of local rates in england: five lectures. by edwin cannan, m.a. crown vo., s. d. german social democracy. by bertrand russell, b.a. with an appendix on social democracy and the woman question in germany by alys russell, b.a. cr. vo., s. d. select documents illustrating the history of trade unionism. i. the tailoring trade. edited by w. f. galton. with a preface by sidney webb, ll.b. crown vo., s. deploige's referendum en suisse. translated with introduction and notes, by c. p. trevelyan, m.a. [in preparation. select documents illustrating the state regulation of wages. edited, with introduction and notes, by w. a. s. hewins, m.a. [in preparation. hungarian gild records. edited by dr. julius mandello, of budapest. [in preparation. the relations between england and the hanseatic league. by miss e. a. macarthur. [in preparation. evolution, anthropology, &c. babington.--fallacies of race theories as applied to national characteristics. essays by william dalton babington, m.a. crown vo., s. clodd (edward). the story of creation: a plain account of evolution. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. a primer of evolution: being a popular abridged edition of 'the story of creation'. with illustrations. fcp. vo., s. d. lang.--custom and myth: studies of early usage and belief. by andrew lang. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. lubbock.--the origin of civilisation and the primitive condition of man. by sir j. lubbock, bart., m.p. with plates and illustrations in the text. vo., s. romanes (george john). darwin, and after darwin: an exposition of the darwinian theory, and a discussion on post-darwinian questions. part i. the darwinian theory. with portrait of darwin and illustrations. crown vo., s. d. part ii. post-darwinian questions: heredity and utility. with portrait of the author and illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. part iii. post-darwinian questions: isolation and physiological selection. crown vo. an examination of weismannism. crown vo., s. essays. edited by c. lloyd morgan, principal of university college, bristol. classical literature and translations, &c. abbott.--hellenica. a collection of essays on greek poetry, philosophy, history, and religion. edited by evelyn abbott, m.a., ll.d. vo., s. �schylus.--eumenides of �schylus. with metrical english translation. by j. f. davies. vo., s. aristophanes.--the acharnians of aristophanes, translated into english verse. by r. y. tyrrell. cr. vo., s. aristotle.--youth and old age, life and death, and respiration. translated, with introduction and notes, by w. ogle, m.a., m.d., f.r.c.p., sometime fellow of corpus christi college, oxford. becker (professor). gallus: or, roman scenes in the time of augustus. illustrated. post vo., s. d. charicles: or, illustrations of the private life of the ancient greeks. illustrated. post vo., s. d. cicero.--cicero's correspondence. by r. y. tyrrell. vols. i., ii., iii. vo., each s. vol. iv., s. egbert.--introduction to the study of latin inscriptions. by james c. egbert, junr., ph.d. with numerous illustrations and fac-similes. square crown vo., s. farnell.--greek lyric poetry: a complete collection of the surviving passages from the greek song-writing. arranged with prefatory articles, introductory matter and commentary. by george s. farnell, m.a. with plates. vo., s. lang.--homer and the epic. by andrew lang. crown vo., s. net. lucan.--the pharsalia of lucan. translated into blank verse. by edward ridley, q.c. vo., s. mackail.--select epigrams from the greek anthology, by j. w. mackail. edited with a revised text, introduction, translation, and notes. vo., s. rich.--a dictionary of roman and greek antiquities. by a. rich, b.a. with woodcuts. crown vo., s. d. sophocles.--translated into english verse. by robert whitelaw, m.a., assistant master in rugby school. cr. vo., s. d. tacitus.--the history of p. cornelius tacitus. translated into english, with an introduction and notes, critical and explanatory, by albert william quill, m.a., t.c.d. vols. vol. i., vo., s. d., vol ii., vo., s. d. tyrrell.--translations into greek and latin verse. edited by r. y. tyrrell. vo., s. virgil.--the �neid of virgil. translated into english verse by john conington. crown vo., s. the poems of virgil. translated into english prose by john conington. crown vo., s. the �neid of virgil, freely translated into english blank verse. by w. j. thornhill. crown vo., s. d. the �neid of virgil. translated into english verse by james rhoades. books i.-vi. crown vo., s. books vii.-xii. crown vo., s. poetry and the drama. allingham (william). irish songs and poems. with frontispiece of the waterfall of asaroe. fcp. vo., s. laurence bloomfield. with portrait of the author. fcp. vo., s. d. flower pieces; day and night songs; ballads. with designs by d. g. rossetti. fcp. vo., s.; large paper edition, s. life and phantasy: with frontispiece by sir j. e. millais, bart., and design by arthur hughes. fcp. vo, s.; large paper edition, s. thought and word, and ashby manor: a play. fcp. vo., s.; large paper edition, s. blackberries. imperial mo., s. sets of the above vols. may be had in uniform half-parchment binding, price s. armstrong (g. f. savage). poems: lyrical and dramatic. fcp. vo., s. king saul. (the tragedy of israel, part i.) fcp. vo. s. king david. (the tragedy of israel, part ii.) fcp. vo., s. king solomon. (the tragedy of israel, part iii.) fcp. vo., s. ugone: a tragedy. fcp. vo., s. a garland from greece: poems. fcp. vo., s. d. stories of wicklow: poems. fcp. vo., s. d. mephistopheles in broadcloth: a satire. fcp. vo., s. one in the infinite: a poem. cr. vo., s. d. armstrong.--the poetical works of edmund j. armstrong. fcp. vo., s. arnold (sir edwin). the light of the world: or, the great consummation. with illustrations after w. holman hunt. cr. vo., s. potiphar's wife, and other poems. crown vo., s. net. adzuma: or, the japanese wife. a play. crown vo., s. d. net. the tenth muse, and other poems. crown vo., s. net. beesly (a. h.). ballads, and other verse. fcp. vo., s. danton, and other verse. fcp. vo., s. d. bell (mrs. hugh). chamber comedies: a collection of plays and monologues for the drawing room. crown vo., s. fairy tale plays, and how to act them. with diagrams and illustrations. crown vo., s. christie.--lays and verses. by nimmo christie. crown vo., s. d. cochrane (alfred). the kestrel's nest, and other verses. fcp. vo., s. d. leviore plectro: occasional verses. fcp. vo., s. d. florian's fables.--the fables of florian. done into english verse by sir philip perring, bart. crown vo., s. d. goethe. faust, part i., the german text, with introduction and notes. by albert m. selss, ph.d., m.a. cr. vo., s. faust. translated, with notes. by t. e. webb. vo., s. d. gurney.--day dreams: poems. by rev. alfred gurney. m.a. crown vo., s. d. ingelow (jean). poetical works. vols. fcp. vo., s. lyrical and other poems. selected from the writings of jean ingelow. fcp. vo., s. d.; cloth plain, s. cloth gilt. lang (andrew). ban and arri�re ban. a rally of fugitive rhymes. fcp. vo., s. net. grass of parnassus. fcp. vo., s. d. net. ballads of books. edited by andrew lang. fcp. vo., s. the blue poetry book. edited by andrew lang. with illustrations. crown vo., s. lecky.--poems. by w. e. h. lecky. fcp. vo., s. lindsay.--the flower seller, and other poems. by lady lindsay. crown vo., s. lytton (the earl of) (owen meredith). marah. fcp. vo., s. d. king poppy: a fantasia. with plate and design on title-page by sir ed. burne-jones, a.r.a. crown vo., s. d. the wanderer. cr. vo., s. d. lucile. crown vo., s. d. selected poems. cr. vo., s. d. macaulay.--lays of ancient rome, &c. by lord macaulay. illustrated by g. scharf. fcp. to., s. d. ---- bijou edition. mo., s. d., gilt top. ---- popular edition. fcp. to., d. sewed, s. cloth. illustrated by j. r. weguelin. crown vo., s. d. annotated edition, fcp. vo, s. sewed, s. d. cloth. macdonald (george, ll.d.). a book of strife, in the form of the diary of an old soul: poems. mo., s. rampollo: growths from an old root; containing a book of translations, old and new; also a year's diary of an old soul. cr. vo., s. morris (william). poetical works--library edition. complete in ten volumes. crown vo., price s. each:-- the earthly paradise. vols. s. each. the life and death of jason. s. the defence of guenevere, and other poems. s. the story of sigurd the volsung, and the fall of the niblungs. s. love is enough; or, the freeing of pharamond: a morality; and poems by the way. s. the odyssey of homer. done into english verse. s. the �neids of virgil. done into english verse. s. certain of the poetical works may also be had in the following editions:-- the earthly paradise. popular edition. vols. mo., s.; or s. each, sold separately. the same in ten parts, s.; or s. d. each, sold separately. cheap edition, in vol. cr. vo., s. d. love is enough; or, the freeing of pharamond: a morality. square crown vo., s. d. poems by the way. square crown vo., s. for mr. william morris's prose works, see pp. and . nesbit.--lays and legends. by e. nesbit (mrs. hubert bland). first series. crown vo., s. d. second series, with portrait. crown vo., s. rhoades.--teresa and other poems. by james rhoades. crown vo., s. d. riley (james whitcomb). old fashioned roses: poems. mo., s. poems here at home. fcap. vo., s. net. a child-world: poems. fcp. vo., s. romanes.--a selection from the poems of george john romanes, m.a., ll.d., f.r.s. with an introduction by t. herbert warren, president of magdalen college, oxford, crown vo., s. d. shakespeare.--bowdler's family shakespeare. with woodcuts. vol. vo., s. or in vols. fcp. vo., s. the shakespeare birthday book. by mary f. dunbar. mo., s. d. wordsworth and coleridge.--a description of the wordsworth and coleridge manuscripts in the possession of mr. t. norton longman. edited, with notes, by w. hale white. with fac-similes. to., s. d. works of fiction, humour, &c. alden.--among the freaks. by w. l. alden. with illustrations by j. f. sullivan and florence k. upton. crown vo., s. d. anstey (f., author of 'vice versâ'). voces populi. reprinted from 'punch'. first series. with illustrations by j. bernard partridge. cr. vo., s. d. the man from blankley's: a story in scenes, and other sketches. with illustrations by j. bernard partridge. post to., s. astor.--a journey in other worlds: a romance of the future. by john jacob astor. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. baker.--by the western sea. by james baker, author of 'john westacott'. crown vo., s. d. beaconsfield (the earl of). novels and tales. complete in vols. cr. vo., s. d. each. vivian grey. the young duke, &c. alroy, ixion &c. contarini fleming, &c. tancred. sybil. henrietta temple. venetia. coningsby. lothair. endymion. novels and tales. the hughenden edition. with portraits and vignettes. vols. cr. vo., s. black.--the princess d�sir�e. by clementia black. with illustrations by john williamson. cr. vo., s. crump.--wide asunder as the poles. by arthur crump. crown vo., s. dougall (l.). beggars all. crown vo., s. d. what necessity knows. crown vo., s. doyle (a. conan). micah clarke: a tale of monmouth's rebellion. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. the captain of the polestar, and other tales. cr. vo., s. d. the refugees: a tale of two continents. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. the stark-munro letters. cr. vo., s. farrar (f. w., dean of canterbury). darkness and dawn: or, scenes in the days of nero. an historic tale. cr. vo., s. d. gathering clouds: a tale of the days of st. chrysostom. crown vo., s. d. fowler (edith h.). the young pretenders. a story of child life. with illustrations by philip burne-jones. cr. vo., s. the professor's children: a story. with numerous illustrations by ethel kate burgess. froude.--the two chiefs of dunboy: an irish romance of the last century. by j. a. froude. cr. vo. s. d. gilkes.--the autobiography of kallistratus: a story of the time of the second punic war. by a. h. gilkes, m.a., master of dulwich college. with illustrations by maurice greiffenhagen. graham.--the red scaur: a novel of manners. by p. anderson graham. cr. vo., s. haggard (h. rider). heart of the world. with illustrations, crown vo., s. joan haste. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. the people of the mist. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. montezuma's daughter. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. she. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. allan quatermain. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. maiwa's revenge. crown vo., s. d. colonel quaritch, v.c. cr. vo., s. d. cleopatra. with illustrations crown vo., s. d. beatrice. cr. vo., s. d. eric brighteyes. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. nada the lily. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. allan's wife. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. the witch's head. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. mr. meeson's will. with illustrations. corwn vo., s. d. dawn. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. haggard and lang.--the world's desire. by h. rider haggard and andrew lang. with illustrations crown vo., s. d. harte.--in the carquinez woods, and other stories. by bret harte. cr. vo., s. d. hope.--the heart of princess osra. by anthony hope. with illustrations by john williamson. crown vo., s. hornung.--the unbidden guest. by e. w. hornung. cr. vo., s. d. jerome.--sketches in lavender: blue and green. short stories. by jerome k. jerome. crown vo., s. lang.--a monk of fife: being the chronicle written by norman leslie of pitcullo, concerning marvellous deeds that befel in the realm of france, - . by andrew lang. with illustrations by selwyn image. crown vo., s. lyall (edna). the autobiography of a slander. fcp. vo., s. sewed. presentation edition. with illustrations by lancelot speed. cr. vo., s. d. net. the autobiography of a truth. fcp. vo., s. sewed; s. d. cloth. doreen: the story of a singer. cr. vo., s. magruder.--the violet. by julia magruder. with illustrations by c. d. gibson. crown vo., s. matthews.--his father's son: a novel of the new york stock exchange. by brander matthews. with illustration cr. vo., s. melville (g. j. whyte). the gladiators. the interpreter. good for nothing. the queen's maries. holmby house. kate coventry. digby grand. general bounce. cr. vo., s. d. each. merriman.--flotsam: the study of a life. by henry seton merriman. with frontispiece and vignette by h. g. massey, a.r.e. cr. vo., s. morris (william). the well at the world's end. vols., vo., s. the story of the glittering plain, which has been also called the land of the living men, or the acre of the undying. square post vo., s. net. the roots of the mountains, wherein is told somewhat of the lives of the men of burgdale, their friends, their neighbours, their foemen, and their fellows-in-arms. written in prose and verse. square cr. vo., s. a tale of the house of the wolfings, and all the kindreds of the mark. written in prose and verse. second edition. square cr. vo., s. a dream of john ball, and a king's lesson. mo., s. d. news from nowhere; or, an epoch of rest. being some chapters from an utopian romance. post vo., s. d. for mr. william morris's poetical works, see p. . newman (cardinal). loss and gain: the story of a convert. crown vo. cabinet edition, s.; popular edition, s. d. callista: a tale of the third century. crown vo. cabinet edition, s.; popular edition, s. d. oliphant.--old mr. tredgold. by mrs. oliphant. crown vo., s. phillipps-wolley.--snap: a legend of the lone mountain. by c. phillipps-wolley. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. quintana.--the cid campeador; an historical romance. by d. antonio de trueba y la quintana. translated from the spanish by henry j. gill, m.a., t.c.d. crown vo., s. rhoscomyl (owen). the jewel of ynys galon: being a hitherto unprinted chapter in the history of the sea rovers. with illustrations by lancelot speed. crown vo., s. d. battlement and tower: a romance. with frontispiece by r. caton woodville. crown vo., s. for the white rose of arno: a story of the jacobite rising of . crown vo., s. rokeby.--dorcas hobday. by charles rokeby. crown vo., s. sewell (elizabeth m.). a glimpse of the world. laneton parsonage. margaret percival. katharine ashton. the earl's daughter. the experience of life. amy herbert. cleve hall. gertrude. home life. after life. ursula. ivors. cr. vo., s. d. each, cloth plain. s. d. each, cloth extra, gilt edges. stevenson (robert louis). the strange case of dr. jekyll and mr. hyde. fcp. vo., s. sewed, s. d. cloth. the strange case of dr. jekyll and mr. hyde; with other fables. crown vo., s. d. more new arabian nights--the dynamiter. by robert louis stevenson and fanny van de grift stevenson. crown vo., s. d. the wrong box. by robert louis stevenson and lloyd osbourne. crown vo., s. d. suttner.--lay down your arms die waffen nieder: the autobiography of martha tilling. by bertha von suttner. translated by t. holmes. cr. vo., s. d. trollope (anthony). the warden. cr. vo., s. d. barchester towers. cr. vo., s. d. true (a) relation of the travels and perilous adventures of mathew dudgeon, gentleman: wherein is truly set down the manner of his taking, the long time of his slavery in algiers, and means of his delivery. written by himself, and now for the first time printed. cr. vo., s. walford (l. b.). mr. smith: a part of his life. crown vo., s. d. the baby's grandmother. crown vo., s. d. cousins. crown vo., s. d. troublesome daughters. crown vo., s. d. pauline. crown vo., s. d. dick netherby. crown vo., s. d. the history of a week. crown vo., s. d. a stiff-necked generation. crown vo., s. d. nan, and other stories. cr. vo., s. d. the mischief of monica. crown vo., s. d. the one good guest. cr. vo., s. d. 'ploughed,' and other stories. crown vo., s. d. the matchmaker. cr. vo., s. d. west (b. b.). half-hours with the millionaires: showing how much harder it is to spend a million than to make it. cr. vo., s. sir simon vanderpetter, and minding his ancestors. cr. vo., s. a financial atonement. cr. vo., s. weyman (stanley). the house of the wolf. cr. vo., s. d. a gentleman of france. cr. vo., s. the red cockade. cr. vo., s. whishaw.--a boyar of the terrible: a romance of the court of ivan the cruel, first tzar of russia. by fred. whishaw. with illustrations by h. g. massey, a.r.e. cr. vo., s. yeats.--a galahad of the creeks, and other stories. by s. levett yeats, author of "the honour of savelli". crown vo., s. popular science (natural history, &c.). butler.--our household insects. an account of the insect-pests found in dwelling houses. by edward a. butler, b.a. b.sc. (lond.). with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. furneaux (w.). the outdoor world; or, the young collector's handbook. with plates, of which are coloured, and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. butterflies and moths (british). with coloured plates and illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. life in ponds and streams. with coloured plates and illustrations in the text. cr. vo., s. d. hartwig (dr. george). the sea and its living wonders. with plates and woodcuts. vo., s. net. the tropical world. with plates and woodcuts. vo., s. net. the polar world. with maps, plates and woodcuts. vo., s. net. the subterranean world. with maps and woodcuts. vo., s. net. the aerial world. with map, plates and woodcuts. vo., s. net. heroes of the polar world. illustrations. crown vo., s. wonders of the tropical forests. illustrations. crown vo., s. workers under the ground. illustrations. crown vo., s. marvels over our heads. illustrations. crown vo., s. sea monsters and sea birds. illustrations. crown vo., s. d. denizens of the deep. illustrations. crown vo., s. d. volcanoes and earthquakes. illustrations. crown vo., s. d. wild animals of the tropics. illustrations. crown vo., s. d. hayward.--bird notes. by the late jane mary hayward. edited by emma hubbard. with frontispiece and illustrations by g. e. lodge. crown vo., s. helmholtz.--popular lectures on scientific subjects. by hermann von helmholtz. with woodcuts. vols. crown vo., s. d. each. hudson.--british birds. by w. h. hudson, c.m.z.s. with a chapter on structure and classification by frank e. beddard, f.r.s. with plates ( of which are coloured), and over illustrations in the text. crown vo., s. d. proctor (richard a.). light science for leisure hours. familiar essays on scientific subjects. vols. crown vo., s. each. rough ways made smooth. familiar essays on scientific subjects. crown vo., s. d. pleasant ways in science. crown vo., s. d. nature studies. by r. a. proctor, grant allen, a. wilson, t. foster and e. clodd. crown vo., s. d. leisure readings. by r. a. proctor, e. clodd, a. wilson, t. foster, and a. c. ranyard. cr. vo., s. d. for mr. proctor's other books see messrs. longmans & co.'s catalogue of scientific works. stanley.--a familiar history of birds. by e. stanley, d.d., formerly bishop of norwich. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. wood (rev. j. g.). homes without hands: a description of the habitation of animals, classed according to the principle of construction. with illustrations. vo., s. net. insects at home: a popular account of british insects, their structure, habits and transformations. with illustrations. vo., s. net. insects abroad: a popular account of foreign insects, their structure, habits and transformations. with illustrations. vo., s. net. bible animals: a description of every living creature mentioned in the scriptures. with illustrations. vo., s. net. petland revisited. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. out of doors: a selection of original articles on practical natural history. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. strange dwellings: a description of the habitations of animals, abridged from 'homes without hands'. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. bird life of the bible. illustrations. crown vo., s. d. wonderful nests. illustrations. crown vo. s. d. homes under the ground. illustrations. crown vo., s. d. wild animals of the bible. illustrations. crown vo., s. d. domestic animals of the bible. illustrations. crown vo., s. d. the branch builders. illustrations. crown vo., s. d. social habitations and parasitic nests. illustrations. crown vo., s. works of reference. longmans' gazetteer of the world. edited by george g. chisholm, m.a., b.sc. imp. vo., £ s. cloth, £ s. d. half-morocca. maunder (samuel). biographical treasury. with supplement brought down to . by rev. james wood. fcp. vo., s. treasury of natural history: or, popular dictionary of zoology. with woodcuts. fcp. vo., s. treasury of geography, physical, historical, descriptive, and political. with maps and plates. fcp. vo., s. the treasury of bible knowledge. by the rev. j. ayre, m.a. with maps, plates, and woodcuts. fcp. vo., s. treasury of knowledge and library of reference. fcp. vo., s. historical treasury: fcp. vo., s. scientific and literary treasury. fcp. vo., s. the treasury of botany. edited by j. lindley. f.r.s., and t. moore, f.l.s. with woodcuts and steel plates. vols. fcp. vo., s. roget.--thesaurus of english words and phrases. classified and arranged so as to facilitate the expression of ideas and assist in literary composition. by peter mark roget, m.d., f.r.s. recomposed throughout, enlarged and improved, partly from the author's notes and with a full index, by the author's son, john lewis roget. crown vo. s. d. willich.--popular tables for giving information for ascertaining the value of lifehold, leasehold, and church property, the public funds, &c. by charles m. willich. edited by h. bence jones. crown vo., s. d. children's books. crake (rev. a. d.). edwy the fair; or, the first chronicle of �scendune. crown vo., s. d. alfgar the dane: or, the second chronicle of �scendune. cr. vo., s. d. the rival heirs: being the third and last chronicle of �scendune. crown vo., s. d. the house of walderne. a tale of the cloister and the forest in the days of the barons' wars. crown vo., s. d. brian fitz-count. a story of wallingford castle and dorchester abbey. crown vo., s. d. lang (andrew)--edited by. the blue fairy book. with illustrations. crown vo., s. the red fairy book. with illustrations. crown vo., s. the green fairy book. with illustrations. crown vo., s. the yellow fairy book. with illustrations. crown vo., s. the blue poetry book. with illustrations. crown vo., s. the blue poetry book. school edition, without illustrations. fcp. vo., s. d. the true story book. with illustrations. crown vo., s. the red true story book. with illustrations. crown vo., s. the animal story book. with illustrations. crown vo., s. meade (l. t.). daddy's boy. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. deb and the duchess. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. the beresford prize. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. the house of surprises. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. molesworth.--silverthorns. by mrs. molesworth. with illustrations. crown vo., s. stevenson.--a child's garden of verses. by robert louis stevenson. fcp. vo., s. upton. (florence k., and bertha). the adventures of two dutch dolls and a 'golliwogg'. illustrated by florence k. upton, with words by bertha upton. with coloured plates and numerous illustrations in the text. oblong to., s. the golliwogg's bicycle club. illustrated by florence k. upton. with words by bertha upton. with coloured plates and numerous illustrations in the text. oblong to., s. wordsworth.--the snow garden, and other fairy tales for children. by elizabeth wordsworth, with illustrations by trevor haddon. crown vo., s. longmans' series of books for girls. crown vo., price s. d. each atelier (the) du lys: or an art student in the reign of terror. by the same author. mademoiselle mori: a tale of modern rome. in the olden time: a tale of the peasant war in germany. the younger sister. that child. under a cloud. hester's venture. the fiddler of lugau. a child of the revolution. atherstone priory. by l. n. comyn. the story of a spring morning, &c. by mrs. molesworth. illustrated. the palace in the garden. by mrs. molesworth. illustrated. neighbours. by mrs. molesworth. the third miss st. quentin. by mrs. molesworth. very young; and quite another story. two stories. by jean ingelow. can this be love? by louisa parr. keith deramore. by the author of 'miss molly'. sidney. by margaret deland. an arranged marriage. by dorothea gerard. last words to girls on life at school and after school. by maria grey. stray thoughts for girls. by lucy h. m. soulsby, head mistress of oxford high school. mo., s. d. net. the silver library. crown vo. s. d. each volume. arnold's (sir edwin) seas and lands. with illustrations. s. d. bagehot's (w.) biographical studies. s. d. bagehot's (w.) economic studies. s. d. bagehot's (w.) literary studies. with portrait. vols. s. d. each. baker's (sir s. w.) eight years in ceylon. with illustrations. s. d. baker's (sir s. w.) rifle and hound in ceylon. with illustrations. s. d. baring-gould's (rev. s.) curious myths of the middle ages. s. d. baring-gould's (rev. s.) origin and development of religious belief. vols. s. d. each. becker's (prof.) gallus: or, roman scenes in the time of augustus. illus. s. d. becker's (prof.) charicles: or, illustrations of the private life of the ancient greeks. illustrated. s. d. bent's (j. t.) the ruined cities of mashonaland. with illustrations. s. d. brassey's (lady) a voyage in the 'sunbeam'. with illustrations. s. d. butler's (edward a.) our household insects. with plates and illustrations in the text. s. d. clodd's (e.) story of creation: a plain account of evolution. with illustrations. s. d. conybeare (rev w. j.) and howson's (very rev. j. s.) life and epistles of st. paul. illustrations. s. d. dougall's (l.) beggars all; a novel. s. d. doyle's (a. conan) micah clarke: a tale of monmouth's rebellion. illus. s. d. doyle's (a. conan) the captain of the polestar, and other tales. s. d. doyle's (a. conan) the refugees: a tale of two continents. with illustrations, s. d. froude's (j. a.) the history of england, from the fall of wolsey to the defeat of the spanish armada. vols. s. d. each. froude's (j. a.) the english in ireland. vols. s. d. froude's (j. a.) short studies on great subjects. vols. s. d. each. froude's (j. a.) the spanish story of the armada, and other essays. s. d. froude's (j. a.) the divorce of catherine of aragon. s. d. froude's (j. a.) thomas carlyle: a history of his life. - . vols. s. - . vols. s. froude's (j. a.) cæsar: a sketch. s. d. froude's (j. a.) the two chiefs of dunboy: an irish romance of the last century. s. d. gleig's (rev. g. r.) life of the duke of wellington. with portrait. s. d. greville's (c. c. f.) journal of the reigns or king george iv., king william iv., and queen victoria. vols. s. d. each. haggard's (h. r.) she: a history of adventure. illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) allan quatermain. with illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) colonel quaritch, v.c.: a tale of country life. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) cleopatra. with full-page illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) eric brighteyes. with illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) beatrice. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) allan's wife. with illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) montezuma's daughter. with illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) the witch's head. with illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) mr. meeson's will. with illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) nada the lily. with illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) dawn. with illustrations. s. d. haggard's (h. r.) the people of the mist. with illustrations. s. d. haggard (h. r.) and lang's (a.) the world's desire. with illus. s. d. harte's (bret) in the carquinez woods, and other stories. s. d. helmholtz's (hermann von) popular lectures on scientific subjects. with illustrations. vols. s. d. each. hornung's (e. w.) the unbidden guest. s. d. howitt's (w.) visits to remarkable places. illustrations. s. d. jefferies' (r.) the story of my heart: my autobiography. with portrait. s. d. jefferies' (r.) field and hedgerow. with portrait. s. d. jefferies' (r.) red deer. illus. s. d. jefferies' (r.) wood magic: a fable. with frontispiece and vignette by e. v. b. s. d. jefferies' (r.) the toilers of the field. with portrait from the bust in salisbury cathedral. s. d. knight's (e. f.) the cruise of the 'alerte' a search for treasure on the desert island of trinidad. with maps and illustrations. s. d. knight's (e. f.) where three empires meet: a narrative of recent travel in kashmir, western tibet, baltistan, gilgit. with a map and illustrations. s. d. knight's (e. f.) the 'falcon' on the baltic: a coasting voyage from hammersmith to copenhagen in a three-ton yacht. with map and illustrations. s. d. lang's (a.) angling sketches. illus. s. d. lang's (a.) custom and myth: studies of early usage ad belief. s. d. lang's (andrew) cock lane and common-sense. with a new preface. s. d. lees (j. a.) and clutterbuck's (w. j.) b. c. , a ramble in british columbia. with maps and illustrations. s. d. macaulay's (lord) essays and lays of ancient rome. with portrait and illustration. s. d. macleod's (h. d.) elements of banking. s. d. marshman's (j. c.) memoirs of sir henry havelock. s. d. max müller's (f.) india, what can it teach us? s. d. max müller's (f.) introduction to the science of religion. s. d. merivale's (dean) history of the romans under the empire. vols. s. d. ea. mill's (j. s.) political economy. s. d. mill's (j. s.) system of logic. s. d. milner's (geo.) country pleasures: the chronicle of a year chiefly in a garden. s. d. nansen's (f.) the first crossing of greenland. with illustrations and a map. s. d. phillipps-wolley's (c.) snap: a legend of the lone mountain. with illustrations. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) the orbs around us. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) the expanse of heaven. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) other worlds than ours. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) other suns than ours. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) our place among infinities. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) rough ways made smooth. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) pleasant ways in science. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) myths and marvels of astronomy. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) nature studies. s. d. proctor's (r. a.) leisure readings. by r. a. proctor, edward clodd, andrew wilson, thomas foster, and a. c. ranyard. with illustrations. s. d. rhoscomyl's (owen) the jewel of ynys galon. with illustrations. s. d. rossetti's (marla f.) a shadow of dante. s. d. smith's (r. bosworth) carthage and the carthaginians. with maps, plans, &c. s. d. stanley's (bishop) familiar history of birds. illustrations. s. d. stevenson's (r. l.) the strange case of dr. jekyll and mr. hyde; with other fables. s. d. stevenson (robert louis) and osbourne's (lloyd) the wrong box. s. d. stevenson (robt. louis) and stevenson's (fanny van de grift) more new arabian nights.--the dynamiter. s. d. weyman's (stanley j.) the house of the wolf: a romance. s. d. wood's (rev. j. g.) petland revisited, with illustrations. s. d. wood's (rev. j. g.) strange dwellings. with illustrations. s. d. wood's (rev. j. g.) out of doors. with illustrations. s. d. cookery, domestic management, &c. acton.--modern cookery. by eliza acton. with woodcuts. fcp. vo., s. d. bull (thomas, m.d.). hints to mothers on the management of their health during the period of pregnancy. fcp. vo., s. d. the maternal management of children in health and disease. fcp. vo., s. d. de salis (mrs.). cakes and confections � la mode. fcp. vo. s. d. s. d. dogs: a manual for amateurs. fcp. vo., s. d. dressed game and poultry � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. dressed vegetables � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. drinks � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. entr�es � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. floral decorations. fcp. vo., s. d. gardening � la mode. fcp. vo. part i. vegetables. s. d. part ii. fruits. s. d. national viands � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. new-laid eggs. fcp. vo., s. d. oysters � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. puddings and pastry � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. savouries � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. soups and dressed fish � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. sweets and supper dishes � la mode. fcp. vo., s. d. tempting dishes for small incomes. fcp. vo., s. d. wrinkles and notions for every household. cr. vo., s. d. lear.--maigre cookery. by h. l. sidney lear. mo., s. poole.--cookery for the diabetic. by w. h. and mrs. poole. with preface by dr. pavy. fcp. vo., s. d. walker (jane h.) a book for every woman. part i. the management of children in health and out of health. cr. vo., s. d. part ii. woman in health and out of health. a handbook for mothers: being simple hints to women on the management of their health during pregnancy and confinement, together with plain directions as to the care of infants. cr. vo., s. d.> miscellaneous and critical works. allingham.--varieties in prose. by william allingham. vols. cr. vo., s. (vols. and , rambles, by patricius walker. vol. , irish sketches, etc.) armstrong.--essays and sketches. by edmund j. armstrong. fcp. vo., s. bagehot.--literary studies. by walter bagehot. with portrait. vols. crown vo., s. d. each. baring-gould.--curious myths of the middle ages. by rev. s. baring-gould. crown vo., s. d. baynes.--shakespeare studies, and other essays. by the late thomas spencer baynes, ll.b., ll.d. with a biographical preface by prof. lewis campbell. crown vo., s. d. boyd (a. k. h.) ('a.k.h.b.'). and see miscellaneous theological works, p. . autumn holidays of a country parson. crown vo., s. d. commonplace philosopher. crown vo., s. d. critical essays of a country parson. crown vo., s. d. east coast days and memories. crown vo., s. d. landscapes, churches and moralities. crown vo., s. d. leisure hours in town. crown vo., s. d. lessons of middle age. cr. vo., s. d. our little life. two series. cr. vo., s. d. each. our homely comedy: and tragedy. crown vo., s. d. recreations of a country parson. three series. cr. vo., s. d. each. also first series. popular ed. vo., d. sewed. butler (samuel). erewhon. cr. vo., s. the fair haven. work in defence of the miraculous element in our lord's ministry. cr. vo., s. d. life and habit. an essay after a completer view of evolution. cr. vo., s. d. evolution, old and new. cr. vo., s. d. alps and sanctuaries of piedmont and canton ticino. illustrated. post to., s. d. luck, or cunning, as the main means of organic modification? cr. vo., s. d. ex voto. an account of the sacro monte or new jerusalem at varallo-sesia. crown vo., s. d. charities register (the annual) and digest for : being a classified register of charities in or available in the metropolis. with an introduction by c. s. loch, secretary to the council of the charity organisation society, london. vo., s. dreyfus.--lectures on french literature. delivered in melbourne by irma dreyfus. with portrait of author. large crown vo., s. d. gwilt.--an encyclop�dia of architecture. by joseph gwilt, f.s.a. illustrated with more than engravings on wood. revised ( ), with alterations and considerable additions by wyatt papworth. vo., £ s. d. hamlin.--a text-book of the history of architecture. by a. d. f. hamlin, a.m., adjunct-professor of architecture in the school of mines, columbia college. with illustrations. crown vo., s. d. haweis.--music and morals. by the rev. h. r. haweis. cr. vo., s. d. indian ideals (no. )-- n�rada s�tra: an inquiry into love (bhakti-jijnâsâ). translated from the sanskrit, with an independent commentary, by e. t. sturdy. crown vo., s. d. net. jefferies (richard). field and hedgerow. with portrait. crown vo., s. d. the story of my heart. with portrait and new preface by c. j. longman. crown vo., s. d. red deer. illustrations by j. charlton and h. tunaly. crown vo., s. d. the toilers of the field. with portrait from the bust in salisbury cathedral. crown vo., s. d. wood magic: a fable. with frontispiece and vignette by e. v. b. cr. vo., s. d. thoughts from the writings of richard jefferies. selected by h. s. hoole waylen. mo., s. d. johnson.--the patentee's manual: a treatise on the law and practice of letters patent. by j. & j. h. johnson, patent agents, &c. vo., s. d. lang (andrew). modern mythology. vo. letters to dead authors. fcp. vo., s. d. net. books and bookmen. with coloured plates and illustrations. fcp. vo., s. d. net. old friends. fcp. vo., s. d. net. letters on literature. fcp. vo., s. d. net. cock lane and common-sense. crown vo., s. d. macfarren.--lectures on harmony. by sir geo. a. macfarren. vo., s. marquand and frothingham.--a text-book of the history of sculpture. by allen marquand, ph.d., and arthur l. frothingham, jun., ph.d. with illustrations. crown vo., s. max müller (f.). india: what can it teach us? cr. vo., s. d. chips from a german workshop. vol. i recent essays and addresses. cr. vo., s. d. net. vol. ii. biographical essays. cr. vo., s. d. net. vol. iii. essays on language and literature. cr. vo., s. d. net. vol. iv. essays on mythology and folk lore. crown, vo., s. d. net. contributions to the science of mythology. vols. vo., s. milner.--country pleasures: the chronicle of a year chiefly in a garden. by george milner. cr. vo., s. d. morris (william). signs of change. seven lectures delivered on various occasions. post vo., s. d. hopes and fears for art. five lectures delivered in birmingham, london, &c., in - . crown vo., s. d. orchard.--the astronomy of 'milton's paradise lost'. by thomas n. orchard, m.d., member of the british astronomical association. with illustrations. vo., s. poore.--essays on rural hygiene. by george vivian poore, m.d., f.r.c.p. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. d. proctor.--strength: how to get strong and keep strong, with chapters on rowing and swimming, fat, age, and the waist. by r. a. proctor. with illustrations. cr. vo., s. richardson.--national health. a review of the works of sir edwin chadwick, k.c.b. by sir b. w. richardson, m.d. cr. vo., s. d. rosetti.--a shadow of dante: being an essay towards studying himself, his world, and his pilgrimage. by maria francesca rossetti. with frontispiece by dante gabriel rossetti. crown vo., s. d. solovyoff.--a modern priestess of isis (madame blavatsky). abridged and translated on behalf of the society for psychical research from the russian of vsevolod sergyeevich solovyoff. by walter leaf, litt. d. with appendices. crown vo., s. stevens.--on the stowage of ships and their cargoes. with information regarding freights, charter-parties, &c. by robert white stevens, associate member of the institute of naval architects. vo. s. west.--wills, and how not to make them. with a selection of leading cases. by b. b. west, author of 'half-hours with the millionaires'. fcp. vo., s. d. miscellaneous theological works. for church of england and roman catholic works see messrs. longmans & co.'s special catalogues. balfour.--the foundations of belief: being notes introductory to the study of theology. by the right hon. arthur j. balfour, m.p. vo., s. d. bird (robert). a child's religion. crown vo., s. joseph the dreamer. cr. vo., s. jesus, the carpenter of nazareth. crown vo., s. to be had also in two parts, s. d. each. part. i.--galilee and the lake of gennesaret. part ii.--jerusalem and the per�a. boyd (a. k. h.). ('a.k.h.b.'). occasional and immemorial days: discourses. crown vo., s. d. counsel and comfort from a city pulpit. crown vo., s. d. sunday afternoons in the parish church of a scottish university city. crown vo., s. d. changed aspects of unchanged truths. crown vo., s. d. graver thoughts of a country parson. three series. crown vo., s. d. each. present day thoughts. crown vo., s. d. seaside musings. cr. vo., s. d. 'to meet the day' through the christian year; being a text of scripture, with an original meditation and a short selection in verse for every day, crown vo., s. d. de la saussaye.--a manual of the science of religion. by prof. chantepie de la saussaye. translated by mrs. colyer fergusson (nee max m�ller.) crown vo., s. d. gibson.--the abb� de lamennais and the liberal catholic movement in france. by the hon. w. gibson. with portrait. vo., s. d. kalisch (m. m., ph.d.). bible studies. part i. the prophecies of balaam. vo., s. d. part ii. the book of jonah. vo., s. d. commentary on the old testament: with a new translation. vol. i. genesis. vo., s. or adapted for the general reader. s. vol. ii. exodus. s. or adapted for the general reader. s. vol. iii. leviticus, part i. s. or adapted for the general reader. s. vol. iv. leviticus, part ii. s. or adapted for the general reader. s. macdonald (george). unspoken sermons. three series. crown vo., s. d. each. the miracles of our lord. crown vo., s. d. martineau (james). hours of thought on sacred things: sermons. vols. crown vo., s. d. each. endeavours after the christian life. discourses. cr. vo., s. d. the seat of authority in religion. vo., s. essays, reviews, and addresses. vols. crown vo., s. d. each. i. personal; political. ii. ecclesiastical; historical. iii. theological; philosophical. iv. academical; religious. home prayers, with two services for public worship. crown vo., s. d. max müller (f.). hibbert lectures on the origin and growth of religion, as illustrated by the religions of india. crown vo., s. d. introduction to the science of religion: four lectures delivered at the royal institution. cr. vo., s. d. natural religion. the gifford lectures, delivered before the university of glasgow in . cr. vo., s. d. physical religion. the gifford lectures, delivered before the university of glasgow, in . cr. vo., s. d. anthropological religion. the gifford lectures, delivered before the university of glasgow in . cr. vo., s. d. theosophy or psychological religion. the gifford lectures, delivered before the university of glasgow in . cr. vo., s. d. three lectures on the vedanta philosophy, delivered at the royal institution in march, . vo., s. phillips.--the teaching of the vedas. what light does it throw on the origin and development of religion? by maurice phillips, london mission, madras. crown vo., s. romanes.--thoughts on religion. by george j. romanes, ll.d., f.r.s. crown vo., s. d. supernatural religion: an inquiry into the reality of divine revelation. vols. vo., s. reply (a) to dr. lightfoot's essays. by the author of 'supernatural religion'. vo., s. the gospel according to st. peter: a study. by the author of 'supernatural religion'. vo., s. vivekananda.--yoga philosophy: lectures delivered in new york, winter of - , by the swami vivekananda, on raja yoga; or, conquering the internal nature; also patanjali's yoga aphorisms, with commentaries. crown vo., s. d. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. superscripted letters are shown in {brackets}. punctuation has been corrected without note. the following misprints have been addressed: " " corrected to " " (front advertisements) "simlpy" corrected to "simply" (page ) " / " corrected to " / " (footnote ) other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. the original text contains no in text marker for footnote . bold and italic fonts are not included in the back advertisements of this text version to improve the readability of the text. errors in these pages have been corrected without note. transcriber's note: some obvious typographical errors have been corrected, and several inconsistent spellings regularized. please see the transcriber's end notes for details. [illustration: execution of guy fawkes] guy fawkes or the gunpowder treason _an historical romance_ by william harrison ainsworth with illustrations on steel by george cruikshank london george routledge and sons, limited broadway house, ludgate hill london and county printing works, bazaar buildings, london, w.c. to mrs. hughes, kingston lisle, berks. my dear mrs. hughes, you are aware that this romance was brought to a close during my last brief visit at kingston lisle, when the time necessary to be devoted to it deprived me of the full enjoyment of your society, and, limiting my range--no very irksome restriction,--to your own charming garden and grounds, prevented me from accompanying you in your walks to your favourite and beautiful downs. this circumstance, which will suffice to give it some interest in your eyes by associating it with your residence, furnishes me with a plea, of which i gladly avail myself, of inscribing it with your name, and of recording, at the same time, the high sense i entertain of your goodness and worth, the value i set upon your friendship,--a friendship shared in common with some of the most illustrious writers of our time,--and the gratitude i shall never cease to feel for attentions and kindnesses, little less than maternal, which i have experienced at your hands. in the hope that you may long continue to diffuse happiness round your own circle, and contribute to the instruction and delight of the many attached friends with whom you maintain so active and so interesting a correspondence; and that you may live to see your grandsons fulfil their present promise, and tread in the footsteps of their high-minded and excellent-hearted father,--and of _his_ father! i remain your affectionate and obliged friend, w. harrison ainsworth. kensal manor house, harrow road, _july , _. preface. the tyrannical measures adopted against the roman catholics in the early part of the reign of james the first, when the severe penal enactments against recusants were revived, and with additional rigour, and which led to the remarkable conspiracy about to be related, have been so forcibly and faithfully described by doctor lingard,[ ] that the following extract from his history will form a fitting introduction to the present work. "the oppressive and sanguinary code framed in the reign of elizabeth, was re-enacted to its full extent, and even improved with additional severities. every individual who had studied or resided, or should afterwards study or reside in any college or seminary beyond the sea, was rendered incapable of inheriting, or purchasing, or enjoying lands, annuities, chattels, debts, or sums of money, within the realm; and as missionaries sometimes eluded detection under the disguise of tutors, it was provided that no man should teach even the rudiments of grammar in public or in private, without the previous approbation of the diocesan. "the execution of the penal laws enabled the king, by an ingenious comment, to derive considerable profit from his past forbearance. it was pretended that he had never forgiven the penalties of recusancy; he had merely forbidden them to be exacted for a time, in the hope that this indulgence would lead to conformity; but his expectations had been deceived; the obstinacy of the catholics had grown with the lenity of the sovereign; and, as they were unworthy of further favour, they should now be left to the severity of the law. to their dismay, the legal fine of twenty pounds per lunar month was again demanded, and not only for the time to come, but for the whole period of the suspension; a demand which, by crowding thirteen payments into one, reduced many families of moderate incomes to a state of absolute beggary. nor was this all. james was surrounded by numbers of his indigent countrymen. their habits were expensive, their wants many, and their importunities incessant. to satisfy the more clamorous, a new expedient was devised. the king transferred to them his claims on some of the more opulent recusants, against whom they were at liberty to proceed by law, in his name, unless the sufferers should submit to compound, by the grant of an annuity for life, or the immediate payment of a considerable sum. this was at a time when the jealousies between the two nations had reached a height, of which, at the present day, we have but little conception. had the money been carried to the royal coffers, the recusants would have had sufficient reason to complain; but that englishmen should be placed by their king at the mercy of foreigners, that they should be stripped of their property to support the extravagance of his scottish minions, this added indignity to injustice, exacerbated their already wounded feelings, and goaded the most moderate almost to desperation." from this deplorable state of things, which is by no means over-coloured in the above description, sprang the gunpowder plot. the county of lancaster has always abounded in catholic families, and at no period were the proceedings of the ecclesiastical commissioners more rigorous against them than at that under consideration. manchester, "the goshen of this egypt," as it is termed by the fiery zealot, warden heyrick, being the place where all the recusants were imprisoned, the scene of the early part of this history has been laid in that town and its immediate neighbourhood. for the introduction of the munificent founder of the blue coat hospital into a tale of this description i ought, perhaps, to apologize; but if i should succeed by it in arousing my fellow-townsmen to a more lively appreciation of the great benefits they have derived from him, i shall not regret what i have written. in viviana radcliffe i have sought to portray the loyal and devout catholic, such as i conceive the character to have existed at the period. in catesby, the unscrupulous and ambitious plotter, masking his designs under the cloak of religion. in garnet, the subtle, and yet sincere jesuit. and in fawkes the gloomy and superstitious enthusiast. one doctrine i have endeavoured to enforce throughout,--toleration. from those who have wilfully misinterpreted one of my former productions, and have attributed to it a purpose and an aim utterly foreign to my own intentions, i can scarcely expect fairer treatment for the present work. but to that wider and more discriminating class of readers from whom i have experienced so much favour and support, i confidently commit this volume, certain of meeting with leniency and impartiality. [ ] vide _history of england_, vol. ix. new edition. contents. page dedication iii preface v book the first. the plot. chapter i. an execution in manchester, at the beginning of the seventeenth century ii. ordsall cave iii. ordsall hall iv. the search v. chat moss vi. the disinterment vii. doctor dee viii. the magic glass ix. the prison on salford bridge x. the fate of the pursuivant xi. the pilgrimage to saint winifred's well xii. the vision xiii. the conspirators xiv. the packet xv. the elixir xvi. the collegiate church at manchester xvii. the rencounter xviii. the explanation xix. the discovery xx. the departure from the hall book the second. the discovery. i. the landing of the powder ii. the traitor iii. the escape prevented iv. the mine v. the capture of viviana vi. the cellar vii. the star-chamber viii. the jailer's daughter ix. the counterplot x. white webbs xi. the marriage in the forest xii. the fifth of november xiii. the flight of the conspirators xiv. the examination book the third. the conspirators. i. how guy fawkes was put to the torture ii. showing the troubles of viviana iii. huddington iv. holbeach v. the close of the rebellion vi. hagley vii. viviana's last night at ordsall hall viii. hendlip ix. whitehall x. the parting of viviana and humphrey chetham xi. the subterranean dungeon xii. the traitor betrayed xiii. the trial xiv. the last meeting of fawkes and viviana xv. saint paul's churchyard xvi. old palace yard xvii. the last execution guy fawkes. book the first. the plot. their searches are many and severe. they come either in the night or early in the morning, and ever seek their opportunity, when the catholics are or would be best occupied, or are likely to be worse provided or look for nothing. they willingliest come when few are at home to resist them, that they may rifle coffers, and do what they list. they lock up the servants, and the mistress of the house, and the whole family, in a room by themselves, while they, like young princes, go rifling the house at their will. _letter to vers'egan, ap. stonyhurst mss._ what a thing is it for a catholic gentleman to have his house suddenly beset on all sides with a number of men in arms, both horse and foot! and not only his house and gardens, and such enclosed places all beset, but all highways laid, for some miles near unto him, that none shall pass, but they shall be examined! then are these searchers oft-times so rude and barbarous, that, if the doors be not opened in the instant they would enter, they break open the doors with all violence, as if they were to sack a town of enemies won by the sword. _father gerard's ms._ chapter i. an execution in manchester, at the beginning of the seventeenth century. more than two hundred and thirty-five years ago, or, to speak with greater precision, in , at the latter end of june, it was rumoured one morning in manchester that two seminary priests, condemned at the late assizes under the severe penal enactments then in force against the papists, were about to suffer death on that day. attracted by the report, large crowds flocked towards the place of execution, which, in order to give greater solemnity to the spectacle, had been fixed at the southern gate of the old collegiate church, where a scaffold was erected. near it was a large blood-stained block, the use of which will be readily divined, and adjoining the block, upon a heap of blazing coals, smoked a caldron filled with boiling pitch, intended to receive the quarters of the miserable sufferers. the place was guarded by a small band of soldiers, fully accoutred in corslets and morions, and armed with swords, half-pikes, and calivers. upon the steps of the scaffold stood the executioner,--a square-built, ill-favoured personage, busied in arranging a bundle of straw upon the boards. he was dressed in a buff jerkin, and had a long-bladed, two-edged knife thrust into his girdle. besides these persons, there was a pursuivant,--an officer appointed by the privy council to make search throughout the provinces for recusants, popish priests, and other religious offenders. he was occupied at this moment in reading over a list of suspected persons. neither the executioner nor his companions appeared in the slightest degree impressed by the butcherly business about to be enacted; for the former whistled carelessly as he pursued his task, while the latter laughed and chatted with the crowd, or jestingly pointed their matchlocks at the jackdaws wheeling above them in the sunny air, or perching upon the pinnacles and tower of the neighbouring fane. not so the majority of the assemblage. most of the older and wealthier families in lancashire still continuing to adhere to the ancient faith of their fathers, it will not be wondered that many of their dependents should follow their example. and, even of those who were adverse to the creed of rome, there were few who did not murmur at the rigorous system of persecution adopted towards its professors. at nine o'clock, the hollow rolling of a muffled drum was heard at a distance. the deep bell of the church began to toll, and presently afterwards the mournful procession was seen advancing from the market-place. it consisted of a troop of mounted soldiers, equipped in all respects like those stationed at the scaffold, with their captain at their head, and followed by two of their number with hurdles attached to their steeds, on which were tied the unfortunate victims. both were young men--both apparently prepared to meet their fate with firmness and resignation. they had been brought from radcliffe hall--an old moated and fortified mansion belonging to a wealthy family of that name, situated where the close, called pool fold, now stands, and then recently converted into a place of security for recusants; the two other prisons in manchester--namely, the new fleet on hunt's bank, and the gaol on salford bridge,--not being found adequate to the accommodation of the numerous religious offenders. by this time, the cavalcade had reached the place of execution. the soldiers drove back the throng with their pikes, and cleared a space in front of the scaffold; when, just as the cords that bound the limbs of the priests were unfastened, a woman in a tattered woollen robe, with a hood partially drawn over her face,--the features of which, so far as they could be discerned, were sharp and attenuated,--a rope girded round her waist, bare feet, and having altogether the appearance of a sister of charity, sprang forward, and flung herself on her knees beside them. clasping the hem of the garment of the nearest priest, she pressed it to her lips, and gazed earnestly at him, as if imploring a blessing. "you have your wish, daughter," said the priest, extending his arms over her. "heaven and our lady bless you!" the woman then turned towards the other victim, who was audibly reciting the _miserere_. "back, spawn of antichrist!" interposed a soldier, rudely thrusting her aside. "don't you see you disturb the father's devotions? he has enough to do to take care of his own soul, without minding yours." "take this, daughter," cried the priest who had been first addressed, offering her a small volume, which he took from his vest, "and fail not to remember in your prayers the sinful soul of robert woodroofe, a brother of the order of jesus." the woman put out her hand to take the book; but before it could be delivered to her, it was seized by the soldier. "your priests have seldom anything to leave behind them," he shouted, with a brutal laugh, "except some worthless and superstitious relic of a saint or martyr. what's this? ah! a breviary--a mass-book. i've too much regard for your spiritual welfare to allow you to receive it," he added, about to place it in his doublet. "give it her," exclaimed a young man, snatching it from him, and handing it to the woman, who disappeared as soon as she had obtained possession of it. the soldier eyed the new-comer as if disposed to resent the interference, but a glance at his apparel, which, though plain, and of a sober hue, was rather above the middle class, as well as a murmur from the crowd, who were evidently disposed to take part with the young man, induced him to stay his hand. he, therefore, contented himself with crying, "a recusant! a papist!" "i am neither recusant nor papist, knave!" replied the other, sternly; "and i counsel you to mend your manners, and show more humanity, or you shall find i have interest enough to procure your dismissal from a service which you disgrace." this reply elicited a shout of applause from the mob. "who is that bold speaker?" demanded the pursuivant from one of his attendants. "humphrey chetham of crumpsall," answered the man: "son to one of the wealthiest merchants of the town, and a zealous upholder of the true faith." "he has a strange way of showing his zeal," rejoined the pursuivant, entering the answer in his note-book. "and who is the woman he befriended?" "a half-crazed being called elizabeth orton," replied the attendant. "she was scourged and tortured during queen elizabeth's reign for pretending to the gift of prophecy, and was compelled to utter her recantation within yonder church. since then she has never opened her lips." "indeed," exclaimed the pursuivant: "i will engage to make her speak, and to some purpose. where does she live?" "in a cave on the banks of the irwell, near ordsall hall," replied the attendant. "she subsists on the chance contributions of the charitable; but she solicits nothing,--and, indeed, is seldom seen." "her cave must be searched," observed the pursuivant; "it may be the hiding-place of a priest. father campion was concealed in such another spot at stonor park, near henley-on-thames, where he composed his '_decem rationes_;' and, for a long time, eluded the vigilance of the commissioners. we shall pass it in our way to ordsall hall to-night, shall we not?" the attendant nodded in the affirmative. "if we surprise father oldcorne," continued the pursuivant, "and can prove that sir william radcliffe and his daughter, both of whom are denounced in my list, are harbourers and shelterers of recusants, we shall have done a good night's work." at this moment, an officer advanced, and commanded the priests to ascend the scaffold. as father woodroofe, who was the last to mount, reached the uppermost step, he turned round and cried in a loud voice, "good people, i take you all to witness that i die in the true catholic religion, and that i rejoice and thank god with all my soul, that he hath made me worthy to testify my faith therein by shedding my blood in this manner." he then advanced towards the executioner, who was busied in adjusting the cord round his companion's throat, and said, "god forgive thee--do thine office quickly;" adding in a lower tone, "_asperge me, domine; domine, miserere mei!_" and, amid the deep silence that ensued, the executioner performed his horrible task. the execution over, the crowd began to separate slowly, and various opinions were expressed respecting the revolting and sanguinary spectacle just witnessed. many, who condemned--and the majority did so--the extreme severity of the laws by which the unfortunate priests had just suffered, uttered their sentiments with extreme caution; but there were some whose feelings had been too much excited for prudence, and who inveighed loudly and bitterly against the spirit of religious persecution then prevailing; while a few others of an entirely opposite persuasion looked upon the rigorous proceedings adopted against the papists, and the punishment now inflicted upon their priesthood, as a just retribution for their own severities during the reign of mary. in general, the common people entertained a strong prejudice against the catholic party,--for, as it has been shrewdly observed, "they must have some object to hate; heretofore it was the welsh, the scots, or the spaniards, but now in these latter times only the papists;" but in manchester, near which, as has been already stated, so many old and important families, professing that religion, resided, the case was widely different; and the mass of the inhabitants were favourably inclined towards them. it was the knowledge of this feeling that induced the commissioners, appointed to superintend the execution of the enactments against recusants, to proceed with unusual rigour in this neighbourhood. the state of the roman catholic party at the period of this history was indeed most grievous. the hopes they had indulged of greater toleration on the accession of james the first, had been entirely destroyed. the persecutions, suspended during the first year of the reign of the new monarch, were now renewed with greater severity than ever; and though their present condition was deplorable enough, it was feared that worse remained in store for them. "they bethought themselves," writes bishop goodman, "that now their case was far worse than in the time of queen elizabeth; for they did live in some hope that after the old woman's life, they might have some mitigation, and even those who did then persecute them were a little more moderate, as being doubtful what times might succeed, and fearing their own case. but, now that they saw the times settled, having no hope of better days, but expecting that the uttermost rigour of the law should be executed, they became desperate: finding that by the laws of the kingdom their own lives were not secured, and for the carrying over of a priest into england it was no less than high treason. a gentlewoman was hanged only for relieving and harbouring a priest; a citizen was hanged only for being reconciled to the church of rome; besides, the penal laws were such, and so executed, that they could not subsist. what was usually sold in shops and usually bought, this the pursuivant would take away from them as being popish and superstitious. one knight did affirm that in one term he gave twenty nobles in rewards to the door-keeper of the attorney-general; another did affirm, that his third part which remained unto him of his estate did hardly serve for his expense in law to defend him from other oppressions; besides their children to be taken from home, to be brought up in another religion. so they did every way conclude that their estate was desperate; they could die but once, and their religion was more precious unto them than their lives. they did further consider their misery; how they were debarred in any course of life to help themselves. they could not practise law,--they could not be citizens,--they could have no office; they could not breed up their sons--none did desire to match with them; they had neither fit marriages for their daughters, nor nunneries to put them into; for those few which are beyond seas are not considerable in respect of the number of recusants, and none can be admitted into them without great sums of money, which they, being exhausted, could not supply. the spiritual court did not cease to molest them, to excommunicate them, then to imprison them; and thereby they were utterly disenabled to sue for their own." such is a faithful picture of the state of the catholic party at the commencement of the reign of james the first. pressed down by these intolerable grievances, is it to be wondered at that the papists should repine,--or that some among their number, when all other means failed, should seek redress by darker measures? by a statute of elizabeth, all who refused to conform to the established religion were subjected to a fine of twenty pounds a lunar month; and this heavy penalty, remitted, or rather suspended, on the accession of the new sovereign, was again exacted, and all arrears claimed. added to this, james, whose court was thronged by a host of needy scottish retainers, assigned to them a certain number of wealthy recusants, and empowered them to levy the fines--a privilege of which they were not slow to avail themselves. there were other pains and penalties provided for by the same statute, which were rigorously inflicted. to withdraw, or seek to withdraw another from the established religion was accounted high treason, and punished accordingly; to hear mass involved a penalty of one hundred marks and a year's imprisonment; and to harbour a priest, under the denomination of a tutor, rendered the latter liable to a year's imprisonment, and his employer to a fine of ten pounds a-month. impressed with the belief that, in consequence of the unremitting persecutions which the catholics underwent in elizabeth's time, the religion would be wholly extirpated, doctor allen, a lancashire divine, who afterwards received a cardinal's hat, founded a college at douay, for the reception and education of those intending to take orders. from this university a number of missionary priests, or seminarists, as they were termed, were annually sent over to england; and it was against these persons, who submitted to every hardship and privation, to danger, and death itself, for the welfare of their religion, and in the hope of propagating its doctrines, that the utmost rigour of the penal enactments was directed. among the number of seminarists despatched from douay, and capitally convicted under the statute above-mentioned, were the two priests whose execution has just been narrated. as a portion of the crowd passed over the old bridge across the irwell connecting manchester with salford, on which stood an ancient chapel erected by thomas de booth, in the reign of edward the third, and recently converted into a prison for recusants, they perceived the prophetess, elizabeth orton, seated upon the stone steps of the desecrated structure, earnestly perusing the missal given her by father woodroofe. a mob speedily collected round her; but, unconscious seemingly of their presence, the poor woman turned over leaf after leaf, and pursued her studies. her hood was thrown back, and discovered her bare and withered neck, over which her dishevelled hair streamed in long sable elf-locks. irritated by her indifference, several of the by-standers, who had questioned her as to the nature of her studies, began to mock and jeer her, and endeavoured, by plucking her robe, and casting little pebbles at her, to attract her attention. roused at length by these annoyances, she arose; and fixing her large black eyes menacingly upon them, was about to stalk away, when they surrounded and detained her. "speak to us, bess," cried several voices. "prophesy--prophesy." "i _will_ speak to you," replied the poor woman, shaking her hand at them, "i _will_ prophesy to you. and mark me, though ye believe not, my words shall not fall to the ground." "a miracle! a miracle!" shouted the by-standers. "bess orton, who has been silent for twenty years, has found her tongue at last." "i have seen a vision, and dreamed a dream," continued the prophetess. "as i lay in my cell last night, meditating upon the forlorn state of our religion, and of its professors, methought nineteen shadowy figures stood before me--ay, nineteen--for i counted them thrice--and when i questioned them as to their coming,--for my tongue at first clove to the roof of my mouth, and my lips refused their office,--one of them answered, in a voice which yet rings in my ears, 'we are the chosen deliverers of our fallen and persecuted church. to us is intrusted the rebuilding of her temples,--to our hands is committed the destruction of our enemies. the work will be done in darkness and in secret,--with toil and travail,--but it will at length be made manifest; and when the hour is arrived, our vengeance will be terrible and exterminating.' with these words, they vanished from my sight. ah!" she exclaimed, suddenly starting, and passing her hand across her brow, as if to clear her sight, "it was no dream--no vision. i see one of them now." "where? where?" cried several voices. the prophetess answered by extending her skinny arm towards some object immediately before her. all eyes were instantly turned in the same direction, when they beheld a spanish soldier--for such his garb proclaimed him--standing at a few paces' distance from them. he was wrapped in an ample cloak, with a broad-leaved steeple-crowned hat, decorated with a single green feather, pulled over his brows, and wore a polished-steel brigandine, trunk hose, and buff boots drawn up to the knees. his arms consisted of a brace of petronels thrust into his belt, whence a long rapier depended. his features were dark as bronze, and well-formed, though strongly marked, and had an expression of settled sternness. his eyes were grey and penetrating, and shaded by thick beetle-brows; and his physiognomy was completed by a black peaked beard. his person was tall and erect, and his deportment soldier-like and commanding. perceiving he had become an object of notice, the stranger cast a compassionate look at the prophetess, who still remained gazing fixedly at him, and throwing her a few pieces of money, strode away. watching his retreating figure till it disappeared from view, the crazed woman tossed her arms wildly in the air, and cried, in a voice of exultation, "did i not speak the truth?--did i not tell you i had seen him? he is the deliverer of our church, and is come to avenge the righteous blood which hath been this day shed." "peace, woman, and fly while there is yet time," cried the young man who had been designated as humphrey chetham. "the pursuivant and his myrmidons are in search of you." "then they need not go far to find me," replied the prophetess. "i will tell them what i told these people, that the day of bloody retribution is at hand,--that the avenger is arrived. i have seen him twice,--once in my cave, and once again here,--even where you stand." "if you do not keep silence and fly, my poor creature," rejoined humphrey chetham, "you will have to endure what you suffered years ago,--stripes, and perhaps torture. be warned by me--ah! it is too late. he is approaching." "let him come," replied elizabeth orton, "i am ready for him." "can none of you force her away?" cried humphrey chetham, appealing to the crowd; "i will reward you." "i will not stir from this spot," rejoined the prophetess, obstinately; "i will testify to the truth." the kind-hearted young merchant, finding any further attempt to preserve her fruitless, drew aside. by this time, the pursuivant and his attendants had come up. "seize her!" cried the former, "and let her be placed within this prison till i have reported her to the commissioners. if you will confess to me, woman," he added in a whisper to her, "that you have harboured a priest, and will guide us to his hiding-place, you shall be set free." "i know of no priests but those you have murdered," returned the prophetess, in a loud voice, "but i will tell you something that you wot not of. the avenger of blood is at hand. i have seen him. all here have seen him. and you shall see him--but not now--not now." "what is the meaning of this raving?" demanded the pursuivant. "pay no heed to her talk," interposed humphrey chetham; "she is a poor crazed being, who knows not what she says. i will be surety for her inoffensive conduct." "you must give me surety for yourself, sir," replied the pursuivant. "i have just learnt that you were last night at ordsall hall, the seat of that 'dangerous temporiser,'--for so he is designated in my warrant,--sir william radcliffe. and if report speaks truly, you are not altogether insensible to the charms of his fair daughter, viviana." "what is this to thee, thou malapert knave?" cried humphrey chetham, reddening, partly from anger, partly, it might be, from another emotion. "much, as you shall presently find, good master wolf-in-sheep's-clothing," retorted the pursuivant; "if you prove not a rank papist at heart, then do i not know a true man from a false." this angry conference was cut short by a piercing scream from the prophetess. breaking from the grasp of her captors, who were about to force her into the prison, she sprang with a single bound upon the parapet of the bridge; and utterly regardless of her dangerous position, turned, and faced the soldiers, who were struck mute with astonishment. "tremble!" she cried, in a loud voice,--"tremble, ye evil-doers! ye who have despoiled the house of god,--have broken his altars,--scattered his incense,--slain his priests. tremble, i say. the avenger is arrived. the bolt is in his hand. it shall strike king, lords, commons,--all! these are my last words,--take them to heart." "drag her off!" roared the pursuivant, furiously. "use care--use gentleness, if ye are men!" cried humphrey chetham. "think not you can detain me!" cried the prophetess. "avaunt, and tremble!" so saying she flung herself from the parapet. the height from which she fell was about fifty feet. dashed into the air like jets from a fountain by the weight and force of the descending body, the water instantly closed over her. but she rose to the surface of the stream, about twenty yards below the bridge. "she may yet be saved," cried humphrey chetham, who with the by-standers had hurried to the side of the bridge. "you will only preserve her for the gallows," observed the pursuivant. "your malice shall not prevent my making the attempt," replied the young merchant. "ha! assistance is at hand." the exclamation was occasioned by the sudden appearance of the soldier in the spanish dress, who rushed towards the left bank of the river, which was here, as elsewhere, formed of red sandstone rock, and following the course of the current, awaited the next appearance of the drowning woman. it did not occur till she had been carried a considerable distance down the stream, when the soldier, swiftly divesting himself of his cloak, plunged into the water, and dragged her ashore. "follow me," cried the pursuivant to his attendants. "i will not lose my prey." but before he gained the bank of the river, the soldier and his charge had disappeared, nor could he detect any traces of them. chapter ii. ordsall cave. after rescuing the unfortunate prophetess from a watery grave in the manner just related, the soldier snatched up his cloak, and, taking his dripping burthen in his arms, hurried swiftly along the bank of the river, until he came to a large cleft in the rock, into which he crept, taking the prophetess with him, and thus eluded observation. in this retreat he continued upwards of two hours, during which time the poor creature, to whom he paid every attention that circumstances would admit, had so far recovered as to be able to speak. but it was evident that the shock had been too much for her, and that she was sinking fast. she was so faint that she could scarcely move; but she expressed a strong desire to reach her cell before she breathed her last. having described its situation as accurately as she could to the soldier--who before he ventured forth peeped out to reconnoitre--he again raised her in his arms, and by her direction struck into a narrow lane skirting the bank of the river. pursuing this road for about half a mile, he arrived at the foot of a small knoll, covered by a clump of magnificent beech-trees, and still acting under the guidance of the dying woman, whose voice grew more feeble each instant, he mounted it, and from its summit took a rapid survey of the surrounding country. on the opposite bank of the river stood an old hall, while further on, at some distance, he could perceive through the trees the gables and chimneys of another ancient mansion. "raise me up," said elizabeth orton, as he lingered on this spot for a moment. "in that old house, which you see yonder, hulme hall, i was born. i would willingly take one look at it before i die." [illustration: guy fawkes in ordsall cave] "and the other hall, which i discern through the trees, is ordsall, is it not?" inquired the soldier. "it is," replied the prophetess. "and now let us make what haste we can. we have not far to go; and i feel i shall not last long." descending the eminence, and again entering the lane, which here made a turn, the soldier approached a grassy space, walled in on either side by steep sandstone rocks. at the further extremity of the enclosure, after a moment's search, by the direction of his companion, he found, artfully concealed by overhanging brushwood, the mouth of a small cave. he crept into the excavation, and found it about six feet high, and of considerable depth. the roof was ornamented with runic characters and other grotesque and half-effaced inscriptions, while the sides were embellished with gothic tracery, amid which the letters i.h.s., carved in ancient church text, could be easily distinguished. tradition assigned the cell to the priests of odin, but it was evident that worshippers at other and holier altars had more recently made it their retreat. its present occupant had furnished it with a straw pallet, and a small wooden crucifix fixed in a recess in the wall. gently depositing her upon the pallet, the soldier took a seat beside her on a stone slab at the foot of the bed. he next, at her request, as the cave was rendered almost wholly dark by the overhanging trees, struck a light, and set fire to a candle placed within a lantern. after a few moments passed in prayer, the recluse begged him to give her the crucifix that she might clasp it to her breast. this done, she became more composed, and prepared to meet her end. suddenly, as if something had again disturbed her, she opened wide her glazing eyes, and starting up with a dying effort, stretched out her hands. "i see him before them!" she cried. "they examine him--they adjudge him! ah! he is now in a dungeon! see, the torturers advance! he is placed on the rack--once--twice--thrice--they turn the levers! his joints snap in their sockets--his sinews crack! mercy! he confesses! he is led to execution. i see him ascend the scaffold!" "whom do you behold?" inquired the soldier, listening to her in astonishment. "his face is hidden from me," replied the prophetess; "but his figure is not unlike your own. ha! i hear the executioner pronounce his name. how are you called?" "guy fawkes," replied the soldier. "it is the name i heard," rejoined elizabeth orton. and, sinking backward, she expired. guy fawkes gazed at her for some time, till he felt assured that the last spark of life had fled. he then turned away, and placing his hand upon his chin, became lost in deep reflection. chapter iii. ordsall hall soon after sunset, on the evening of the events previously related, the inmates of ordsall hall were disturbed and alarmed (for in those times of trouble any casual disturbance at night was sufficient to occasion alarm to a catholic family) by a loud clamour for admittance from some one stationed at the farther side of the moat, then, as now, surrounding that ancient manorial residence. the drawbridge being raised, no apprehension was entertained of an attempt at forcible entrance on the part of the intruder, who, so far as he could be discerned in the deepening twilight, rendered yet more obscure by the shade of the trees under which he stood, appeared to be a solitary horseman. still, for fear of a surprise, it was judged prudent by those inside the hall to turn a deaf ear to the summons; nor was it until it had been more than once repeated in a peremptory tone, that any attention was paid to it. the outer gate was then cautiously opened by an old steward, and a couple of serving-men, armed with pikes and swords, who demanded the stranger's business, and were answered that he desired to speak with sir william radcliffe. the steward rejoined that his master was not at home, having set out the day before for chester: but that even if he were, he would take upon himself to affirm that no audience would be given, on any pretence whatever, to a stranger at such an unseasonable hour. to this the other replied, in a haughty and commanding voice, that he was neither a stranger to sir william radcliffe, nor ignorant of the necessity of caution, though in this instance it was altogether superfluous; and as, notwithstanding the steward's assertion to the contrary, he was fully persuaded his master _was_ at home, he insisted upon being conducted to him without further parley, as his business would not brook delay. in vain the steward declared he had spoken the truth. the stranger evidently disbelieved him; but, as he could obtain no more satisfactory answer to his interrogations, he suddenly shifted his ground, and inquired whether sir william's daughter, mistress viviana, was likewise absent from home. "before i reply to the question, i must know by whom and wherefore it is put?" returned the steward, evasively. "trouble not yourself further, friend, but deliver this letter to her," rejoined the horseman, flinging a packet across the moat. "it is addressed to her father, but there is no reason why she should not be acquainted with its contents." "take it up, olin birtwissel," cried the steward, eyeing the packet which had fallen at his feet suspiciously; "take it up, i say, and hold it to the light, that i may consider it well before i carry it to our young mistress. i have heard of strange treacheries practised by such means, and care not to meddle with it." "neither do i, good master heydocke," replied birtwissel. "i would not touch it for a twelvemonth's wages. it may burst, and spoil my good looks, and so ruin my fortunes with the damsels. but here is jeff gellibronde, who, having no beauty to lose, and being, moreover, afraid of nothing, will pick it up for you." "speak for yourself, olin," rejoined gellibronde, in a surly tone. "i have no more fancy for a shattered limb, or a scorched face, than my neighbours." "dolts!" cried the stranger, who had listened to these observations with angry impatience, "if you will not convey my packet, which has nothing more dangerous about it than an ordinary letter, to your mistress, at least acquaint her that mr. robert catesby, of ashby st. legers, is without, and craves an instant speech with her." "mr. catesby!" exclaimed the steward, in astonishment. "if it be indeed your worship, why did you not declare yourself at once?" "i may have as good reason for caution as yourself, master heydocke," returned catesby, laughing. "true," rejoined the steward; "but, methinks it is somewhat strange to find your worship here, when i am aware that my master expected to meet you, and certain other honourable gentlemen that you wot of, at a place in a clean opposite direction, holywell, in flintshire." "the cause of my presence, since you desire to be certified of the matter, is simply this," replied catesby, urging his steed towards the edge of the moat, while the steward advanced to meet him on the opposite bank, so that a few yards only lay between them; "i came round by manchester," he continued, in a lower tone, "to see if any assistance could be rendered to the unfortunate fathers woodroofe and forshawe; but found on my arrival this morning that i was too late, as they had just been executed." "heaven have mercy on their souls!" ejaculated heydocke, shuddering, and crossing himself. "yours was a pious mission, mr. catesby. would it had been availing!" "i would so, too, with all my soul!" rejoined the other, fervently; "but fate ordained it otherwise. while i was in the town, i accidentally learnt from one, who informed me he had just parted with him, that your master was at home; and, fearing he might not be able to attend the meeting at holywell, i resolved to proceed hither at nightfall, when my visit was not likely to be observed; having motives, which you may readily conjecture, for preserving the strictest secrecy on the occasion. the letter was prepared in case i should fail in meeting with him. and now that i have satisfied your scruples, good master steward, if sir william be really within, i pray you lead me to him forthwith. if not, your young mistress may serve my turn, for i have that to say which it imports one or other of them to know." "in regard to my master," replied the steward, "he departed yesterday for chester, on his way to join the pilgrimage to st. winifred's well, as i have already assured your worship. and whoever informed you to the contrary, spoke falsely. but i will convey your letter and message to my young mistress, and on learning her pleasure as to receiving you, will instantly return and report it. these are dangerous times, your worship; dangerous times. a good catholic knows not whom to trust, there are so many spoilers abroad." "how, sirrah!" cried catesby, angrily, "do you apply that observation to me?" "far be it from me," answered heydocke, respectfully, "to apply any observation that may sound offensive to your worship, whom i know to be a most worthy gentleman, and as free from heresy, as any in the kingdom. i was merely endeavouring to account for what may appear my over-caution in detaining you where you are, till i learn my lady's pleasure. it is a rule in this house not to lower the drawbridge without orders after sunset; and i dare not, for my place, disobey it. young mr. humphrey chetham, of crumpsall, was detained in the like manner no later than last night; and he is a visitor," he added, in a significant tone, "who is not altogether unwelcome to my mistress--ahem! but duty is no respecter of persons; and in my master's absence my duty is to protect his household. your worship will pardon me." "i will pardon anything but your loquacity and tediousness," rejoined catesby, impatiently. "about your errand quickly." "i am gone, your worship," returned the steward, disappearing with his companions. throwing the bridle over his horse's neck, and allowing him to drink his fill from the water of the moat, and afterwards to pluck a few mouthfuls of the long grass that fringed its brink, catesby abandoned himself to reflection. in a few moments, as the steward did not return, he raised his eyes, and fixed them upon the ancient habitation before him,--ancient, indeed, it was not at this time, having been in a great measure rebuilt by its possessor, sir william radcliffe, during the latter part of the reign of elizabeth, in the rich and picturesque style of that period. little could be distinguished of its projecting and retiring wings, its walls decorated with black and white chequer-work, the characteristic of the class of architecture to which it belonged, or of its magnificent embayed windows filled with stained glass; but the outline of its heavy roof, with its numerous gables, and groups of tall and elaborately-ornamented chimneys, might be distinctly traced in strong relief against the warm and still-glowing western sky. though much gone to decay, grievously neglected, and divided into three separate dwelling-houses, ordsall hall still retains much of its original character and beauty; and viewed at the magic hour above described, when the changes produced by the lapse of years cannot be detected, it presents much the same striking appearance that it offered to the gaze of catesby. situated on the north bank of the irwell, which supplies the moat with a constant stream of fresh water, it commands on the south-west a beautiful view of the winding course of the river, here almost forming an island, of trafford park and its hall, of the woody uplands beyond it, and of the distant hills of cheshire. the mansion itself is an irregular quadrangle, covering a considerable tract of ground. the gardens, once exquisitely laid out in the formal taste of elizabeth's days, are also enclosed by the moat, surrounding (except in the intervals where it is filled up) a space of some acres in extent. at the period of this history, it was approached on the north-east by a noble avenue of sycamores, leading to within a short distance of its gates. as catesby surveyed this stately structure, and pondered upon the wealth and power of its owner, his meditations thus found vent in words:--"if i could but link radcliffe to our cause, or win the hand of his fair daughter, and so bind him to me, the great attempt could not fail. she has refused me once. no matter. i will persevere till she yields. with father oldcorne to back my suit, i am assured of success. she is necessary to my purpose, and shall be mine." descended from an ancient northamptonshire family, and numbering among his ancestry the well-known minister of the same name who flourished in the reign of richard the third, robert catesby,--at this time about forty,--had in his youth led a wild and dissolute life; and though bred in the faith of rome, he had for some years abandoned its worship. in , when the jesuits, campion and persons, visited england, he was reconciled to the church he had quitted, and thenceforth became as zealous a supporter and promoter of its doctrines as he had heretofore been their bitter opponent. he was now actively engaged in all the popish plots of the period, and was even supposed to be connected with those designs of a darker dye which were set on foot for elizabeth's destruction,--with somerville's conspiracy,--with that of arden and throckmorton,--the latter of whom was his uncle on the maternal side,--with the plots of bury and savage,--of ballard,--and of babington. after the execution of the unfortunate queen of scots, he devoted himself to what was termed the spanish faction, and endeavoured carry out the schemes of a party, who, distrusting the vague promises of james, were anxious to secure the succession to a catholic,--the infanta of spain, or the duke of parma. on the insurrection of the earl of essex, he took part with that ill-fated nobleman; and, though he escaped condign punishment for the offence, he was imprisoned and heavily fined. from this time his career ran in darker channels. "hunger-starved for innovation," as he is finely described by camden,--imbued with the fiercest religious fanaticism,--eloquent, wily, resolute,--able alike to delude the powerful and intimidate the weak,--he possessed all the ingredients of a conspirator. associating with men like himself, of desperate character and broken fortunes, he was ever on the look out for some means of retrieving his own condition, and redressing the wrongs of his church. well informed of the actual state of james's sentiments, when, on that monarch's accession, confident hopes were entertained by the romanists of greater toleration for their religion, catesby was the first to point out their mistake, and to foretel the season of terrible persecution that was at hand. on this persecution he grounded his hopes--hopes, never realized, for the sufferers, amid all the grievances they endured, remained constant in their fidelity to the throne--of exciting a general insurrection among the catholics. disappointed in this expectation,--disappointed, also, in his hopes of spain, of france, and of aid from rome, he fell back upon himself, and resolved upon the execution of a dark and dreadful project which he had long conceived, and which he could execute almost single-handed, without aid from foreign powers, and without the co-operation of his own party. the nature of this project, which, if it succeeded, would, he imagined, accomplish all or more than his wildest dreams of ambition or fanaticism had ever conceived, it will be the business of this history to develope. without going further into detail at present, it may be mentioned that the success of the plot depended so entirely on its secrecy, and so well aware was its contriver of the extraordinary system of espionage carried on by the earl of salisbury and the privy council, that for some time he scarcely dared to trust it out of his keeping. at length, after much deliberation, he communicated it to five others, all of whom were bound to silence by an oath of unusual solemnity; and as it was necessary to the complete success of the conspiracy that its outbreak should be instantaneously followed by a rise on the part of the catholics, he darkly hinted that a plan was on foot for their deliverance from the yoke of their oppressors, and counselled them to hold themselves in readiness to fly to arms at a moment's notice. but here again he failed. few were disposed to listen to him; and of those who did, the majority returned for answer, "that their part was endurance, and that the only arms which christians could use against lawful powers in their severity were prayers and tears." among the popish party of that period, as in our own time, were ranked many of the oldest and most illustrious families in the kingdom,--families not less remarkable for their zeal for their religion than, as has before been observed, for their loyalty;--a loyalty afterwards approved in the disastrous reign of james the second by their firm adherence to what they considered the indefeasible right of inheritance. plots, indeed, were constantly hatched throughout the reigns of elizabeth and james, by persons professing the religion of rome; but in these the mass of the catholics had no share. and even in the seasons of the bitterest persecution, when every fresh act of treason, perpetrated by some lawless and disaffected individual, was visited with additional rigour on their heads,--when the scaffold reeked with their blood, and the stake smoked with their ashes,--when their quarters were blackening on the gates and market-crosses of every city in the realm,--when their hearths were invaded, their religion proscribed, and the very name of papist had become a by-word,--even in those terrible seasons, as in the season under consideration, they remained constant in their fidelity to the crown. from the troubled elements at work, some fierce and turbulent spirits were sure to arise,--some gloomy fanatics who, having brooded over their wrongs, real or imaginary, till they had lost all scruples of conscience, hesitated at no means of procuring redress. but it would be unjust to hold up such persons as representatives of the whole body of catholics. among the conspirators themselves there were redeeming shades. all were not actuated by the same atrocious motives. mixed feelings induced catesby to adopt the measure. not so guy fawkes, who had already been leagued with the design. one idea alone ruled him. a soldier of fortune, but a stern religious enthusiast, he supposed himself chosen by heaven for the redemption of his church, and cared not what happened to himself, provided he accomplished his (as he conceived) holy design. in considering the causes which produced the conspiracy about to be related, and in separating the disaffected party of the papists from the temperate, due weight must be given to the influence of the priesthood. of the romish clergy there were two classes--the secular priests, and the jesuits and missionaries. while the former, like the more moderate of the laity, would have been well-contented with toleration for their religion, the latter breathed nothing but revenge, and desired the utter subversion of the existing government,--temporal as well as ecclesiastical. men, for the most part, of high intellectual powers, of untiring energy, and unconquerable fortitude, they were enabled by their zeal and ability to make many proselytes. by their means, secret correspondence was carried on with the different courts of europe; and they were not without hope that, taking advantage of some favourable crisis, they should yet restore their church to its former supremacy. to these persons,--who held as a maxim, "_qui religionem catholicam deserit regnandi jus omne amisit_,"--catesby and his associates proved ready and devoted agents. through their instrumentality, they hoped to accomplish the great work of their restoration. to father garnet, the provincial of the english jesuits, of whom it will be necessary to speak more fully hereafter, the plot had been revealed by catesby under the seal of confession; and, though it subsequently became a question whether he was justified in withholding a secret of such importance to the state, it is sufficient for the present purpose to say that he did withhold it. for the treasonable practices of the jesuits and their faction some palliation may perhaps be found in the unrelenting persecution to which they were subjected; but if any excuse can be admitted for them, what opinion must be formed of the conduct of their temperate brethren? surely, while the one is condemned, admiration may be mingled with the sympathy which must be felt for the unmerited sufferings of the other! from the foregoing statement, it will be readily inferred that sir william radcliffe, a devout catholic, and a man of large possessions, though somewhat reduced by the heavy fines imposed upon him as a recusant, must have appeared an object of importance to the conspirators; nor will it be wondered at, that every means were used to gain him to their cause. acting, however, upon the principles that swayed the well-disposed of his party, the knight resisted all these overtures, and refused to take any share in proceedings from which his conscience and loyalty alike revolted. baffled, but not defeated, catesby returned to the charge on a new point of assault. himself a widower (or supposed to be so), he solicited the hand of the lovely viviana radcliffe, sir william's only child, and the sole heiress of his possessions. but his suit in this quarter was, also, unsuccessful. the knight rejected the proposal, alleging that his daughter had no inclination to any alliance, inasmuch as she entertained serious thoughts of avowing herself to heaven. thus foiled, catesby ostensibly relinquished his design. shortly before the commencement of this history, a pilgrimage to saint winifred's well, in flintshire, was undertaken by father garnet, the provincial of the jesuits before mentioned, in company with several distinguished catholic personages of both sexes, and to this ceremonial sir william and his daughter were urgently bidden. the invitation was declined on the part of viviana, but accepted by the knight, who, though unwilling to leave home at a period of so much danger, or to commit his daughter to any care but his own, even for so short a space, felt it to be his duty to give countenance by his presence to the ceremonial. accordingly, he departed for chester on the previous day, as stated by the steward. and, though catesby professed ignorance on the subject, and even affirmed he had heard to the contrary, it may be doubted whether he was not secretly informed of the circumstance, and whether his arrival, at this particular conjuncture, was not preconcerted. thus much in explanation of what is to follow. the course of catesby's reflections was cut short by the return of the steward, who, informing him that he had his mistress's commands to admit him, immediately lowered the drawbridge for that purpose. dismounting, and committing his steed to one of the serving-men, who advanced to take it, catesby followed his conductor through a stone gateway, and crossing the garden, was ushered into a spacious and lofty hall, furnished with a long massy oak table, at the upper end of which was a raised dais. at one side of the chamber yawned a huge arched fire-place, garnished with enormous andirons, on which smouldered a fire composed of mixed turf and wood. above the chimney-piece hung a suit of chain-armour, with the battle-axe, helmet, and gauntlets of sir john radcliffe, the first possessor of ordsall, who flourished in the reign of edward the first: on the right, masking the entrance, stood a magnificent screen of carved oak. traversing this hall, heydocke led the way to another large apartment; and placing lights on a gothic-shaped table, offered a seat to the new-comer, and departed. the room in which catesby was left was termed the star-chamber--a name retained to this day--from the circumstance of its ceiling being moulded and painted to resemble the heavenly vault when studded with the luminaries of night. it was terminated by a deeply-embayed window filled with stained glass of the most gorgeous colours. the walls, in some places, were hung with arras, in others, wainscoted with dark lustrous oak, embellished with scrolls, ciphers, and fanciful designs. the mantel-piece was of the same solid material, curiously carved, and of extraordinary size. it was adorned with the armorial bearings of the family--two bends engrailed, and in chief a label of three,--and other devices and inscriptions. the hearth was considerably raised above the level of the floor, and there was a peculiarity in the construction of the massive wooden pillars flanking it, that attracted the attention of catesby, who rose with the intention of examining them more narrowly, when he was interrupted by the entrance of the lady of the mansion. advancing at a slow and dignified pace, viviana radcliffe courteously but gravely saluted her guest; and, without offering him her hand, motioned him to a chair, while she seated herself at a little distance. catesby had seen her twice before; and whether the circumstances under which they now met might have caused some change in her demeanour he could not tell, but he thought her singularly altered. a year ago, she had been a lively, laughing girl of seventeen, with a bright brown skin, dark flowing tresses, and eyes as black and radiant as those of a gipsy. she was now a grave, collected woman, infinitely more beautiful, but wholly changed in character. her complexion had become a clear, transparent white, and set off to great advantage her large, luminous eyes, and jetty brows. her figure was tall and majestic; her features regular, delicately formed, and of the rarest and proudest class of beauty. she was attired in a dress of black wrought velvet, entirely without ornament except the rosary at her girdle, with a small ebony crucifix attached to it. she wore a close-fitting cap, likewise of black velvet, edged with pearls, beneath which her raven tresses were gathered in such a manner as to display most becomingly the smooth and snowy expanse of her forehead. the gravity of her manner, not less than her charms of person, seem to have struck catesby mute. he gazed on her in silent admiration for a brief space, utterly forgetful of the object of his visit, and the part he intended to play. during this pause, she maintained the most perfect composure, and fixing her dark eyes full upon him, appeared to await the moment when he might choose to open the conversation. notwithstanding his age, and the dissolute and distracted life he had led, catesby was still good-looking enough to have produced a favourable impression upon any woman easily captivated by manly beauty. the very expression of his marked and peculiar physiognomy,--in some degree an index to his character,--was sufficient to rivet attention; and the mysterious interest generally inspired by his presence was not diminished on further acquaintance with him. though somewhat stern in their expression, his features were strikingly handsome, cast in an oval mould, and clothed with the pointed beard and trimmed mustaches invariably met with in the portraits of vandyck. his frame was strongly built, but well proportioned, and seemed capable of enduring the greatest fatigue. his dress was that of an ordinary gentleman of the period, and consisted of a doublet of quilted silk, of sober colour and stout texture; large trunk-hose swelling out at the hips; and buff boots, armed with spurs with immense rowels. he wore a high and stiffly-starched ruff round his throat; and his apparel was completed by a short cloak of brown cloth, lined with silk of a similar colour. his arms were rapier and poniard, and his high-crowned plumed hat, of the peculiar form then in vogue, and looped on the "leer-side" with a diamond clasp, was thrown upon the table. some little time having elapsed, during which he made no effort to address her, viviana broke silence. "i understood you desired to speak with me on a matter of urgency, mr. catesby," she remarked. "i did so," he replied, as if aroused from a reverie; "and i can only excuse my absence of mind and ill manners, on the plea that the contemplation of your charms has driven all other matter out of my head." "mr. catesby," returned viviana, rising, "if the purpose of your visit be merely to pay unmerited compliments, i must at once put an end to it." "i have only obeyed the impulse of my heart," resumed the other, passionately, "and uttered what involuntarily rose to my lips. but," he added, checking himself, "i will not offend you with my admiration. if you have read my letter to your father, you will not require to be informed of the object of my visit." "i have not read it," replied viviana, returning him the packet with the seal unbroken. "i can give no opinion on any matter of difficulty. and i have no desire to know any secret with which my father might not desire me to be acquainted." "are we overheard?" inquired catesby, glancing suspiciously at the fire-place. "by no one whom you would care to overhear us," returned the maiden. "then it is as i supposed," rejoined catesby. "father oldcorne is concealed behind that mantel-piece?" viviana smiled an affirmative. "let him come forth, i pray you," returned catesby. "what i have to say concerns him as much as yourself or your father; and i would gladly have his voice in the matter." "you shall have it, my son," replied a reverend personage, clad in a priestly garb, stepping from out one side of the mantel-piece, which flew suddenly open, disclosing a recess curiously contrived in the thickness of the wall. "you shall have it," said father oldcorne, for he it was, approaching and extending his arms over him. "accept my blessing and my welcome." catesby received the benediction with bowed head and bended knee. "and now," continued the priest, "what has the bravest soldier of our church to declare to its lowliest servant?" catesby then briefly explained, as he had before done to the steward, why he had taken manchester in his route to north wales; and, after lamenting his inability to render any assistance to the unfortunate priests, he went on to state that he had accidentally learnt, from a few words let fall by the pursuivant to his attendant, that a warrant had been sent by the earl of salisbury for sir william radcliffe's arrest. "my father's arrest!" exclaimed viviana, trembling violently. "what--what is laid to his charge?" "felony," rejoined catesby, sternly--"felony, without benefit of clergy--for so it is accounted by the present execrable laws of our land,--in harbouring a jesuit priest. if he is convicted of the offence, his punishment will be death--death on the gibbet, accompanied by indignities worse than those shown to a common felon." "holy virgin!" ejaculated father oldcorne, lifting up his hands, and raising his eyes to heaven. "from what i gathered, the officers will visit this house to-night," continued catesby. "our lady be praised, they will not find him!" cried viviana, who had been thrown into an agony of distress. "what is to be done in this frightful emergency, holy father?" she added, turning to the priest, with a supplicating look. "heaven only knows, dear daughter," replied oldcorne. "you had better appeal for counsel to one who is more able to afford it than i am,--mr. catesby. well aware of the crafty devices of our enemies, and having often eluded their snares himself, he may enable you to escape them. my own course is clear. i shall quit this roof at once, deeply and bitterly regretting that by entering it, i have placed those whom i hold so dear, and from whom i have experienced so much kindness, in such fearful jeopardy." "oh, no, father!" exclaimed viviana, "you shall not go." "daughter," replied oldcorne, solemnly, "i have long borne the cross of christ,--have long endured the stripes, inflicted upon me by the adversaries of our faith, in patience; and my last actions and last breath shall testify to the truth of our holy religion. but, though i could endure aught on my own account, i cannot consent to bring misery and destruction upon others. hinder me not, dear daughter. i will go at once." "hold, father!" interposed catesby. "the step you would take may bring about what you are most anxious to avoid. if you are discovered and apprehended in this neighbourhood, suspicion will still attach to your protectors, and the secret of your departure will be wrung from some of the more timid of the household. tarry where you are. let the pursuivant make his search. i will engage to baffle his vigilance." "he speaks the truth, dear father," returned viviana. "you must not--shall not depart. there are plenty of hiding-places, as you know, within the mansion. let them be as rigorous as they may in their search, they will not discover you." "whatever course you adjudge best for the security of others, i will pursue," rejoined oldcorne, turning to catesby. "put me out of the question." "my opinion has already been given, father," replied catesby. "remain where you are." "but, if the officers should ascertain that my father is at chester, and pursue him thither?" cried viviana, suddenly struck by a new cause of alarm. "a messenger must be immediately despatched after him to give him warning," returned catesby. "will you be that messenger?" asked the maiden, eagerly. "i would shed my heart's best blood to pleasure you," returned catesby. "then i may count upon this service, for which, rest assured, i will not prove ungrateful," she rejoined. "you may," answered catesby. "and yet i would, on father oldcorne's account, that my departure might be delayed till to-morrow." "the delay might be fatal," cried viviana. "you must be in chester before that time." "doubt it not," returned catesby. "charged with your wishes, the wind shall scarcely outstrip my speed." so saying, he marched irresolutely towards the door, as if about to depart, when, just as he had reached it, he turned sharply round, and threw himself at viviana's feet. "forgive me, miss radcliffe," he cried, "if i once again, even at a critical moment like the present, dare to renew my suit. i fancied i had subdued my passion for you, but your presence has awakened it with greater violence than ever." "rise, sir, i pray," rejoined the maiden, in an offended tone. "hear me, i beseech you," continued catesby, seizing her hand. "before you reject my suit, consider well that in these perilous seasons, when no true catholic can call his life his own, you may need a protector." "in the event you describe, mr. catesby," answered viviana, "i would at once fulfil the intention i have formed of devoting myself to heaven, and retire to the convent of benedictine nuns, founded by lady mary percy, at brussels." "you would much more effectually serve the cause of your religion by acceding to my suit," observed catesby, rising. "how so?" she inquired. "listen to me, miss radcliffe," he rejoined, gravely, "and let my words be deeply graven upon your heart. in your hands rests the destiny of the catholic church." "in mine!" exclaimed viviana. "in yours," returned catesby. "a mighty blow is about to be struck for her deliverance." "ay, marry, is it," cried oldcorne, with sudden fervour. "redemption draweth nigh; the year of visitation approacheth to an end; and jubilation is at hand. england shall again be called a happy realm, a blessed country, a religious people. those who knew the former glory of religion shall lift up their hands for joy to see it returned again. righteousness shall prosper, and infidelity be plucked up by the root. false error shall vanish like smoke, and they which saw it shall say where is it become? the daughters of babylon shall be cast down, and in the dust lament their ruin. proud heresy shall strike her sail, and groan as a beast crushed under a cart-wheel. the memory of novelties shall perish with a crack, and as a ruinous house falling to the ground. repent, ye seducers, with speed, and prevent the dreadful wrath of the powerable. he will come as flame that burneth out beyond the furnace. his fury shall fly forth as thunder, and pitch upon their tops that malign him. they shall perish in his fury, and melt like wax before the fire." "amen!" ejaculated catesby, as the priest concluded. "you have spoken prophetically, father." "i have but recited a prayer transmitted to me by father garnet," rejoined oldcorne. "do you discern any hidden meaning in it?" demanded catesby. "yea, verily my son," returned the priest. "in the '_false error vanishing like_ smoke,'--in the '_house perishing with a_ crack,'--and in the '_fury flying forth as_ thunder,'--i read the mode the great work shall be brought about." "and you applaud the design?" asked catesby, eagerly. "_non vero factum probo, sed eventum amo_," rejoined the priest. "the secret is safe in your keeping, father?" asked catesby, uneasily. "as if it had been disclosed to me in private confession," replied oldcorne. "hum!" muttered catesby. "confessions of as much consequence to the state have ere now been revealed, father." "a decree has been passed by his holiness, clement viii., forbidding all such revelations," replied oldcorne. "and the question has been recently propounded by a learned brother of our order, father antonio delrio, who, in his magical disquisitions, putteth it thus:--'supposing a malefactor shall confess that he himself or some other has laid gunpowder, or the like combustible matter, under a building--'" "ha!" exclaimed catesby, starting. "--'and, unless it be taken away,'" proceeded the priest, regarding him fixedly, "'the whole house will be burnt, the prince destroyed, and as many as go into or out of the city will come to great mischief or peril!'"[ ] "well!" exclaimed catesby. "the point then arises," continued oldcorne, "whether the priest may make use of the secret thus obtained for the good of the government, and the averting of such danger; and, after fully discussing it, father delrio decides in the negative." "enough," returned catesby. "by whom is the blow to be struck?" asked viviana, who had listened to the foregoing discourse in silent wonder. "by me," answered catesby. "it is for you to nerve my arm." "you speak in riddles," she replied. "i understand you not." "question father oldcorne, then, as to my meaning," rejoined catesby; "he will tell you that, allied to you, i could not fail in the enterprise on which i am engaged." "it is the truth, dear daughter," oldcorne asseverated. "i will not inquire further into this mystery," returned viviana, "for such it is to me. but, believing what you both assert, i answer, that willingly as i would lay down my life for the welfare of our holy religion, persuading myself, as i do, that i have constancy enough to endure martyrdom for its sake,--i cannot consent to your proposal. nay, if i must avouch the whole truth," she continued, blushing deeply, "my affections are already engaged, though to one with whom i can never hope to be united." "you have your answer, my son," observed the priest. catesby replied with a look of the deepest mortification and disappointment; and, bowing coldly to viviana, said, "i now depart to obey your behests, miss radcliffe." "commend me in all duty to my dear father," replied viviana, "and believe that i shall for ever feel bound to you for your zeal." "neglect not all due caution, father," observed catesby, glancing significantly at oldcorne. "forewarned, forearmed." "doubt me not, my son," rejoined the jesuit. "my prayers shall be for you. gentem auferte perfidam credentium de finibus, ut christo laudes debitas persolvamus alacriter." after receiving a parting benediction from the priest, catesby took his leave. his steed was speedily brought to the door by the old steward; and mounting it, he crossed the drawbridge, which was immediately raised behind him, and hastened on his journey. [ ] confitetur maleficus se vel alium posuisse pulverem vel quid aliud sub tali limine, et nisi tollantur domum comburendam, principem interiturum, quotquot urbem egredienturque in magnam perniciem aut periculum venturos.--delrio _disq. mag._, lib. vi. cap. i. [_edit._ .] chapter iv. the search. immediately after catesby's departure, heydocke was summoned to his mistress's presence. he found her with the priest, and was informed that in all probability the house would be visited that night by the messengers of the privy council. the old steward received the intelligence as he might have done his death-warrant, and looked so bewildered and affrighted, that viviana half repented having acquainted him with it. "compose yourself, master heydocke," she said, trying to reason him out of his fears; "the search may not take place. and if it does, there is nothing to be alarmed at. i am not afraid, you perceive." "nothing to be alarmed at, my dear young lady!" gasped the steward. "you have never witnessed a midnight search for a priest by these ruffianly catchpoles, as i have, or you would not say so. father oldcorne will comprehend my uneasiness, and excuse it. the miscreants break into the house like robbers, and treat its inmates worse than robbers would treat them. they have no regard for decency,--no consideration for sex,--no respect for persons. not a chamber is sacred from them. if a door is bolted, they burst it open; a cabinet locked, they tarry not for the key. they pull down the hangings, thrust their rapier-points into the crevices of the wainscot, discharge their fire-arms against the wall, and sometimes threaten to pull down the house itself, if the object of their quest be not delivered to them. their oaths, abominations, and menaces are horrible; and their treatment of females, even of your degree, honoured mistress, too barbarous to relate. poor lady nevil died of the fright she got by such a visit at dead of night to her residence in holborn. mrs. vavasour, of york, lost her senses; and many others whom i could mention have been equal sufferers. nothing to be alarmed at! heaven grant, my dear, dear young lady, that you may never be fatally convinced to the contrary!" "suppose my apprehensions are as great as your own, master heydocke," replied viviana, who, though somewhat infected by his terrors, still maintained her firmness; "i do not see how the danger is to be averted by idle lamentations and misgivings. we must meet it boldly; and trust to him who is our only safeguard in the hour of peril, for protection. do not alarm the household, but let all retire to rest as usual." "right, daughter," observed the priest. "preparations for resistance would only excite suspicion." "can you depend on the servants, in case they are examined?" asked viviana of the steward, who by this time had partially recovered his composure. "i think so," returned heydocke; "but the threats of the officers are so dreadful, and their conduct so violent and outrageous, that i can scarcely answer for myself. i would not advise your reverence to remain in that hiding-place," he added, pointing to the chimney-piece; "they are sure to discover it." "if not here, where shall i conceal myself?" rejoined oldcorne, uneasily. "there are many nooks in which your reverence might hide," replied the steward; "but the knaves are so crafty, and so well experienced in their vocation, that i dare not recommend any of them as secure. i would advise you to remain on the watch, and, in case of alarm, i will conduct you to the oratory in the north gallery, adjoining mistress viviana's sleeping-chamber, where there is a panel in the wall, known only to myself and my master, opening upon a secret passage running many hundred yards underground, and communicating with a small outbuilding on the other side of the moat. there is a contrivance in this passage, which i will explain to your reverence if need be, which will cut off any possibility of pursuit in that quarter." "be it so," replied the priest. "i place myself in your hands, good master heydocke, well assured of your fidelity. i shall remain throughout the night in this chamber, occupied in my devotions." "you will suffer me to pray with you, father, i trust?" said viviana. "if you desire it, assuredly, dear daughter," rejoined oldcorne; "but i am unwilling you should sacrifice your rest." "it will be no sacrifice, father, for i should not slumber, even if i sought my couch," she returned. "go, good heydocke. keep vigilant watch: and, if you hear the slightest noise without, fail not to give us warning." the steward bowed, and departed. some hours elapsed, during which nothing occurred to alarm viviana and her companion, who consumed the time in prayer and devout conversation; when, just at the stroke of two,--as the former was kneeling before her spiritual adviser, and receiving absolution for the slight offences of which a being so pure-minded could be supposed capable,--a noise like the falling of a bar of iron was heard beneath the window. the priest turned pale, and cast a look of uneasiness at the maiden, who said nothing, but snatching up the light, and motioning him to remain quiet, hurried out of the room in search of the steward. he was nowhere to be found. in vain, she examined all the lower rooms,--in vain, called to him by name. no answer was returned. greatly terrified, she was preparing to retrace her steps, when she heard the sound of muttered voices in the hall. extinguishing her light, she advanced to the door, which was left ajar, and, taking care not to expose herself to observation, beheld several armed figures, some of whom bore dark lanterns, while others surrounded and menaced with their drawn swords the unfortunate steward. from their discourse she ascertained that, having thrown a plank across the moat, and concealed themselves within the garden until they had reconnoitred the premises, they had contrived to gain admittance unperceived through the window of a small back room, in which they had surprised heydocke, who had fallen asleep on his post, and captured him. one amongst their number, who appeared to act as leader, and whom, from his garb, and the white wand he carried, viviana knew must be a pursuivant, now proceeded to interrogate the prisoner. to every question proposed to him the steward shook his head; and, in spite of the threats of the examinant, and the blows of his followers, he persisted in maintaining silence. "if we cannot make this contumacious rascal speak, we will find others more tractable," observed the pursuivant. "i will not leave any corner of the house unvisited; nor a soul within it unquestioned. ah! here they come!" as he spoke, several of the serving-men, with some of the female domestics, who had been alarmed by the noise, rushed into the hall, and on seeing it filled with armed men, were about to retreat, when they were instantly seized and detained. a scene of great confusion now ensued. the women screamed and cried for mercy, while the men struggled and fought with their captors. commanding silence at length, the pursuivant proclaimed in the king's name that whoever would guide him to the hiding-place of father oldcorne, a jesuit priest, whom it was known, and could be proved, was harboured within the mansion, should receive a free pardon and reward; while those who screened him, or connived at his concealment, were liable to fine, imprisonment, and even more severe punishment. each servant was then questioned separately. but, though all were more or less rudely dealt with, no information could be elicited. meanwhile, viviana was a prey to the most intolerable anxiety. unable to reach father oldcorne without crossing the hall, which she did not dare to attempt, she gave him up for lost; her sole hope being that, on hearing the cries of the domestics, he would provide for his own safety. her anxiety was still farther increased when the pursuivant, having exhausted his patience by fruitless interrogatories, and satisfied his malice by frightening two of the females into fits, departed with a portion of his band to search the house, leaving the rest as a guard over the prisoners. viviana then felt that, if she would save father oldcorne, the attempt must be made without a moment's delay, and at any hazard. watching her opportunity, when the troopers were occupied,--some in helping themselves to such viands and liquors as they could lay hands upon,--some in searching the persons of the prisoners for amulets and relics,--while others, more humane, were trying to revive the swooning women, she contrived to steal unperceived across the lower end of the hall. having gained the passage, she found to her horror that the pursuivant and his band were already within the star-chamber. they were sounding the walls with hammers and mallets, and from their exclamations, she learnt that they had discovered the retreat behind the fire-place, and were about to break it open. "we have him," roared the pursuivant, in a voice of triumph. "the old owl's roost is here!" viviana, who stood at the door, drew in her breath, expecting that the next moment would inform her that the priest was made captive. instead of this, she was delighted to find, from the oaths of rage and disappointment uttered by the troopers, that he had eluded them. "he must be in the house, at all events," growled the pursuivant; "nor is it long since he quitted his hiding-place, as this cushion proves. we will not go away without him. and now, let us proceed to the upper chambers." hearing their footsteps approach, viviana darted off, and quickly ascending the principal staircase, entered a long corridor. uncertain what to do, she was about to proceed to her own chamber, and bar the door, when she felt her arm grasped by a man. with difficulty repressing a shriek, she strove to disengage herself, when a whisper told her it was the priest. "heaven be praised!" cried viviana, "you are safe. how--how did you escape?" "i flew upstairs on hearing the voices," replied oldcorne. "but what has happened to the steward?" "he is a prisoner," replied viviana. "all then is lost, unless you are acquainted with the secret panel he spoke of in the oratory," rejoined oldcorne. "alas! father, i am wholly ignorant of it," she answered. "but, come with me into my chamber; they will not dare to invade it." "i know not that," returned the priest, despairingly. "these sacrilegious villains would not respect the sanctity of the altar itself." "they come!" cried viviana, as lights were seen at the foot of the stairs. "take my hand--this way, father." they had scarcely gained the room, and fastened the door, when the pursuivant and his attendants appeared in the corridor. the officer, it would seem, had been well instructed where to search, or was sufficiently practised in his duty, for he proceeded at once to several hiding-places in the different chambers which he visited. in one room he detected a secret staircase in the wall, which he mounted, and discovered a small chapel built in the roof. stripping it of its altar, its statue of the virgin, its crucifix, pix, chalice, and other consecrated vessels, he descended, and continued his search. viviana's chamber was now the only one unvisited. trying the door, and finding it locked, he tapped against it with his wand. "who knocks?" asked the maiden. "a state-messenger," was the reply. "i demand entrance in the king's name." "you cannot have it," she replied. "it is my sleeping-chamber." "my duty allows me no alternative," rejoined the pursuivant, harshly. "if you will not admit me quietly, i must use force." "do you know to whom you offer this rudeness?" returned viviana. "i am the daughter of sir william radcliffe." "i know it," replied the pursuivant; "but i am not exceeding my authority. i hold a warrant for your father's arrest. and, if he had not been from home, i should have carried him to prison along with the jesuit priest whom, i suspect, is concealed within your chamber. open the door, i command you; and do not hinder me in the execution of my duty." as no answer was returned to the application, the pursuivant commanded his men to burst open the door; and the order was promptly obeyed. the chamber was empty. on searching it, however, the pursuivant found a door concealed by the hangings of the bed. it was bolted on the other side, but speedily yielded to his efforts. passing through it, he entered upon a narrow gallery, at the extremity of which his progress was stopped by another door, likewise fastened on the further side. on bursting it open, he entered a small oratory, wainscoted with oak, and lighted by an oriel window filled with stained glass, through which the newly-risen moon was pouring its full radiance, and discovered the object of his search. "father oldcorne, i arrest you as a jesuit and a traitor," shouted the pursuivant, in a voice of exultation. "seize him!" he added, calling to his men. "you shall not take him," cried viviana, clinging despairingly to the priest, who offered no resistance, but clasped a crucifix to his breast. "leave go your hold, young mistress," rejoined the pursuivant, grasping oldcorne by the collar of his vestment, and dragging him along; "and rest thankful that i make you not, also, my prisoner." "take me; but spare him!--in mercy spare him!" shrieked viviana. "you solicit mercy from one who knows it not, daughter," observed the priest. "lead on, sir. i am ready to attend you." "your destination is the new fleet, father," retorted the pursuivant, in a tone of bitter raillery; "unless you prefer the cell in radcliffe hall lately vacated by your saintly predecessor, father woodroofe." "help! help!" shrieked viviana. "you may spare your voice, fair lady," sneered the pursuivant. "no help is at hand. your servants are all prisoners." the words were scarcely uttered, when a sliding panel in the wall flew open, and guy fawkes, followed by humphrey chetham, and another personage, sprang through the aperture, and presented a petronel at the head of the pursuivant. chapter v. chat moss. the pursuivant was taken so completely unawares by the sudden appearance of guy fawkes and his companions, that he made no attempt at resistance. nor were his attendants less confounded. before they recovered from their surprise, humphrey chetham seized viviana in his arms, and darting through the panel, called to the priest to follow him. father oldcorne was about to comply, when one of the soldiers, grasping the surcingle at his waist, dragged him forcibly backwards. the next moment, however, he was set free by guy fawkes, who, felling the man to the ground, and interposing himself between the priest and the other soldier, enabled the former to make good his retreat. this done, he planted himself in front of the panel, and with a petronel in each hand, menaced his opponents. "fly for your lives!" he shouted in a loud voice to the others. "not a moment is to be lost. i have taken greater odds, and in a worse cause, and have not been worsted. heed me not, i say. i will defend the passage till you are beyond reach of danger. fly!--fly!" "after them!" vociferated the pursuivant, stamping with rage and vexation; "after them instantly! hew down that bold traitor. show him no quarter. his life is forfeit to the king. slay him as you would a dog!" but the men, having no fire-arms, were so much intimidated by the fierce looks of guy fawkes, and the deadly weapons he pointed at their heads, that they hesitated to obey their leader's injunctions. "do you hear what i say to you, cravens?" roared the pursuivant. "cut him down without mercy." "they dare not move a footstep," rejoined guy fawkes, in a decisive tone. "recreants!" cried the pursuivant, foaming with rage, "is my prey to be snatched from me at the very moment i have secured it, through your cowardice? obey me instantly, or, as heaven shall judge me, i will denounce you to my lord derby and the commissioners as aiders and abettors in father oldcorne's escape!--and you well know what your punishment will be if i do so. what!--are you afraid of one man?" "our pikes are no match for his petronels," observed the foremost soldier, sullenly. "they are not," rejoined guy fawkes; "and you will do well not to compel me to prove the truth of your assertion. as to you, master pursuivant," he continued, with a look so stern that the other quailed before it, "unwilling as i am to shed blood, i shall hold your life, if i am compelled to take it, but just retribution for the fate you have brought upon the unfortunate elizabeth orton. "ha!" exclaimed the pursuivant, starting. "i thought i recognised you. you are the soldier in the spanish garb who saved that false prophetess from drowning." "i saved her only for a more lingering death," rejoined guy fawkes. "i know it," retorted the pursuivant. "i found her dead body when i visited her cell on my way hither, and gave orders to have it interred without coffin or shroud in that part of the burial-ground of the collegiate church in manchester reserved for common felons." "i know not what stays my hand," rejoined guy fawkes, fiercely. "but i am strongly tempted to give you a grave beside her." "i will put your daring to the proof!" cried the pursuivant, snatching a pike from one of his followers, and brandishing it over his head. "throw down your arms, or you die!" "back!" exclaimed guy fawkes, presenting a petronel at him, "or i lodge a bullet in your brain." "be advised by me, and rush not on certain destruction, good master pursuivant," said the foremost soldier, plucking his mantle. "i see by his bloodthirsty looks that the villain is in earnest." "i hear footsteps," cried the other soldier; "our comrades are at hand." "then it is time for me to depart," cried guy fawkes, springing through the secret door, and closing it after him. "confusion!" exclaimed the pursuivant; "but he shall not escape. break open the panel." the order was promptly obeyed. the men battered the stout oak board, which was of great thickness, with their pikes, but it resisted every effort, nor was it until the arrival of a fresh band of soldiers with lights, mallets, chisels, and other implements suitable to the purpose, that it could be forced open. this accomplished, the pursuivant, commanding his attendants to follow him, dashed through the aperture. as they proceeded singly along the narrow passage, the roof became so low that they were compelled to adopt a stooping posture. in this manner they hurried on until their further progress was stopped by a massive stone door, which appeared to descend from above by some hidden contrivance, no trace of bolt or other fastening being discernible. the flag fitted closely in channels in the walls, and had all the appearance of solid masonry. after examining this obstacle for a moment, the pursuivant was convinced that any attempt to move it would be impracticable, and muttering a deep execration, he gave the word to return. "from the course it appears to take," he observed, "this passage must communicate with the garden,--perhaps with the further side of the moat. we may yet secure them, if we use despatch." to return to the fugitives. on arriving at the point where the stone door was situated, which he discovered by the channels in the wall above-mentioned, guy fawkes searched for an iron ring, and, having found it, drew it towards him, and the ponderous flag slowly dropped into its place. he then groped his way cautiously along in the dark, until his foot encountered the top of a ladder, down which he crept, and landed on the floor of a damp deep vault. having taken the precaution to remove the ladder, he hastened onwards for about fifty yards, when he came to a steep flight of stone steps, distinguishable by a feeble glimmer of light from above, and mounting them, emerged through an open trap-door into a small building situated at the western side of the moat, where, to his surprise and disappointment, he found the other fugitives. "how comes it you are here?" he exclaimed, in a reproachful tone. "i kept the wolves at bay thus long, to enable you to make good your retreat." "miss radcliffe is too weak to move," replied humphrey chetham; "and i could not persuade father oldcorne to leave her." "i care not what becomes of me," said the priest. "the sooner my painful race is run the better. but i cannot--will not abandon my dear charge thus." "think not of me, father, i implore you," rejoined viviana, who had sunk overpowered with terror and exhaustion. "i shall be better soon. master chetham, i am assured, will remain with me till our enemies have departed, and i will then return to the hall." "command me as you please, miss radcliffe," replied humphrey chetham. "you have but to express a wish to insure its fulfilment on my part." "oh! that you had suffered mr. catesby to tarry with us till the morning, as he himself proposed, dear daughter," observed the priest, turning to viviana. "has catesby been here?" inquired guy fawkes, with a look of astonishment. "he has," replied oldcorne. "he came to warn us that the hall would be this night searched by the officers of state; and he also brought word that a warrant had been issued by the privy council for the arrest of sir william radcliffe." "where is he now?" demanded fawkes, hastily. "on the way to chester, whither he departed in all haste, at viviana's urgent request, to apprise her father of his danger," rejoined the priest. "this is strange!" muttered guy fawkes. "catesby here, and i not know it!" "he had a secret motive for his visit, my son," whispered oldcorne, significantly. "so i conclude, father," replied fawkes, in the same tone. "viviana radcliffe," murmured humphrey chetham, in low and tender accents, "something tells me that this moment will decide my future fate. emboldened by the mysterious manner in which we have been brought together, and you, as it were, have been thrown upon my protection, i venture to declare the passion i have long indulged for you;--a passion which, though deep and fervent as ever agitated human bosom, has hitherto, from the difference of our rank, and yet more from the difference of our religious opinions, been without hope. what has just occurred,--added to the peril in which your worthy father stands, and the difficulties in which you yourself will necessarily be involved,--makes me cast aside all misgiving, and perhaps with too much presumption, but with a confident belief that the sincerity of my love renders me not wholly undeserving of your regard, earnestly solicit you to give me a husband's right to watch over and defend you." viviana was silent. but even by the imperfect light the young merchant could discern that her cheek was covered with blushes. "your answer?" he cried, taking her hand. "you must take it from my lips, master chetham," interposed the priest; "viviana radcliffe never can be yours." "be pleased to let her speak for herself, reverend sir," rejoined the young merchant, angrily. "i represent her father, and have acquainted you with his determination," rejoined the priest. "appeal to her, and she will confirm my words." "viviana, is this true?" asked chetham. "does your father object to your union with me?" viviana answered by a deep sigh, and gently withdrew her hand from the young merchant's grasp. "then there is no hope for me?" cried chetham. "alas! no," replied viviana; "nor for me--of earthly affection. i am already dead to the world." "how so?" he asked. "i am about to vow myself to heaven," she answered. "viviana!" exclaimed the young man, throwing himself at her feet, "reflect!--oh! reflect, before you take this fatal--this irrevocable step." "rise, sir," interposed the priest, sternly; "you plead in vain. sir william radcliffe will never wed his daughter to a heretic. in his name i command you to desist from further solicitation." "i obey," replied chetham, rising. "we lose time here," observed guy fawkes, who had been lost for a moment in reflection. "i will undertake to provide for your safety, father. but, what must be done with viviana? she cannot be left here. and her return to the hall would be attended with danger." "i will not return till the miscreants have quitted it," said viviana. "their departure is uncertain," replied fawkes. "when they are baulked of their prey they sometimes haunt a dwelling for weeks." "what will become of me?" cried viviana, distractedly. "it were vain, i fear, to entreat you to accept an asylum with my father at clayton hall, or at my own residence at crumpsall," said humphrey chetham. "your offer is most kind, sir," replied oldcorne, "and is duly appreciated. but viviana will see the propriety--on every account--of declining it." "i do; i do," she acquiesced. "will you entrust yourself to my protection?" observed fawkes. "willingly," replied the priest, answering for her. "we shall find some place of refuge," he added, turning to viviana, "where your father can join us, and where we can remain concealed till this storm has blown over." "i know many such," rejoined fawkes, "both in this county and in yorkshire, and will guide you to one." "my horses are at your service," said humphrey chetham. "they are tied beneath the trees in the avenue. my servant shall bring them to the door," and, turning to his attendant, he gave him directions to that effect. "i was riding hither an hour before midnight," he continued, addressing viviana, "to offer you assistance, having accidentally heard the pursuivant mention his meditated visit to ordsall hall, to one of his followers, when, as i approached the gates, this person," pointing to guy fawkes, "crossed my path, and, seizing the bridle of my steed, demanded whether i was a friend to sir william radcliffe. i answered in the affirmative, and desired to know the motive of his inquiry. he then told me that the house was invested by a numerous band of armed men, who had crossed the moat by means of a plank, and were at that moment concealed within the garden. this intelligence, besides filling me with alarm, disconcerted all my plans, as i hoped to have been beforehand with them--their inquisitorial searches being generally made at a late hour, when all the inmates of a house intended to be surprised are certain to have retired to rest. while i was bitterly reproaching myself for my dilatoriness, and considering what course it would be best to pursue, my servant, martin heydocke, son to your father's old steward, who had ridden up at the stranger's approach, informed me that he was acquainted with a secret passage communicating beneath the moat with the hall. upon this, i dismounted; and fastening my horse to a tree, ordered him to lead me to it without an instant's delay. the stranger, who gave his name as guy fawkes, and professed himself a stanch catholic, and a friend of father oldcorne, begged permission to join us, in a tone so earnest, that i at once acceded to his request. we then proceeded to this building, and after some search discovered the trap-door. much time was lost, owing to our being unprovided with lights, in the subterranean passage; and it was more than two hours before we could find the ring connected with the stone door, the mystery of which martin explained to us. this delay we feared would render our scheme abortive, when, just as we reached the panel, we heard your shrieks. the spring was touched, and--you know the rest." "and shall never forget it," replied viviana, in a tone of the deepest gratitude. at this juncture, the tramp of horses was heard at the door; and the next moment it was thrown open by the younger heydocke, who, with a look, and in a voice of the utmost terror, exclaimed, "they are coming!--they are coming!" "the pursuivant?" cried guy fawkes. "not him alone, but the whole gang," rejoined martin. "some of them are lowering the drawbridge, while others are crossing the plank. several are on horseback, and i think i discern the pursuivant amongst the number. they have seen me, and are hurrying in this direction." as he spoke, a loud shout corroborated his statement. "we are lost!" exclaimed oldcorne. "do not despair, father," rejoined guy fawkes. "heaven will not abandon its faithful servants. the lord will deliver us out of the hands of these amalekites." "to horse, then, if you would indeed avoid them," urged humphrey chetham. "the shouts grow louder. your enemies are fast approaching." "viviana," said guy fawkes, "are you willing to fly with us?" "i will do anything rather than be left to those horrible men," she answered. guy fawkes then raised her in his arms, and sprang with his lovely burthen upon the nearest charger. his example was quickly followed by humphrey chetham, who, vaulting on the other horse, assisted the priest to mount behind him. while this took place, martin heydocke darted into the shed, and instantly bolted the door. it was a beautiful moonlight night, almost as bright as day, and the movements of each party were fully revealed to the other. guy fawkes perceived at a glance that they were surrounded; and, though he had no fears for himself, he was full of apprehension for the safety of his companion. while he was debating with himself as to the course it would be best to pursue, humphrey chetham shouted to him to turn to the left, and started off in that direction. grasping his fair charge, whom he had placed before him on the saddle, firmly with his left arm, and wrapping her in his ample cloak, guy fawkes drew his sword, and striking spurs into his steed, followed in the same track. the little fabric which had afforded them temporary shelter, it has already been mentioned, was situated on the west of the hall, at a short distance from the moat, and was screened from observation by a small shrubbery. no sooner did the fugitives emerge from this cover, than loud outcries were raised by their antagonists, and every effort was made to intercept them. on the right, galloping towards them on a light but swift courser, taken from sir william radcliffe's stables, came the pursuivant, attended by half-a-dozen troopers, who had accommodated themselves with horses in the same manner as their leader. between them and the road leading to manchester, were stationed several armed men on foot. at the rear, voices proclaimed that others were in full pursuit; while in front, a fourth detachment menaced them with their pikes. thus beset on all sides, it seemed scarcely possible to escape. nothing daunted, however, by the threats and vociferations with which they were received, the two horsemen boldly charged this party. the encounter was instantaneous. guy fawkes warded off a blow, which, if it had taken effect, must have robbed viviana of life, and struck down the fellow who aimed it. at the same moment, his career was checked by another assailant, who, catching his bridle with the hook of his pike, commanded him to surrender. fawkes replied by cleaving the man's staff asunder, and, having thus disembarrassed himself, was about to pursue his course, when he perceived that humphrey chetham was in imminent danger from a couple of soldiers who had stopped him, and were trying to unhorse his companion. riding up to them, guy fawkes, by a vigorous and well-directed attack, speedily drove them off; and the fugitives, being now unimpeded, were enabled to continue their career. the foregoing occurrences were witnessed by the pursuivant with the utmost rage and vexation. pouring forth a torrent of threats and imprecations, he swore he would never rest till he had secured them, and urging his courser to its utmost speed, commanded his men to give chase. skirting a sluice, communicating between the irwell and the moat, humphrey chetham, who, as better acquainted with the country than his companions, took the lead, proceeded along its edge for about a hundred yards, when he suddenly struck across a narrow bridge covered with sod, and entered the open fields. hitherto viviana had remained silent. though fully aware of the risk she had run, she gave no sign of alarm--not even when the blow was aimed against her life; and it was only on conceiving the danger in some degree past, that she ventured to express her gratitude. "you have displayed so much courage," said guy fawkes, in answer to her speech, "that it would be unpardonable to deceive you. our foes are too near us, and too well mounted, to make it by any means certain we shall escape them,--unless by stratagem." "they are within a hundred yards of us," cried humphrey chetham, glancing fearfully backwards. "they have possessed themselves of your father's fleetest horses; and, if i mistake not, the rascally pursuivant has secured your favourite barb." "my gentle zayda!" exclaimed viviana. "then indeed we are lost. she has not her match for speed." "if she bring her rider to us alone, she will do us good service," observed guy fawkes, significantly. the same notion, almost at the same moment, occurred to the pursuivant. having witnessed the prowess displayed by guy fawkes in his recent attack on the soldiers, he felt no disposition to encounter so formidable an opponent single-handed; and finding that the high-mettled barb on which he was mounted, by its superior speed and fiery temper, would inevitably place him in such a dilemma, he prudently resolved to halt, and exchange it for a more manageable steed. this delay was of great service to the fugitives, and enabled them to get considerably ahead. they had now gained a narrow lane, and, tracking it, speedily reached the rocky banks of the irwell. galloping along a foot-path that followed the serpentine course of the stream for a quarter of a mile, they arrived at a spot marked by a bed of osiers, where humphrey chetham informed them there was a ford. accordingly, they plunged into the river, and while stemming the current, which here ran with great swiftness, and rose up above the saddles, the neighing of a steed was heard from the bank they had quitted. turning at the sound, viviana beheld her favourite courser on the summit of a high rock. the soldier to whom zayda was intrusted had speedily, as the pursuivant foresaw, distanced his companions, and chose this elevated position to take sure aim at guy fawkes, against whom he was now levelling a caliver. the next moment a bullet struck against his brigandine, but without doing him any injury. the soldier, however, did not escape so lightly. startled by the discharge, the fiery barb leaped from the precipice into the river, and throwing her rider, who was borne off by the rapid stream, swam towards the opposite bank, which she reached just as the others were landing. at the sound of her mistress's voice she stood still, and allowed humphrey chetham to lay hold of her bridle; and viviana declaring she was able to mount her, guy fawkes, who felt that such an arrangement was most likely to conduce to her safety, and who was, moreover, inclined to view the occurrence as a providential interference in their behalf, immediately assisted her into the saddle. before this transfer could be effected, the pursuivant and his attendants had begun to ford the stream. the former had witnessed the accident that had befallen the soldier from a short distance; and, while he affected to deplore it, internally congratulated himself on his prudence and foresight. but he was by no means so well satisfied when he saw how it served to benefit the fugitives. "that unlucky beast!" he exclaimed. "some fiend must have prompted me to bring her out of the stable. would she had drowned herself instead of poor dickon duckesbury, whom she hath sent to feed the fishes! with her aid, miss radcliffe will doubtless escape. no matter. if i secure father oldcorne, and that black-visaged trooper in the spanish garb, who, i'll be sworn, is a secret intelligencer of the pope, if not of the devil, i shall be well contented. i'll hang them both on a gibbet higher than haman's." and muttering other threats to the same effect, he picked his way to the opposite shore. long before he reached it, the fugitives had disappeared; but on climbing the bank, he beheld them galloping swiftly across a well-wooded district steeped in moonlight, and spread out before his view, and inflamed by the sight he shouted to his attendants, and once more started in pursuit. cheered by the fortunate incident above related, which, in presenting her with her own steed in a manner so surprising and unexpected, seemed almost to give her assurance of deliverance, viviana, inspirited by the exercise, felt her strength and spirits rapidly revive. at her side rode guy fawkes, who ever and anon cast an anxious look behind, to ascertain the distance of their pursuers, but suffered no exclamation to escape his lips. indeed, throughout the whole affair, he maintained the reserve belonging to his sombre and taciturn character, and neither questioned humphrey chetham as to where he was leading them, nor proposed any deviation from the route he had apparently chosen. to such remarks as were addressed to him, fawkes answered in monosyllables; and it was only when occasion required, that he volunteered any observation or advice. he seemed to surrender himself to chance. and perhaps, if his bosom could have been examined, it would have been found that he considered himself a mere puppet in the hands of destiny. in other and calmer seasons, he might have dwelt with rapture on the beautiful and varied country through which they were speeding, and which from every knoll they mounted, every slope they descended, every glade they threaded, intricacy pierced, or tangled dell tracked, presented new and increasing attractions. this charming district, since formed into a park by the traffords, from whom it derives its present designation, was at this time,--though part of the domain of that ancient family,--wholly unenclosed. old trafford hall lies (for it is still in existence,) more than a mile nearer to manchester, a little to the east of ordsall hall; but the modern residence of the family is situated in the midst of the lovely region through which the fugitives were riding. but, though the charms of the scene, heightened by the gentle medium through which they were viewed, produced little effect upon the iron nature of guy fawkes, they were not without influence on his companions, especially viviana. soothed by the stillness of all around her, she almost forgot her danger; and surrendering herself to the dreamy enjoyment generally experienced in contemplating such a scene at such an hour, suffered her gaze to wander over the fair woody landscape before her, till it was lost in the distant moonlit wolds. from the train of thought naturally awakened by this spectacle, she was roused by the shouts of the pursuers; and, glancing timorously behind her, beheld them hurrying swiftly along the valley they had just quitted. from the rapidity with which they were advancing, it was evident they were gaining upon them, and she was about to urge her courser to greater speed, when humphrey chetham laid his hand upon the rein to check her. "reserve yourself till we gain the brow of this hill," he remarked; "and then put zayda to her mettle. we are not far from our destination." "indeed!" exclaimed viviana. "where is it?" "i will show it to you presently," he answered. arrived at the summit of the high ground, which they had been for some time gradually ascending, the young merchant pointed out a vast boggy tract, about two miles off, in the vale beneath them. "that is our destination," he said. "did i not hold it impossible you could trifle with me at such a time as this, i should say you were jesting," rejoined viviana. "the place you indicate, unless i mistake you, is chat moss, the largest and most dangerous marsh in lancashire." "you do not mistake me, neither am i jesting, viviana," replied the young merchant, gravely. "chat moss _is_ the mark at which i aim." "if we are to cross it, we shall need a will-o'-the-wisp to guide us, and some friendly elf to make firm the ground beneath our steeds," rejoined viviana, in a slightly-sarcastic tone. "trust to me and you shall traverse it in safety," resumed humphrey chetham. "i would sooner trust myself to the pursuivant and his band, than venture upon its treacherous surface," she replied. "how is this, young sir?" interposed guy fawkes, sternly. "is it from heedlessness or rashness that you are about to expose us to this new danger?--which, if viviana judges correctly, and my own experience of such places inclines me to think she does so,--is greater than that which now besets us." "if there is any danger i shall be the first to encounter it, for i propose to act as your guide," returned humphrey chetham, in an offended tone. "but the treacherous character of the marsh constitutes our safety. i am acquainted with a narrow path across it, from which the deviation of a foot will bring certain death. if our pursuers attempt to follow us their destruction is inevitable. viviana may rest assured i would not needlessly expose so dear a life as hers. but it is our best chance of safety." "humphrey chetham is in the right," observed the priest. "i have heard of the path he describes; and if he can guide us along it, we shall effectually baffle our enemies." "i cry you mercy, sir," said viviana. "i did not apprehend your meaning. but i now thankfully resign myself to your care." "forward, then," cried the young merchant. and they dashed swiftly down the declivity. chat moss, towards which they were hastening, though now drained, in part cultivated, and traversed by the busiest and most-frequented railroad in england, or the world, was, within the recollection of many of the youngest of the present generation, a dreary and almost impassable waste. surveyed from the heights of dunham, whence the writer has often gazed upon it, envying the plover her wing to skim over its broad expanse, it presented with its black boggy soil, striped like a motley garment, with patches of grey, tawny, and dunnish red, a singular and mysterious appearance. conjecture fixes this morass as the site of a vast forest, whose immemorial and druid-haunted groves were burnt by the roman invaders; and seeks to account for its present condition by supposing that the charred trees--still frequently found within its depths--being left where the conflagration had placed them, had choked up its brooks and springs, and so reduced it to a general swamp. drayton, however, in the following lines from the faerie land, places its origin as far back as the deluge:-- ----great chat moss at my fall lies fall of turf and marl, her unctuous mineral; and blocks as black as pitch, with boring augers found, there at the general flood supposed to be drown'd. but the former hypothesis appears the more probable. a curious description of chat moss, as it appeared at the time of this history, is furnished by camden, who terms it, "a swampy tract of great extent, a considerable part of which was carried off in the last age by swollen rivers with great danger, whereby the rivers were infected, and great quantities of fish died. instead thereof is now a valley watered by a small stream; and many trees were discovered thrown down, and lying flat, so that one may suppose when the ground lay neglected, and the waste water of brooks was not drained off into the open valleys, or their courses stopped by neglect or desolation, all the lower grounds were turned into swamps, (which we call _mosses_,) or into pools. if this was the case, no wonder so many trees are found covered, and, as it were, buried in such places all over england, but especially here. for the roots being loosened by too excessive wet, they must necessarily fall down and sink in so soft a soil. the people hereabouts search for them with poles and spits, and after marking the place, dig them up and use them for firing, for they are like torches, equally fit to burn and to give light, which is probably owing to the bituminous earth that surrounds them, whence the common people suppose them firs, though cæsar denies that there were such trees in britain." but, though vast masses of the bog had been carried off by the irwell and the mersey, as related by camden, the general appearance of the waste,--with the exception of the valley and the small stream,--was much the same as it continued to our own time. its surface was more broken and irregular, and black gaping chasms and pits filled with water and slime as dark-coloured as the turf whence it flowed, pointed out the spots where the swollen and heaving swamp had burst its bondage. narrow paths, known only to the poor turf-cutters and other labourers who dwelt upon its borders, and gathered fuel with poles and spits in the manner above described, intersected it at various points. but as they led in many cases to dangerous and deep gulfs, to dismal quagmires and fathomless pits; and, moreover, as the slightest departure from the proper track would have whelmed the traveller in an oozy bed, from which, as from a quicksand, he would have vainly striven to extricate himself,--it was never crossed without a guide, except by those familiar with its perilous courses. one painful circumstance connected with the history of chat moss remains to be recorded--namely, that the attempt made to cultivate it by the great historian roscoe,--an attempt since carried out, as has already been shown, with complete success,--ended in a result ruinous to the fortunes of that highly-gifted person, who, up to the period of this luckless undertaking, was as prosperous as he was meritorious. by this time the fugitives had approached the confines of the marsh. an accident, however, had just occurred, which nearly proved fatal to viviana, and, owing to the delay it occasioned, brought their pursuers into dangerous proximity with them. in fording the irwell, which, from its devious course, they were again compelled to cross, about a quarter of a mile below barton, her horse missed its footing, and precipitated her into the rapid current. in another instant she would have been borne away, if guy fawkes had not flung himself into the water, and seized her before she sank. her affrighted steed, having got out of its depth, began to swim off, and it required the utmost exertion on the part of humphrey chetham, embarrassed as he was by the priest, to secure it. in a few minutes all was set to rights, and viviana was once more placed on the saddle, without having sustained further inconvenience than was occasioned by her dripping apparel. but those few minutes, as has been just stated, sufficed to bring the pursuivant and his men close upon them; and as they scrambled up the opposite bank, the plunging and shouting behind them told that the latter had entered the stream. "yonder is baysnape," exclaimed humphrey chetham, calling viviana's attention to a ridge of high ground on the borders of the waste. "below it lies the path by which i propose to enter the moss. we shall speedily be out of the reach of our enemies." "the marsh at least will hide us," answered viviana, with a shudder. "it is a terrible alternative." "fear nothing, dear daughter," observed the priest. "the saints, who have thus marvellously protected us, will continue to watch over us to the end, and will make the path over yon perilous waste as safe as the ground on which we tread." "i like not the appearance of the sky," observed guy fawkes, looking uneasily upwards. "before we reach the spot you have pointed out, the moon will be obscured. will it be safe to traverse the moss in the dark?" "it is our only chance," replied the young merchant, speaking in a low tone, that his answer might not reach viviana's ears; "and after all, the darkness may be serviceable. our pursuers are so near, that if it were less gloomy, they might hit upon the right track. it will be a risk to us to proceed, but certain destruction to those who follow. and now let us make what haste we can. every moment is precious." the dreary and fast darkening waste had now opened upon them in all its horrors. far as the gaze could reach appeared an immense expanse, flat almost as the surface of the ocean, and unmarked, so far as could be discerned in that doubtful light, by any trace of human footstep or habitation. it was a stern and sombre prospect, and calculated to inspire terror in the stoutest bosom. what effect it produced on viviana may be easily conjectured. but her nature was brave and enduring, and, though she trembled so violently as scarcely to be able to keep her seat, she gave no utterance to her fears. they were now skirting that part of the morass since denominated, from the unfortunate speculation previously alluded to, "roscoe's improvements." this tract was the worst and most dangerous portion of the whole moss. soft, slabby, and unsubstantial, its treacherous beds scarcely offered secure footing to the heron that alighted on them. the ground shook beneath the fugitives as they hurried past the edge of the groaning and quivering marsh. the plover, scared from its nest, uttered its peculiar and plaintive cry; the bittern shrieked; other night-fowl poured forth their doleful notes; and the bull-frog added its deep croak to the ominous concert. behind them came the thundering tramp and loud shouts of their pursuers. guy fawkes had judged correctly. before they reached baysnape the moon had withdrawn behind a rack of clouds, and it had become profoundly dark. arrived at this point, humphrey chetham called to them to turn off to the right. "follow singly," he said, "and do not swerve a hair's breadth from the path. the slightest deviation will be fatal. do you, sir," he added to the priest, "mount behind guy fawkes, and let viviana come next after me. if i should miss my way, do not stir for your life." the transfer effected, the fugitives turned off to the right, and proceeded at a cautious pace along a narrow and shaking path. the ground trembled so much beneath them, and their horses' feet sank so deeply in the plashy bog, that viviana demanded, in a tone of some uneasiness, if he was sure he had taken the right course? "if i had not," replied humphrey chetham, "we should ere this have found our way to the bottom of the morass." as he spoke, a floundering plunge, accompanied by a horrible and quickly-stifled cry, told that one of their pursuers had perished in endeavouring to follow them. "the poor wretch is gone to his account," observed viviana, in a tone of commiseration. "have a care!--have a care, lest you share the same fate." "if i can save you, i care not what becomes of me," replied the young merchant. "since i can never hope to possess you, life has become valueless in my eyes." "quicken your pace," shouted guy fawkes, who brought up the rear. "our pursuers have discovered the track, and are making towards us." "let them do so," replied the young merchant. "they can do us no farther injury." "that is false!" cried the voice of a soldier from behind. and, as the words were uttered, a shot was fired, which, though aimed against chetham, took effect upon his steed. the animal staggered, and his rider had only time to slide from his back when he reeled off the path, and was ingulfed in the marsh. hearing the plunge of the steed, the man fancied he had hit his mark, and hallooed in an exulting voice to his companions. but his triumph was of short duration. a ball from the petronel of guy fawkes pierced his brain, and dropping from his saddle, he sank, together with his horse, which he dragged along with him into the quagmire. "waste no more shot," cried humphrey chetham; "the swamp will fight our battles for us. though i grieve for the loss of my horse, i may be better able to guide you on foot." with this, he seized viviana's bridle, and drew her steed along at a quick pace, but with the greatest caution. as they proceeded, a light like that of a lantern was seen to rise from the earth, and approach them. "heaven be praised!" exclaimed viviana: "some one has heard us, and is hastening to our assistance." "not so," replied humphrey chetham. "the light you behold is an _ignis fatuus_. were you to trust yourself to its delusive gleam, it would lead you to the most dangerous parts of the moss." and, as if to exhibit its real character, the little flame, which hitherto had burnt as brightly and steadily as a wax-candle, suddenly appeared to dilate, and assuming a purple tinge, emitted a shower of sparks, and then flitted rapidly over the plain. "woe to him that follows it!" cried humphrey chetham. "it has a strange unearthly look," observed viviana, crossing herself. "i have much difficulty in persuading myself it is not the work of some malignant sprite." "it is only an exhalation of the marsh," replied chetham. "but, see! others are at hand." their approach, indeed, seemed to have disturbed all the weird children of the waste. lights were seen trooping towards them in every direction; sometimes stopping, sometimes rising in the air, now contracting, now expanding, and when within a few yards of the travellers, retreating with inconceivable swiftness. "it is a marvellous and incomprehensible spectacle," remarked viviana. "the common folk hereabouts affirm that these jack-o'-lanterns, as they term them, always appear in greater numbers when some direful catastrophe is about to take place," rejoined the young merchant. "heaven avert it from us," ejaculated viviana. "it is an idle superstition," returned chetham. "but we must now keep silence," he continued, lowering his voice, and stopping near the charred stump of a tree, left, it would seem, as a mark. "the road turns here; and, unless our pursuers know it, we shall now quit them for ever. we must not let a sound betray the course we are about to take." having turned this dangerous corner in safety, and conducted his companions as noiselessly as possible for a few yards along the cross path, which being much narrower was consequently more perilous than the first, humphrey chetham stood still, and, imposing silence upon the others, listened to the approach of their pursuers. his prediction was speedily and terribly verified. hearing the movement in advance, but unable to discover the course taken by the fugitives, the unfortunate soldiers, fearful of losing their prey, quickened their pace, in the expectation of instantly overtaking them. they were fatally undeceived. four only of their number, besides their leader, remained,--two having perished in the manner heretofore described. the first of these, disregarding the caution of his comrade, laughingly urged his horse into a gallop, and, on passing the mark, sunk as if by magic, and before he could utter a single warning cry, into the depths of the morass. his disappearance was so instantaneous, that the next in order, though he heard the sullen plunge, was unable to draw in the rein, and was likewise ingulfed. a third followed; and a fourth, in his efforts to avoid their fate, backed his steed over the slippery edge of the path. only one now remained. it was the pursuivant, who, with the prudence that characterized all his proceedings, had followed in the rear. he was so dreadfully frightened, that, adding his shrieks to those of his attendants, he shouted to the fugitives, imploring assistance in the most piteous terms, and promising never again to molest them, if they would guide him to a place of safety. but his cries were wholly unheeded; and he perhaps endured in those few minutes of agony as much suffering as he had inflicted on the numerous victims of his barbarity. it was indeed an appalling moment. three of the wretched men had not yet sunk, but were floundering about in the swamp, and shrieking for help. the horses, as much terrified as their riders, added their piercing cries to the half-suffocated yells. and, as if to make the scene more ghastly, myriads of dancing lights flitted towards them, and throwing an unearthly glimmer over this part of the morass, fully revealed their struggling figures. moved by compassion for the poor wretches, viviana implored humphrey chetham to assist them, and, finding him immovable, she appealed to guy fawkes. "they are beyond all human aid," the latter replied. "heaven have mercy on their souls!" ejaculated the priest "pray for them, dear daughter. pray heartily, as i am about to do." and he recited in an audible voice the romish formula of supplication for those _in extremis_. averting her gaze from the spectacle, viviana joined fervently in the prayer. by this time two of the strugglers had disappeared. the third, having freed himself from his horse, contrived for some moments, during which he uttered the most frightful cries, to keep his head above the swamp. his efforts were tremendous, but unavailing, and served only to accelerate his fate. making a last desperate plunge towards the bank where the fugitives were standing, he sank above the chin. the expression of his face, shown by the ghastly glimmer of the fen-fires, as he was gradually swallowed up, was horrible. "_requiem æternam dona eis, domine_," exclaimed the priest. "all is over," cried humphrey chetham, taking the bridle of viviana's steed, and leading her onwards. "we are free from our pursuers." "there is one left," she rejoined, casting a look backwards. "it is the pursuivant," returned guy fawkes, sternly. "he is within shot," he added, drawing his petronel. "oh, no--no!--in pity spare him!" cried viviana. "too many lives have been sacrificed already." "he is the cause of all the mischief," answered guy fawkes, unwillingly replacing the petronel in his belt, "and may live to injure you and your father." "i will hope not," rejoined viviana; "but, spare him!--oh, spare him!" "be it as you please," replied guy fawkes. "the marsh, i trust, will not be so merciful." with this, they slowly resumed their progress. on hearing their departure, the pursuivant renewed his cries in a more piteous tone than ever; but, in spite of the entreaties of viviana, nothing could induce her companions to lend him assistance. for some time they proceeded in silence, and without accident. as they advanced, the difficulties of the path increased, and it was fortunate that the moon, emerging from the clouds in which, up to this moment, she had been shrouded, enabled them to steer their course in safety. at length, after a tedious and toilsome march for nearly half a mile, the footing became more secure, the road widened, and they were able to quicken their pace. another half mile landed them upon the western bank of the morass. viviana's first impulse was to give thanks to heaven for their deliverance, nor did she omit in her prayer a supplication for the unfortunate beings who had perished. arrived at the point now known as rawson nook, they entered a lane, and proceeded towards astley green, where perceiving a cluster of thatched cottages among the trees, they knocked at the door of the first, and speedily obtained admittance from its inmates, a turf-cutter and his wife. the man conveyed their steeds to a neighbouring barn, while the good dame offered viviana such accommodation and refreshment as her humble dwelling afforded. here they tarried till the following evening, as much to recruit miss radcliffe's strength, as for security. at the young merchant's request, the turf-cutter went in the course of the day to see what had become of the pursuivant. he was nowhere to be found. but he accidentally learned from another hind, who followed the same occupation as himself, that a person answering to the officer's description had been seen to emerge from the moss near baysnape at daybreak, and take the road towards manchester. of the unfortunate soldiers nothing but a steel cap and a pike, which the man brought away with him, could be discovered. after much debate, it was decided that their safest plan would be to proceed to manchester, where humphrey chetham undertook to procure them safe lodgings at the seven stars,--an excellent hostel, kept by a worthy widow, who, he affirmed, would do anything to serve him. accordingly, they set out at nightfall,--viviana taking her place before guy fawkes, and relinquishing zayda to the young merchant and the priest. shaping their course through worsley, by monton green and pendleton, they arrived in about an hour within sight of the town, which then,--not a tithe of its present size, and unpolluted by the smoky atmosphere in which it is now constantly enveloped,--was not without some pretensions to a picturesque appearance. crossing salford bridge, they mounted smithy-bank, as it was then termed, and proceeding along cateaton-street and hanging ditch, struck into whithing (now withy) grove, at the right of which, just where a few houses were beginning to straggle up shude hill, stood, and still stands, the comfortable hostel of the seven stars. here they stopped, and were warmly welcomed by its buxom mistress, dame sutcliffe. muffled in guy fawkes's cloak, the priest gained the chamber to which he was ushered unobserved. and dame sutcliffe, though her protestant notions were a little scandalized at her dwelling being made the sanctuary of a popish priest, promised, at the instance of master chetham, whom she knew to be no favourer of idolatry in a general way, to be answerable for his safety. chapter vi. the disinterment. having seen every attention shown to viviana by the hostess,--who, as soon as she discovered that she had the daughter of sir william radcliffe of ordsall, under her roof, bestirred herself in right earnest for her accommodation,--humphrey chetham, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour,--it was past midnight,--expressed his determination to walk to his residence at crumpsall, to put an end to any apprehension which might be entertained by the household at his prolonged absence. with this view, he set forth; and guy fawkes, who seemed to be meditating some project which he was unwilling to disclose to the others, quitted the hostel with him, bidding the chamberlain sit up for him, as he should speedily return. they had not gone far when he inquired the nearest way to the collegiate church, and was answered that they were then proceeding towards it, and in a few moments should arrive at its walls. he next asked the young merchant whether he could inform him which part of the churchyard was allotted to criminals. humphrey chetham, somewhat surprised by the question, replied, "at the north-west, near the charnel," adding, "i shall pass within a short distance of the spot, and will point it out to you." entering fennel street, at the end of which stood an ancient cross, they soon came in sight of the church. the moon was shining brightly, and silvered the massive square tower of the fane, the battlements, pinnacles, buttresses, and noble eastern window, with its gorgeous tracery. while guy fawkes paused for a moment to contemplate this reverend and beautiful structure, two venerable personages, having long snowy beards, and wrapped in flowing mantles edged with sable fur, passed the end of the street. one of them carried a lantern, though it was wholly needless, as it was bright as day; and as they glided stealthily along, there was something so mysterious in their manner, that it greatly excited the curiosity of guy fawkes, who inquired from his companion if he knew who they were. "the foremost is the warden of manchester, the famous doctor dee," replied humphrey chetham, "divine, mathematician, astrologer,--and if report speaks truly, conjuror." "is that doctor dee?" cried guy fawkes, in astonishment. "it is," replied the young merchant: "and the other in the polish cap is the no-less celebrated edward kelley, the doctor's assistant, or, as he is ordinarily termed, his seer." "they have entered the churchyard," remarked guy fawkes. "i will follow them." "i would not advise you to do so," rejoined the other. "strange tales are told of them. you may witness that it is not safe to look upon." the caution, however, was unheeded. guy fawkes had already disappeared, and the young merchant, shrugging his shoulders, proceeded on his way towards hunt's bank. on gaining the churchyard, guy fawkes perceived the warden and his companion creeping stealthily beneath the shadow of a wall in the direction of a low fabric, which appeared to be a bone-house, or charnel, situated at the north-western extremity of the church. before this building grew a black and stunted yew-tree. arrived at it, they paused, and looked round to see whether they were observed. they did not, however, notice guy fawkes, who had concealed himself behind a buttress. kelley then unlocked the door of the charnel, and brought out a pickaxe and mattock. having divested himself of his cloak, he proceeded to shovel out the mould from a new-made grave at a little distance from the building. doctor dee stood by, and held the lantern for his assistant. determined to watch their proceedings, guy fawkes crept towards the yew-tree, behind which he ensconced himself. kelley, meanwhile, continued to ply his spade with a vigour that seemed almost incomprehensible in one so far stricken in years, and of such infirm appearance. at length he paused, and kneeling within the shallow grave, endeavoured to drag something from it. doctor dee knelt to assist him. after some exertion, they drew forth the corpse of a female, which had been interred without coffin, and apparently in the habiliments worn during life. a horrible suspicion crossed guy fawkes. resolving to satisfy his doubts at once, he rushed forward, and beheld in the ghastly lineaments of the dead the features of the unfortunate prophetess, elizabeth orton. chapter vii. doctor dee. "how now, ye impious violators of the tomb! ye worse than famine-stricken wolves, that rake up the dead in churchyards!" cried guy fawkes, in a voice of thunder, to doctor dee and his companion; who, startled by his sudden appearance, dropped the body, and retreated to a short distance. "what devilish rites are ye about to enact, that ye thus profane the sanctity of the grave?" [illustration: _guy fawkes discovers doctor dee & edward kelley disintering the body of elizabeth orton_] "and who art thou that darest thus to interrupt us?" demanded dee, sternly. "it matters not," rejoined fawkes, striding towards them. "suffice it you are both known to _me_. you, john dee, warden of manchester, who deserve to be burnt at the stake for your damnable practices, rather than hold the sacred office you fill; and you, edward kelley, his associate, who boast of familiar intercourse with demons, and, unless fame belies you, have purchased the intimacy at the price of your soul's salvation. i know you both. i know, also, whose body you have disinterred--it is that of the ill-fated prophetess, elizabeth orton. and if you do not instantly restore it to the grave whence you have snatched it, i will denounce you to the authorities of the town." "knowing thus much, you should know still more," retorted doctor dee, "namely, that i am not to be lightly provoked. you have no power to quit the churchyard--nay, not so much as to move a limb without my permission." as he spoke, he drew from beneath his cloak a small phial, the contents of which he sprinkled over the intruder. its effect was wonderful and instantaneous. the limbs of guy fawkes stiffened where he stood. his hand remained immovably fixed upon the pommel of his sword, and he seemed transformed into a marble statue. "you will henceforth acknowledge and respect my power," he continued. "were it my pleasure, i could bury you twenty fathoms deep in the earth beneath our feet; or, by invoking certain spirits, convey you to the summit of yon lofty tower," pointing to the church, "and hurl you from it headlong. but i content myself with depriving you of motion, and leave you in possession of sight and speech, that you may endure the torture of witnessing what you cannot prevent." so saying, he was about to return to the corpse with kelley, when guy fawkes exclaimed, in a hollow voice, "set me free, and i will instantly depart." "will you swear never to divulge what you have seen?" demanded dee, pausing. "solemnly," he replied. "i will trust you, then," rejoined the doctor;--"the rather that your presence interferes with my purpose." taking a handful of loose earth from an adjoining grave, and muttering a few words, that sounded like a charm, he scattered it over fawkes. the spell was instantly broken. a leaden weight seemed to be removed from his limbs. his joints regained their suppleness, and with a convulsive start, like that by which a dreamer casts off a nightmare, he was liberated from his preternatural thraldom. "and now, begone!" cried doctor dee, authoritatively. "suffer me to tarry with you a few moments," said guy fawkes, in a deferential tone. "heretofore, i will freely admit, i regarded you as an impostor; but now i am convinced you are deeply skilled in the occult sciences, and would fain consult you on the future." "i have already said that your presence troubles me," replied doctor dee. "but if you will call upon me at the college to-morrow, it may be i will give you further proofs of my skill." "why not now, reverend sir?" urged fawkes. "the question i would ask is better suited to this dismal spot and witching hour, than to daylight and the walls of your study." "indeed!" exclaimed dee. "your name?" "guy fawkes," replied the other. "guy fawkes!" echoed the doctor, starting. "nay, then, i guess the nature of the question you would ask." "am i then known to you, reverend sir?" inquired fawkes, uneasily. "as well as to yourself--nay, better," answered the doctor. "bring the lantern hither, kelley," he continued, addressing his companion. "look!" he added, elevating the light so as to throw it upon the countenance of fawkes: "it is the very face,--the bronzed and strongly-marked features,--the fierce black eye,--the iron frame, and foreign garb of the figure we beheld in the show-stone." "it is," replied kelley. "i could have singled him out amid a thousand. he looked thus as we tracked his perilous course, with his three companions, the priest, chetham, and viviana radcliffe, across chat moss." "how have you learned this?" cried guy fawkes, in amazement. "by the art that reveals all things," answered kelley. "in proof that your thoughts are known to me," observed dee, "i will tell you the inquiry you would make before it is uttered. you would learn whether the enterprise on which you are engaged will succeed." "i would," replied fawkes. "yet more," continued dee. "i am aware of the nature of the plot, and could name to you all connected with it." "your power is, indeed, wonderful," rejoined fawkes in an altered tone. "but will you give me the information i require?" "hum!" muttered dee. "i am too poor to purchase it," proceeded fawkes, "unless a relic i have brought from spain has any value in your eyes." [illustration: _doctor dee, in conjunction with his seer edward kelley, exhibiting his magical skill to guy fawkes_] "tush!" exclaimed dee, angrily. "do you suppose i am a common juggler, and practise my art for gain?" "by no means, reverend sir," said fawkes. "but i would not willingly put you to trouble without evincing my gratitude." "well, then," replied dee, "i will not refuse your request. and yet i would caution you to beware how you pry into the future. you may repent your rashness when it is too late." "i have no fear," rejoined fawkes. "let me know the worst." "enough," answered dee. "and now listen to me. that carcass having been placed in the ground without the holy rites of burial being duly performed, i have power over it. and, as the witch of endor called up samuel, as is recorded in holy writ,--as erichtho raised up a corpse to reveal to sextus pompeius the event of the pharsalian war,--as elisha breathed life into the nostrils of the shunamite's son,--as alcestis was invoked by hercules,--and as the dead maid was brought back to life by apollonius thyaneus,--so i, by certain powerful incantations, will allure the soul of the prophetess, for a short space, to its former tenement, and compel it to answer my questions. dare you be present at this ceremony?" "i dare," replied fawkes. "follow me, then," said dee. "you will need all your courage." muttering a hasty prayer, and secretly crossing himself, guy fawkes strode after him towards the grave. by the doctor's directions, he, with some reluctance, assisted kelley to raise the corpse, and convey it to the charnel. dee followed, bearing the lantern, and, on entering the building, closed and fastened the door. the chamber in which guy fawkes found himself was in perfect keeping with the horrible ceremonial about to be performed. in one corner lay a mouldering heap of skulls, bones, and other fragments of mortality; in the other a pile of broken coffins, emptied of their tenants, and reared on end. but what chiefly attracted his attention, was a ghastly collection of human limbs, blackened with pitch, girded round with iron hoops, and hung, like meat in a shambles, against the wall. there were two heads, and, though the features were scarcely distinguishable, owing to the liquid in which they had been immersed, they still retained a terrific expression of agony. seeing his attention directed to these revolting objects, kelley informed him they were the quarters of the two priests who had recently been put to death, which had been left there previously to being placed on the church-gates. the implements, and some part of the attire used by the executioner in his butcherly office, were scattered about, and mixed with the tools of the sexton; while in the centre of the room stood a large wooden frame supported by trestles. on this frame, stained with blood and smeared with pitch, showing the purpose to which it had been recently put, the body was placed. this done, doctor dee set down the lantern beside it; and, as the light fell upon its livid features, sullied with earth, and exhibiting traces of decay, guy fawkes was so appalled by the sight that he half repented of what he had undertaken. noticing his irresolution, doctor dee said, "you may yet retire if you think proper." "no," replied fawkes, rousing himself; "i will go through with it." "it is well," replied dee. and he extinguished the light. an awful silence now ensued, broken only by a low murmur from doctor dee, who appeared to be reciting an incantation. as he proceeded, his tones became louder, and his accents those of command. suddenly, he paused, and seemed to await a response. but, as none was made, greatly to the disappointment of guy fawkes, whose curiosity, notwithstanding his fears, was raised to the highest pitch, he cried, "blood is wanting to complete the charm." "if that is all, i will speedily supply the deficiency," replied guy fawkes; and, drawing his rapier, he bared his left arm, and pricked it deeply with the point of the weapon. "i bleed now," he cried. "sprinkle the corpse with the ruddy current," rejoined doctor dee. "your commands are obeyed," replied fawkes. "i have placed my hand on its breast, and the blood is flowing upon it." upon this the doctor began to mutter an incantation in a louder and more authoritative tone than before. presently, kelley added his voice, and they both joined in a sort of chorus, but in a jargon wholly unintelligible to guy fawkes. all at once a blue flame appeared above their heads, and, slowly descending, settled upon the brow of the corpse, lighting up the sunken cavities of the eyes, and the discoloured and distorted features. "the charm works," shouted doctor dee. "she moves! she moves!" exclaimed guy fawkes. "she is alive!" "take off your hand," cried the doctor, "or mischief may ensue." and he again continued his incantation. "down on your knees!" he exclaimed, at length, in a terrible voice. "the spirit is at hand." there was a rushing sound, and a stream of dazzling lightning shot down upon the corpse, which emitted a hollow groan. in obedience to the doctor's commands, guy fawkes had prostrated himself on the ground: but he kept his gaze steadily fixed on the body, which, to his infinite astonishment, slowly arose, until it stood erect upon the frame. there it remained perfectly motionless, with the arms close to the sides, and the habiliments torn and dishevelled. the blue light still retained its position upon the brow, and communicated a horrible glimmer to the features. the spectacle was so dreadful that guy fawkes would fain have averted his eyes, but he was unable to do so. doctor dee and his companion, meanwhile, continued their invocations, until, as it seemed to fawkes, the lips of the corpse moved, and an awful voice exclaimed, "why have you called me?" "daughter!" replied doctor dee, rising, "in life thou wert endowed with the gift of prophecy. in the grave, that which is to come must be revealed to thee. we would question thee." "speak, and i will answer," replied the corpse. "interrogate her, my son," said dee, addressing fawkes, "and be brief, for the time is short. so long only as that flame burns have i power over her." "spirit of elizabeth orton," cried guy fawkes, "if indeed thou standest before me, and some demon hath not entered thy frame to delude me,--by all that is holy, and by every blessed saint, i adjure thee to tell me whether the scheme on which i am now engaged for the advantage of the catholic church will prosper?" "thou art mistaken, guy fawkes," returned the corpse. "thy scheme is not for the advantage of the catholic church." "i will not pause to inquire wherefore," continued fawkes. "but, grant that the means are violent and wrongful, will the end be successful?" "the end will be death," replied the corpse. "to the tyrant--to the oppressors?" demanded fawkes. "to the conspirators," was the answer. "ha!" ejaculated fawkes. "proceed, if you have aught more to ask," cried dr. dee. "the flame is expiring." "shall we restore the fallen religion?" demanded fawkes. but before the words could be pronounced the light vanished, and a heavy sound was heard, as of the body falling on the frame. "it is over," said doctor dee. "can you not summon her again?" asked fawkes, in a tone of deep disappointment. "i had other questions to ask." "impossible," replied the doctor. "the spirit is fled, and will not be recalled. we must now commit the body to the earth. and this time it shall be more decently interred." "my curiosity is excited,--not satisfied," said guy fawkes. "would it were to occur again!" "it is ever thus," replied doctor dee. "we seek to know that which is interdicted,--and quench our thirst at a fountain that only inflames our curiosity the more. be warned, my son. you are embarked on a perilous enterprise, and if you pursue it, it will lead you to certain destruction." "i cannot retreat," rejoined fawkes, "and would not, if i could. i am bound by an oath too terrible to be broken." "i will absolve you of your oath, my son," said dr. dee, eagerly. "you cannot, reverend sir," replied fawkes. "by no sophistry could i clear my conscience of the ties imposed upon it. i have sworn never to desist from the execution of this scheme, unless those engaged in it shall give me leave. nay, so resolved am i, that if i stood alone i would go on." as he spoke, a deep groan issued from the corpse. "you are again warned, my son," said dee. "come forth," said guy fawkes, rushing towards the door, and throwing it open. "this place stifles me." the night has already been described as bright and beautiful. before him stood the collegiate church bathed in moonlight. he gazed abstractedly at this venerable structure for a few moments, and then returned to the charnel, where he found doctor dee and kelley employed in placing the body of the prophetess in a coffin, which they had taken from a pile in the corner. he immediately proffered his assistance, and in a short space the task was completed. the coffin was then borne towards the grave, at the edge of which it was laid while the burial-service was recited by doctor dee. this ended, it was lowered into its shallow resting-place, and speedily covered with earth. when all was ready for their departure, the doctor turned to fawkes, and, bidding him farewell, observed, "if you are wise, my son, you will profit by the awful warning you have this night received." "before we part, reverend sir," replied fawkes, "i would ask if you know of other means whereby an insight may be obtained into the future?" "many, my son," replied dee. "i have a magic glass, in which, with due preparation, you may behold exact representations of coming events. i am now returning to the college, and if you will accompany me, i will show it to you." the offer was eagerly accepted, and the party quitted the churchyard. chapter viii. the magic glass. the old college of manchester occupied, as is well known, the site of the existing structure, called after the benevolent individual by whom that admirable charity was founded, and whom we have ventured to introduce in this history,--the chetham hospital. much, indeed, of the ancient building remains; for though it was considerably repaired and enlarged, being "very ruinous and in great decay," at the time of its purchase in , by the feoffees under humphrey chetham's will, from the sequestrators of the earl of derby's estates, still the general character of the fabric has been preserved, and several of its chambers retained. originally built on the foundation of a manor-house denominated the baron's hall,--the abode of the grelleys and the de la warrs, lords of manchester,--the college continued to be used as the residence of the warden and fellows of the collegiate church until the reign of edward the first, when that body was dissolved. on the accession, however, of mary, the college was re-established; but the residence of the ecclesiastical body being removed to a house in deansgate, the building was allowed to become extremely dilapidated, and was used partly as a prison for recusants and other offenders, and partly as a magazine for powder. in this state dr. dee found it when he succeeded to the wardenship in , and preferring it, notwithstanding its ruinous condition, to the house appointed for him elsewhere, took up his abode within it. situated on a high rock, overhanging the river irk--at that time a clear stream, remarkable for the excellence of its fish,--and constructed entirely of stone, the old college had then, and still has to a certain extent, a venerable and monastic appearance. during dee's occupation of it, it became a sort of weird abode in the eyes of the vulgar, and many a timorous look was cast at it by those who walked at eventide on the opposite bank of the irk. sometimes the curiosity of the watchers was rewarded by beholding a few sparks issue from the chimney, and now and then, the red reflection of a fire might be discerned through the window. but generally nothing could be perceived, and the building seemed as dark and mysterious as its occupant. one night, however, a loud explosion took place,--so loud, indeed, that it shook the whole pile to its foundation, dislodged one or two of the chimneys, and overthrew an old wall, the stones of which rolled into the river beneath. alarmed by the concussion, the inhabitants of hunt's bank rushed forth, and saw, to their great alarm, that the wing of the college occupied by doctor dee was in flames. though many of them attributed the circumstance to supernatural agency, and were fully persuaded that the enemy of mankind was at that instant bearing off the conjuror and his assistant, and refused to interfere to stop the conflagration, others, more humane and less superstitious, hastened to lend their aid to extinguish the flames. on reaching the college, they could scarcely credit their senses on finding that there was no appearance of fire; and they were met by the doctor and his companion at the gates, who informed them that their presence was unnecessary, as all danger was over. from that night doctor dee's reputation as a wizard was firmly established. at the period of this history, doctor dee was fast verging on eighty, having passed a long life in severe and abstruse study. he had travelled much, had visited most of the foreign courts, where he was generally well received, and was profoundly versed in mathematics, astronomy, the then popular science of judicial astrology, and other occult learning. so accurate were his calculations esteemed, that he was universally consulted as an oracle. for some time, he resided in germany, where he was invited by the emperor charles the fifth, and retained by his brother and successor, ferdinando. he next went to louvain, where his reputation had preceded him; and from thence to paris, where he lectured at the schools on geometry, and was offered a professorship of the university, but declined it. on his return to england in , he was appointed one of the instructors of the youthful monarch, edward the sixth, who presented him with an annual pension of a hundred marks. this he was permitted to commute for the rectory of upton-upon-severn, which he retained until the accession of mary, when being charged with devising her majesty's destruction by enchantments,--certain waxen images of the queen having been found within his abode,--he was thrown into prison, rigorously treated, and kept in durance for a long period. at length, from want of sufficient proof against him, he was liberated. dee shared the common fate of all astrologers: he was alternately honoured and disgraced. his next patron was lord robert dudley (afterwards the celebrated earl of leicester), who, it is well-known, was a firm believer in the superstitious arts to which dee was addicted, and by whom he was employed, on the accession of elizabeth, to erect a scheme to ascertain the best day for her coronation. his prediction was so fortunate that it procured him the favour of the queen, from whom he received many marks of regard. as it is not needful to follow him through his various wanderings, it may be sufficient to mention, that in he proceeded to germany on a visit to the emperor maximilian, to whom he dedicated his "_monas hieroglyphica_;" that in he fell grievously sick in lorrain, whither two physicians were despatched to his aid by elizabeth; and that on his recovery he returned to his own country, and retired to mortlake, where he gathered together a vast library, comprising the rarest and most curious works on all sciences, together with a large collection of manuscripts. while thus living in retirement, he was sought out by edward kelley, a native of worcestershire, who represented himself as in possession of an old book of magic, containing forms of invocation, by which spirits might be summoned and controlled, as well as a ball of ivory, found in the tomb of a bishop who had made great progress in hermetic philosophy, which was filled with the powder of projection. these treasures kelley offered to place in the hands of the doctor on certain conditions, which were immediately acquiesced in, and thenceforth kelley became a constant inmate in his house, and an assistant in all his practices. shortly afterwards, they were joined by a polish nobleman, albert de laski, palatine of suabia, whom they accompanied to prague, at the instance of the emperor rodolph the second, who desired to be initiated into their mysteries. their reception at this court was not such as to induce a long sojourn at it; and dee having been warned by his familiar spirits to sell his effects and depart, complied with the intimation, and removed to poland. the same fate attended him here. the nuncio of the pope denounced him as a sorcerer, and demanded that he should be delivered up to the inquisition. this was refused by the monarch; but dee and his companion were banished from his dominions, and compelled to fly to bohemia, where they took refuge in the castle of trebona, belonging to count rosenberg. shortly afterwards, dee and kelley separated, the magical instruments being delivered to the former, who bent his course homewards; and on his arrival in london was warmly welcomed by the queen. during his absence, his house at mortlake had been broken open by the populace, under the pretence of its being the abode of a wizard, and rifled of its valuable library and manuscripts,--a loss severely felt by its owner. some years were now passed by dee in great destitution, during which he prosecuted his studies with the same ardour as before, until at length in , when he was turned seventy, fortune again smiled upon him, and he was appointed to the wardenship of the college at manchester, whither he repaired, and was installed in great pomp. but his residence in this place was not destined to be a tranquil one. his reputation as a dealer in the black art had preceded him, and rendered him obnoxious to the clergy, with whom he had constant disputes, and a feud subsisted between him and the fellows of his church. it has already been mentioned that he refused to occupy the house allotted him, but preferred taking up his quarters in the old dilapidated college. various reasons were assigned by his enemies for this singular choice of abode. they affirmed--and with some reason--that he selected it because he desired to elude observation,--and that his mode of life, sufficiently improper in a layman, was altogether indecorous in an ecclesiastic. by the common people he was universally regarded as a conjuror--and many at first came to consult him; but he peremptorily dismissed all such applicants; and, when seven females, supposed to be possessed, were brought to him that he might exercise his power over the evil spirits, he refused to interfere. he also publicly examined and rebuked a juggler, named hartley, who pretended to magical knowledge. but these things did not blind his enemies, who continued to harass him to such a degree, that he addressed a petition to james the first, entreating to be brought to trial, when the accusations preferred against him might be fully investigated, and his character cleared. the application, and another to the like effect addressed to parliament, were disregarded. dee had not been long established in manchester when he was secretly joined by kelley, and they recommenced their search after the grand secret,--passing the nights in making various alchymical experiments, or in fancied conferences with invisible beings. among other magical articles possessed by doctor dee was a large globe of crystal, which he termed the holy stone, because he believed it had been brought him by "angelical ministry;" and "in which," according to meric casaubon, "and out of which, by persons qualified for it, and admitted to the sight of it, all shapes and figures mentioned in every action were seen, and voices heard." the same writer informs us it was "round-shaped, of a pretty bigness, and most like unto crystal." dee himself declared to the emperor rodolph, "that the spirits had brought him a stone of that value that no earthly kingdom was of such worthiness as to be compared to the virtue and dignity thereof." he was in the habit of daily consulting this marvellous stone, and recording the visions he saw therein, and the conferences he held through it with the invisible world. followed by guy fawkes and kelley, the doctor took his way down long mill gate, and stopping at an arched gateway on the left, near which, on the site of the modern structure, stood the public school, founded a century before by hugh oldham, bishop of exeter,--he unlocked a small wicket, and entered a spacious court, surrounded on one side by high stone walls, and on the other by a wing of the college. conducting his guest to the principal entrance of the building, which lay at the farther end of the court, doctor dee ushered him into a large chamber, panelled with oak, and having a curiously-moulded ceiling, ornamented with grotesque sculpture. this room, still in existence, and now occupied by the master of the school, formed doctor dee's library. offering fawkes a chair, the doctor informed him that when all was ready, kelley should summon him, and, accompanied by his assistant, he withdrew. half an hour elapsed before kelley returned. motioning guy fawkes to follow him, he led the way through several intricate passages to a chamber which was evidently the magician's sacred retreat. in a recess on one side stood a table, covered with cabalistic characters and figures, referring to the celestial influences. on it was placed the holy stone, diffusing such a glistening radiance as is emitted by the pebble called cat's-eye. on the floor a wide circle was described, in the rings of which magical characters, resembling those on the table, were traced. in front stood a brasier, filled with flaming coals; and before it hung a heavy black curtain, appearing to shroud some mystery from view. desiring fawkes to place himself in the centre of the circle, doctor dee took several ingredients from a basket handed him by kelley, and cast them into the brasier. as each herb or gum was ignited, the flame changed its colour; now becoming crimson, now green, now blue, while fragrant or noxious odours loaded the atmosphere. these suffumigations ended, dee seated himself on a chair near the table, whither he was followed by kelley, and commanding fawkes not to move a footstep, as he valued his safety, he waved his wand, and began in a solemn tone to utter an invocation. as he continued, a hollow noise was heard overhead, which gradually increased in loudness, until it appeared as if the walls were tumbling about their ears. "the spirits are at hand!" cried dee. "do not look behind you, or they will tear you in pieces." as he spoke, a horrible din was heard, as of mingled howling, shrieking, and laughter. it was succeeded by a low faint strain of music, which gradually died away, and then all was silent. "all is prepared," cried dee. "now, what would you behold?" "the progress of the great enterprise," replied fawkes. doctor dee waved his wand. the curtains slowly unfolded, and guy fawkes perceived as in a glass a group of dark figures; amongst which he noticed one in all respects resembling himself. a priest was apparently proposing an oath, which the others were uttering. "do you recognise them?" said doctor dee. "perfectly," replied fawkes. "look again," said dee. as he spoke the figures melted away, and a new scene was presented on the glass. it was a gloomy vault, filled with barrels, partly covered with fagots and billets of wood. "have you seen enough?" demanded dee. "no," replied fawkes, firmly. "i have seen what is past. i would behold that which is to come." "look again, then," rejoined the doctor, waving his wand. for an instant the glass was darkened, and nothing could be discerned except the lurid flame and thick smoke arising from the brasier. the next moment, an icy chill shot through the frame of guy fawkes as he beheld a throng of skeletons arranged before him. the bony fingers of the foremost of the grisly assemblage were pointed towards an indistinct object at its feet. as this object gradually became more defined, guy fawkes perceived that it was a figure resembling himself, stretched upon the wheel, and writhing in the agonies of torture. he uttered an exclamation of terror, and the curtains were instantly closed. half an hour afterwards, guy fawkes quitted the college, and returned to the seven stars. chapter ix. the prison on salford bridge. on the following morning, guy fawkes had a long and private conference with father oldcorne. the priest appeared greatly troubled by the communication made to him, but he said nothing, and was for some time lost in reflection, and evidently weighing within himself what course it would be best to pursue. his uneasiness was not without effect on viviana radcliffe, and she ventured at last to inquire whether he apprehended any new danger. "i scarcely know what i apprehend, dear daughter," he answered. "but circumstances have occurred which render it impossible we can remain longer in our present asylum with safety. we must quit it at nightfall." "is our retreat then discovered?" inquired viviana, in alarm. "not as yet, i trust," replied oldcorne; "but i have just ascertained from a messenger that the pursuivant, who, we thought, had departed for chester, is still lingering within the town. he has offered a large reward for my apprehension, and having traced us to manchester, declares he will leave no house unsearched till he finds us. he has got together a fresh band of soldiers, and is now visiting every place he thinks likely to afford us shelter." "if this is the case," rejoined viviana, "why remain here a single moment? let us fly at once." "that would avail nothing,--or rather, it would expose us to fresh risk, dear daughter," replied oldcorne. "every approach to the town is guarded, and soldiers are posted at the corners of the streets, who stop and examine each suspected person." "heaven protect us!" exclaimed viviana. "but this is not all," continued the priest. "by some inexplicable and mysterious means, the designs of certain of the most assured friends of the catholic cause have come to the knowledge of our enemies, and the lives and safeties of many worthy men will be endangered: amongst others, that of your father." "you terrify me!" cried viviana. "the rack shall force nothing from me, father," said fawkes, sternly. "nor from me, my son," rejoined oldcorne. "i have that within me which will enable me to sustain the bitterest agonies that the persecutors of our church can inflict." "nor shall it force aught from me," added viviana. "for, though you have trusted me with nothing that can implicate others, i plainly perceive some plot is in agitation for the restoration of our religion, and i more than suspect mr. catesby is its chief contriver." "daughter!" exclaimed oldcorne, uneasily. "fear nothing, father," she rejoined. "as i have said, the rack shall not force me to betray you. neither should it keep me silent when i feel that my counsel--such as it is--may avail you. the course you are pursuing is a dangerous and fatal one; dangerous to yourselves, and fatal to the cause you would serve. do not deceive yourselves. you are struggling hopelessly and unrighteously, and heaven will never assist an undertaking which has its aim in the terrible waste of life you meditate." father oldcorne made no reply, but walked apart with guy fawkes; and viviana abandoned herself to sorrowful reflection. shortly after this, the door was suddenly thrown open, and humphrey chetham rushed into the room. his looks were full of apprehension, and viviana was at no loss to perceive that some calamity was at hand. "what is the matter?" she cried, rising. "the pursuivant and his men are below," he replied. "they are interrogating the hostess, and are about to search the house. i managed to pass them unperceived." "we will resist them to the last," said guy fawkes, drawing a petronel. "resistance will be in vain," rejoined humphrey chetham. "they more than treble our number." "is there no means of escape?" asked viviana. "none whatever," replied chetham. "i hear them on the stairs. the terrified hostess has not dared to deny you, and is conducting them hither." "stand back!" cried guy fawkes, striding towards the door, "and let me alone confront them. that accursed pursuivant has escaped me once. but he shall not do so a second time." "my son," said oldcorne, advancing towards him; "preserve yourself, if possible. your life is of consequence to the great cause. think not of us--think not of revenging yourself upon this caitiff. but think of the high destiny for which you are reserved. that window offers a means of retreat. avail yourself of it. fly!--fly!" "ay, fly!" repeated viviana. "and you, humphrey chetham,--your presence here can do no good. quick!--they come!" "nothing should induce me to quit you at such a moment, viviana," replied chetham, "but the conviction that i may be able to liberate you, should these miscreants convey you to prison." "fly!--fly, my son," cried oldcorne. "they are at the door." thus urged, guy fawkes reluctantly yielded to oldcorne's entreaties and sprang through the window. he was followed by chetham. viviana darted to the casement, and saw that they had alighted in safety on the ground, and were flying swiftly up shude hill. meanwhile, the pursuivant had reached the door, which chetham had taken the precaution to fasten, and was trying to burst it open. the bolts offered but a feeble resistance to his fury, and the next moment he dashed into the room, at the head of a band of soldiers. "seize them!" he cried. "ha!" he added, glancing round the room with a look of disappointment, "where are the others? where is the soldier in the spanish garb? where is humphrey chetham? confess at once, dog!" he continued, seizing the priest by the throat, "or i will pluck the secret from your breast." "do not harm him," interposed viviana. "i will answer the question. they are fled." "fled!" echoed the pursuivant in consternation. "how?" "through that window," replied viviana. "after them!" cried the pursuivant to some of his attendants. "take the soldier, dead or alive! and now," he continued, as his orders were obeyed, "you, father oldcorne, jesuit and traitor; and you, viviana radcliffe, his shelterer and abettor, i shall convey you both to the prison on salford bridge. seize them, and bring them along." "touch me not," rejoined viviana, pushing the men aside, who rudely advanced to obey their leader's command. "you have no warrant for this brutality. i am ready to attend you. take my arm, father." abashed at this reproof, the pursuivant stalked out of the room. surrounded by the soldiers, viviana and the priest followed. the sad procession was attended by crowds to the very door of the prison, where, by the pursuivant's commands, they were locked in separate cells. the cell in which viviana was confined was a small chamber at the back of the prison, and on the upper story. it had a small grated window overlooking the river. it has already been mentioned that this prison was originally a chapel built in the reign of edward the third, and had only recently been converted into a place of security for recusants. the chamber allotted to viviana was contrived in the roof, and was so low that she could scarcely stand upright in it. it was furnished with a chair, a small table, and a straw pallet. the hours passed wearily with viviana as they were marked by the deep-toned clock of the collegiate church, the tall tower of which fronted her window. oppressed by the most melancholy reflections, she was for some time a prey almost to despair. on whatever side she looked, the prospect was equally cheerless, and her sole desire was that she might find a refuge from her cares in the seclusion of a convent. for this she prayed,--and she prayed also that heaven would soften the hearts of her oppressors, and enable those who suffered to endure their yoke with patience. in the evening provisions were brought her, and placed upon the table, together with a lamp, by a surly looking gaoler. but viviana had no inclination to eat, and left them untouched. neither could she prevail upon herself to lie down on the wretched pallet, and she therefore determined to pass the night in the chair. after some hours of watchfulness, her eyelids closed, and she continued to slumber until she was aroused by a slight noise at the window. starting at the sound, she flew towards it, and perceived in the gloom the face of a man. she would have uttered a loud cry, when the circumstances of her situation rushed to her mind, and the possibility that it might be a friend checked her. the next moment satisfied her that she had acted rightly. a voice, which she recognised as that of humphrey chetham, called to her by name in a low tone, bidding her fear nothing, as he was come to set her free. "how have you managed to reach this window?" asked viviana. "by a rope ladder," he answered. "i contrived in the darkness to clamber upon the roof of the prison from the parapets of the bridge, and, after securing the ladder to a projection, dropped the other end into a boat, rowed by guy fawkes, and concealed beneath the arches of the bridge. if i can remove this bar so as to allow you to pass through the window, dare you descend the ladder?" "no," replied viviana, shuddering. "my brain reels at the mere idea." "think of the fate you will escape," urged chetham. "and what will become of father oldcorne?" asked viviana. "where is he?" "in the cell immediately beneath you," replied chetham. "can you not liberate him?" she continued. "assuredly, if he will risk the descent," answered chetham, reluctantly. "free him first," rejoined viviana, "and at all hazards i will accompany you." the young merchant made no reply, but disappeared from the window. viviana strained her gaze downwards; but it was too dark to allow her to see anything. she, however, heard a noise like that occasioned by a file; and shortly afterwards a few muttered words informed her that the priest was passing through the window. the cords of the ladder shook against the bars of her window,--and she held her breath for fear. from this state of suspense she was relieved in a few minutes by humphrey chetham, who informed her that oldcorne had descended in safety, and was in the boat with guy fawkes. "i will fulfil my promise," replied viviana, trembling; "but i fear my strength will fail me." "you had better find death below than tarry here," replied humphrey chetham, who as he spoke was rapidly filing through the iron bar. "in a few minutes this impediment will be removed." the young merchant worked hard, and in a short time the stout bar yielded to his efforts. "now, then," he cried, springing into the room, "you are free." "i dare not make the attempt," said viviana; "my strength utterly fails me." "nay, then," he replied; "i will take the risk upon myself. you must not remain here." so saying, he caught her in his arms, and bore her through the window. with some difficulty, and no little risk, he succeeded in gaining a footing on the ladder. this accomplished, he began slowly to descend. when half way down, he found he had overrated his strength, and he feared he should be compelled to quit his hold; but, nerved by his passion, he held on, and making a desperate effort, completed the descent in safety. chapter x. the fate of the pursuivant. assisted by the stream, and plying his oars with great rapidity, guy fawkes soon left the town far behind him; nor did he relax his exertions until checked by humphrey chetham. he then ceased rowing, and directed the boats towards the left bank of the river. "here we propose to land," observed the young merchant to viviana. "we are not more than a hundred yards from ordsall cave, where you can take refuge for a short time, while i proceed to the hall, and ascertain whether you can return to it with safety." "i place myself entirely in your hands," she replied; "but i fear such a course will be to rush into the very face of danger. oh! that i could join my father at holywell! with him i should feel secure." "means may be found to effect your wishes," returned humphrey chetham; "but, after the suffering you have recently endured, it will scarcely be prudent to undertake so long a journey without a few hours' repose. to-morrow,--or the next day,--you may set out." "i am fully equal to it now," rejoined viviana, eagerly; "and any fatigue i may undergo will not equal my present anxiety. you have already done so much for me, that i venture to presume still further upon your kindness. provide some means of conveyance for me and for father oldcorne to chester, and i shall for ever be beholden to you." "i will not only do what you desire, viviana, if it be possible," answered chetham; "but, if you will allow me, i will serve as your escort." "and i, also," added guy fawkes. "all i fear is, that your strength may fail you," continued the young merchant, in a tone of uneasiness. "fear nothing then," replied viviana. "i am made of firmer material than you imagine. think only of what _you_ can do, and doubt not my ability to do it, also." "i ever deemed you of a courageous nature, daughter," observed oldcorne; "but your resolution surpasses my belief." by this time the boat had approached the shore. leaping upon the rocky bank, the young merchant assisted viviana to land, and then performed the same service for the priest. guy fawkes was the last to disembark; and, having pulled the skiff aground, he followed the others, who waited for him at a short distance. the night was profoundly dark, and the path they had taken, being shaded by large trees, was scarcely discernible. carefully guiding viviana, who leaned on him for support, the young merchant proceeded at a slow pace, and with the utmost caution. suddenly, they were surprised and alarmed by a vivid blaze of light bursting through the trees on the left. "some building must be on fire!" exclaimed viviana. "it is ordsall hall,--it is your father's residence," cried humphrey chetham. "it is the work of that accursed pursuivant, i will be sworn," said guy fawkes. "if it be so, may heaven's fire consume him!" rejoined oldcorne. "alas! alas!" cried viviana, bursting into tears, "i thought myself equal to every calamity; but this new stroke of fate is more than i can bear." as she spoke, the conflagration evidently increased. the sky was illumined by the red reflection of the flames; and as the party hurried forward to a rising ground, whence a better view could be obtained of the spectacle, they saw the dark walls of the ancient mansion apparently wrapped in the devouring element. "let us hasten thither," cried viviana, distractedly. "i and guy fawkes will fly there," replied the young merchant, "and render all the assistance in our power. but, first, let me convey you to the cave." more dead than alive, viviana suffered herself to be borne in that direction. making his way over every impediment, chetham soon reached the excavation; and depositing his lovely burthen upon the stone couch, and leaving her in charge of the priest, he hurried with guy fawkes towards the hall. on arriving at the termination of the avenue, they found, to their great relief, that it was not the main structure, but an outbuilding which was in flames, and from its situation the young merchant conceived it to be the stables. as soon as they made this discovery, they slackened their pace, being apprehensive, from the shouts and other sounds that reached them, that some hostile party might be among the assemblage. crossing the drawbridge--which was fortunately lowered,--they were about to shape their course towards the stables, which lay at the further side of the hall, when they perceived the old steward, heydocke, standing at the doorway and wringing his hands in distraction. humphrey chetham immediately called to him. "i should know that voice!" cried the old man, stepping forward. "ah! mr. chetham, is it you? you are arrived at a sad time, sir--a sad time--to see the old house, where i have dwelt, man and boy, sixty years and more, in flames. but one calamity has trodden upon the heels of another. ever since sir william departed for holywell nothing has gone right--nothing whatever. first, the house was searched by the pursuivant and his gang; then, my young mistress disappeared; then it was rifled by these plunderers; and now, to crown all, it is on fire, and will speedily be burnt to the ground." "say not so," replied the young merchant. "the flames have not yet reached the hall; and, if exertion is used, they may be extinguished without further mischief." "let those who have kindled them extinguish them," replied heydocke, sullenly. "i will not raise hand more." "who are the incendiaries?" demanded fawkes. "the pursuivant and his myrmidons," replied heydocke. "they came here to-night; and after ransacking the house under pretence of procuring further evidence against my master, and carrying off everything valuable they could collect--plate, jewels, ornaments, money, and even wearing-apparel,--they ended by locking up all the servants,--except myself, who managed to elude their vigilance,--in the cellar, and setting fire to the stables." "wretches!" exclaimed humphrey chetham. "wretches, indeed!" repeated the steward. "but this is not all the villany they contemplate. i had concealed myself in the store-room, under a heap of lumber, and in searching for me they chanced upon a barrel of gunpowder--" "well!" interrupted guy fawkes. "well, sir," pursued heydocke, "i heard the pursuivant remark to one of his comrades, 'this is a lucky discovery. if we can't find the steward, we'll blow him and the old house to the devil.' just then, some one came to tell him i was hidden in the stables, and the whole troop adjourned thither. but being baulked of their prey, i suppose, they wreaked their vengeance in the way you perceive." "no doubt," rejoined humphrey chetham. "but they shall bitterly rue it. i will myself represent the affair to the commissioners." "it will be useless," groaned heydocke. "there is no law to protect the property of a catholic." "where is the barrel of gunpowder you spoke of?" asked guy fawkes, as if struck by a sudden idea. "the villains took it with them when they quitted the store-room," replied the steward. "i suppose they have got it in the yard." "they have lighted a fire which shall be quenched with their blood," rejoined fawkes, fiercely. "follow me. i may need you both." so saying, he darted off, and turning the corner, came in front of the blazing pile. occupying one side of a large quadrangular court, the stables were wholly disconnected with the hall, and though the fire burnt furiously, yet as the wind carried the flames and sparks in a contrary direction, it was possible the latter building might escape if due precaution were taken. so far, however, from this being the case, it seemed the object of the bystanders to assist the progress of the conflagration. several horses, saddled and bridled, had been removed from the stable, and placed within an open cowhouse. to these guy fawkes called chetham's attention, and desired him and the old steward to secure some of them. hastily giving directions to heydocke, the young merchant obeyed,--sprang on the back of the nearest courser, and seizing the bridles of two others, rode off with them. his example was followed by heydocke, and one steed only was left. such was the confusion and clamour prevailing around, that the above proceeding passed unnoticed. guy fawkes, meanwhile, ensconcing himself behind the court-gate, looked about for the barrel of gunpowder. for some time he could discover no trace of it. at length, beneath a shed, not far from him, he perceived a soldier seated upon a small cask, which he had no doubt was the object he was in search of. so intent was the man upon the spectacle before him, that he was wholly unaware of the approach of an enemy; and creeping noiselessly up to him, guy fawkes felled him to the ground with a blow from the heavy butt-end of his petronel. the action was not perceived by the others; and carrying the cask out of the yard, fawkes burst in the lid, and ascertained that the contents were what they had been represented. he then glanced around, to see how he could best execute his purpose. on the top of the wall adjoining the stables he beheld the pursuivant, with three or four soldiers, giving directions and issuing orders. another and lower wall, forming the opposite side of the quadrangle, and built on the edge of the moat, approached the scene of the fire, and on this, guy fawkes, with the barrel of gunpowder on his shoulder, mounted. concealing himself behind a tree which overshadowed it, he watched a favourable moment for his enterprise. he had not to wait long. prompted by some undefinable feeling, which caused him to rush upon his destruction, the pursuivant ventured upon the roof of the stables, and was followed by his companions. no sooner did this occur, than guy fawkes dashed forward, and hurled the barrel with all his force into the midst of the flames, throwing himself at the same moment into the moat. the explosion was instantaneous and tremendous;--so loud as to be audible even under the water. its effects were terrible. the bodies of the pursuivant and his companions were blown into the air, and carried to the further side of the moat. of those standing before the building, several were destroyed, and all more or less injured. the walls were thrown down by the concussion, and the roof and its fiery fragments projected into the moat. an effectual stop was put to the conflagration; and, when guy fawkes rose to the boiling and agitated surface of the water, the flames were entirely extinguished. hearing groans on the opposite bank of the moat, he forced his way through the blazing beams, which were hissing near him; and snatching up a still burning fragment, hastened in the direction of the sound. in the blackened and mutilated object that met his gaze, he recognised the pursuivant. the dying wretch also recognised him, and attempted to speak; but in vain--his tongue refused its office, and with a horrible attempt at articulation, he expired. alarmed by the explosion, the domestics,--who it has already been mentioned were confined in the cellar;--were rendered so desperate by their fears, that they contrived to break out of their prison, and now hastened to the stables to ascertain the cause of the report. leaving them to assist the sufferers, whose dreadful groans awakened some feelings of compunction in his iron breast, guy fawkes caught the steed,--which had broken its bridle and rushed off, and now stood shivering, shaking, and drenched in moisture near the drawbridge,--and, mounting it, galloped towards the cave. at its entrance, he was met by humphrey chetham and oldcorne, who eagerly inquired what had happened. guy fawkes briefly explained. "it is the hand of heaven manifested by your arm, my son," observed the priest. "would that it had stricken the tyrant and apostate prince by whom our church is persecuted! but his turn will speedily arrive." "peace, father!" cried guy fawkes, sternly. "i do not lament the fate of the pursuivant," observed humphrey chetham. "but this is a frightful waste of human life--and in such a cause!" "it is the cause of heaven, young sir," rejoined the priest, angrily. "i do not think so," returned chetham; "and, but for my devotion to viviana, i would have no further share in it." "you are at liberty to leave us, if you think proper," retorted the priest, coldly. "nay, say not so, father," interposed viviana, who had been an unobserved listener to the foregoing discourse. "you owe your life--your liberty, to mr. chetham." "true, daughter," replied the priest. "i have been too hasty, and entreat his forgiveness." "you have it, reverend sir," rejoined the young merchant. "and now, master heydocke," he added, turning to the steward, "you may return to the hall with safety. no one will molest you more, and your presence may be needed." "but my young mistress--" said heydocke. "i am setting out for holywell to join my father," replied viviana. "you will receive our instructions from that place." "it is well," returned the old man, bowing respectfully. "heaven shield us from further misfortune!" humphrey chetham having assisted viviana into the saddle, and the rest of the party having mounted, they took the road to chester, while heydocke returned to the hall. chapter xi. the pilgrimage to st. winifred's well. early on the following morning, the party, who had ridden hard, and had paused only for a short time at knutsford to rest their steeds, approached the ancient and picturesque city of chester. skirting its high, and then partly fortified walls, above which appeared the massive tower of the venerable cathedral, they passed through the east-gate, and proceeding along the street deriving its name from that entrance, were about to halt before the door of a large hostel, called the saint werburgh's abbey, when, to their great surprise, they perceived catesby riding towards them. "i thought i could not be mistaken," cried the latter, as he drew near and saluted viviana. "i was about to set out for manchester with a despatch to you from your father, miss radcliffe, when this most unexpected and fortunate encounter spares me the journey. but may i ask why i see you here, and thus attended?" he added, glancing uneasily at humphrey chetham. a few words from father oldcorne explained all. catesby affected to bend his brow, and appear concerned at the relation. but he could scarcely repress his satisfaction. "sir william radcliffe _must_ join us now," he whispered to the priest. "he must--he _shall_," replied oldcorne, in the same tone. "your father wishes you to join him at holt, miss radcliffe," remarked catesby, turning to her, "whence the pilgrimage starts to-morrow for saint winifred's well. there are already nearly thirty devout persons assembled." "indeed!" replied viviana. "may i inquire their names." "sir everard and lady digby," replied catesby; "the lady anne vaux and her sister, mrs. brooksby; mr. ambrose rookwood and his wife, the two winters, tresham, wright, fathers garnet and fisher, and many others, in all probability unknown to you. the procession started ten days ago from gothurst, in buckinghamshire, sir everard digby's residence, and proceeded from thence by slow stages to norbrook and haddington, at each of which houses it halted for some days. yesterday, it reached holt, and starts, as i have just told you, to-morrow for holywell. if you are so disposed, you will be able to attend it." "i will gladly do so," replied viviana. "and since i find it is not necessary to hurry forward, i will rest myself for a short time here." so saying, she dismounted, and the whole party entered the hostel. viviana withdrew to seek a short repose, and glance over her father's letter, while catesby, guy fawkes, and oldcorne, were engaged in deep consultation. humphrey chetham, perceiving that his attendance was no further required, and that he was an object of suspicion and dislike to catesby,--for whom he also entertained a similar aversion,--prepared to return. and when viviana made her appearance, he advanced to bid her farewell. "i can be of no further service to you, viviana," he said, in a mournful tone; "and as my presence might be as unwelcome to your father, as it seems to be to others of your friends, i will now take my leave." "farewell, mr. chetham," she replied. "i will not attempt to oppose your departure; for, much as i grieve to lose you--and that i do so these tears will testify,--i feel that it is for the best. i owe you much--more--far more than i can ever repay. it would be unworthy in me, and unfair to you, to say that i do not, and shall not ever feel the deepest interest in you; that, next to my father, there is no one whom i regard--nay, whom i love so much." "love! viviana?" echoed the young merchant, trembling. "love, mr. chetham," she continued, turning very pale; "since you compel me to repeat the word. i avow it boldly, because--" and her voice faltered,--"i would not have you suppose me ungrateful, and because i never can be yours." "i will not attempt to dissuade you from the fatal determination you have formed of burying your charms in a cloister," rejoined humphrey chetham. "but, oh! if you _do_ love me, why condemn yourself--why condemn me to hopeless misery?" "i will tell you why," replied viviana. "because you are not of my faith; and because i never will wed a heretic." "i am answered," replied the young merchant, sadly. "mr. chetham," interposed oldcorne, who had approached them unperceived; "it is in your power to change viviana's determination." "how?" asked the young merchant, starting. "by being reconciled to the church of rome." "then it will remain unaltered," replied chetham, firmly. "and, if mr. chetham would consent to this proposal, _i_ would not," said viviana. "farewell," she added, extending her hand to him, which he pressed to his lips. "do not let us prolong an interview so painful to us both. the best wish i can desire for you is, that we may never meet again." without another word, and without hazarding a look at the object of his affections, chetham rushed out of the room, and mounting his horse, rode off in the direction of manchester. "daughter," observed oldcorne, as soon as he was gone, "i cannot too highly approve of your conduct, or too warmly applaud the mastery you display over your feelings. but----" and he hesitated. "but what, father?" cried viviana, eagerly. "do you think i have done wrong in dismissing him?" "by no means, dear daughter," replied the priest. "you have acted most discreetly. but you will forgive me if i urge you--nay, implore you not to take the veil; but rather to bestow your hand upon some catholic gentleman----" "such as mr. catesby," interrupted viviana, glancing in the direction of the individual she mentioned, who was watching them narrowly from the further end of the room. "ay, mr. catesby," repeated oldcorne, affecting not to notice the scornful emphasis laid on the name. "none more fitting could be found, nor more worthy of you. our church has not a more zealous servant and upholder; and he will be at once a father and a husband to you. such a union would be highly profitable to our religion. and, though it is well for those whose hearts are burthened with affliction, and who are unable to render any active service to their faith, to retire from the world, it behoves every sister of the romish church to support it at a juncture like the present, at any sacrifice of personal feeling." "urge me no more, father," replied viviana, firmly. "i will make every sacrifice for my religion, consistent with principle and feeling. but i will not make this; neither am i required to make it. and i beg you will entreat mr. catesby to desist from further importunity." oldcorne bowed and retired. nor was another syllable exchanged between them prior to their departure. crossing the old bridge over the dee, then defended at each extremity by a gate and tower, the party took the road to holt, where they arrived in about an hour. the recent conversation had thrown a restraint over them, which was not removed during the journey. habitually taciturn, as has already been remarked, guy fawkes seemed gloomier and more thoughtful than ever; and though he rode by the side of viviana, he did not volunteer a remark, and scarcely appeared conscious of her presence. catesby and oldcorne kept aloof, and it was not until they came in sight of the little town which formed their destination that the former galloped forward, and striking into the path on the right, begged viviana to follow him. a turn in the road shortly afterwards showed them a large mansion screened by a grove of beech-trees. "that is the house to which we are going," observed catesby. and as he spoke, they approached a lodge, the gates of which being opened by an attendant, admitted them to the avenue. viviana's heart throbbed with delight at the anticipated meeting with her father; but she could not repress a feeling of anxiety at the distressing intelligence she had to impart to him. as she drew near the house she perceived him walking beneath the shade of the trees with two other persons; and quickening her pace, sprang from her steed, and almost before he was aware of it was in his arms. "why do i see you here so unexpectedly, my dear child?" cried sir william radcliffe, as soon as he had recovered from the surprise which her sudden appearance occasioned him. "mr. catesby only left this morning, charged with a letter entreating you to set out without delay,--and now i behold you. what has happened?" viviana then recounted the occurrences of the last few days. "it is as i feared," replied sir william, in a desponding tone. "our oppressors will never cease till they drive us to desperation!" "they will not!" rejoined a voice behind him. "well may we exclaim with the prophet--'how long, o lord, shall i cry, and thou wilt not hear? shall i cry out to thee suffering violence, and thou wilt not save? why hast thou showed me iniquity and grievance, to see rapine and injustice before me? why lookest thou upon them that do unjust things, and holdest thy peace when the wicked devoureth the man that is more just than himself?'" viviana looked in the direction of the speaker and beheld a man in a priestly garb, whose countenance struck her forcibly. he was rather under the middle height, of a slight spare figure, and in age might be about fifty. his features, which in his youth must have been pleasing, if not handsome, and which were still regular, were pale and emaciated; but his eye was dark, and of unusual brilliancy. a single glance at this person satisfied her it was father garnet, the provincial of the english jesuits; nor was she mistaken in her supposition. of this remarkable person, so intimately connected with the main events of the history about to be related, it may be proper to offer some preliminary account. born at nottingham in , in the reign of queen mary, and of obscure parentage, henry garnet was originally destined to the protestant church, and educated, with a view to taking orders, at winchester school, whence it was intended he should be removed in due course to oxford. but this design was never carried into effect. influenced by motives, into which it is now scarcely worth while inquiring, and which have been contested by writers on both sides of the question, garnet proceeded from winchester to london, where he engaged himself as corrector of the press to a printer of law-books, named tottel, in which capacity he became acquainted with sir edward coke and chief justice popham,--one of whom was afterwards to be the leading counsel against him, and the other his judge. after continuing in this employment for two years, during which he had meditated a change in his religion, he went abroad, and travelling first to madrid, and then to rome, saw enough of the catholic priesthood to confirm his resolution, and in he assumed the habit of a jesuit. pursuing his studies with the utmost zeal and ardour at the jesuits' college, under the celebrated bellarmine, and the no less celebrated clavius, he made such progress, that upon the indisposition of the latter, he was able to fill the mathematical chair. nor was he less skilled in philosophy, metaphysics, and divinity; and his knowledge of hebrew was so profound that he taught it publicly in the roman schools. to an enthusiastic zeal in the cause of the religion he had espoused, garnet added great powers of persuasion and eloquence,--a combination of qualities well fitting him for the office of a missionary priest; and undismayed by the dangers he would have to encounter, and eager to propagate his doctrines, he solicited to be sent on this errand to his own country. at the instance of father persons, he received an appointment to the mission in , and he secretly landed in england in the same year. braving every danger, and shrinking from no labour, he sought on all hands to make proselytes to the ancient faith, and to sustain the wavering courage of its professors. two years afterwards, on the imprisonment of the superior of the jesuits, being raised to that important post, he was enabled to extend his sphere of action; and redoubling his exertions in consequence, he so well discharged his duties, that it was mainly owing to him that the catholic party was kept together during the fierce persecutions of the latter end of elizabeth's reign. compelled to personate various characters, as he travelled from place to place, garnet had acquired a remarkable facility for disguise; and such was his address and courage, that he not unfrequently imposed upon the very officers sent in pursuit of him. up to the period of elizabeth's demise, he had escaped arrest; and, though involved in the treasonable intrigue with the king of spain, and other conspiracies, he procured a general pardon under the great seal. his office and profession naturally brought him into contact with the chief catholic families throughout the kingdom; and he maintained an active correspondence with many of them, by means of his various agents and emissaries. the great object of his life being the restoration of the fallen religion, to accomplish this, as he conceived, great and desirable end, he was prepared to adopt any means, however violent or obnoxious. when, under the seal of confession, catesby revealed to him his dark designs, so far from discouraging him, all he counselled was caution. having tested the disposition of the wealthier romanists to rise against their oppressors, and finding a general insurrection, as has before been stated, impracticable, he gave every encouragement and assistance to the conspiracy forming among the more desperate and discontented of the party. at his instigation, the present pilgrimage to saint winifred's well was undertaken, in the hope that, when so large a body of the catholics were collected together, some additional aid to the project might be obtained. one of the most mysterious and inexplicable portions of garnet's history is that relating to anne vaux. this lady, the daughter of lord vaux of harrowden, a rigid catholic nobleman, and one of garnet's earliest patrons and friends, on the death of her father, in , attached herself to his fortunes,--accompanied him in all his missions,--shared all his privations and dangers,--and, regardless of calumny or reproach, devoted herself entirely to his service. what is not less singular, her sister, who had married a catholic gentleman named brooksby, became his equally zealous attendant. their enthusiasm produced a similar effect on mr. brooksby; and wherever garnet went, all three accompanied him. by his side, on the present occasion, stood sir everard digby. accounted one of the handsomest, most accomplished, and best-informed men of his time, sir everard, at the period of this history only twenty-four, had married, when scarcely sixteen, maria, heiress of the ancient and honourable family of mulshoe, with whom he obtained a large fortune, and the magnificent estate of gothurst, or gaythurst, in buckinghamshire. knighted by james the first at belvoir castle, on his way from scotland to london, digby, who had once formed one of the most brilliant ornaments of the court, had of late in a great degree retired from it. "notwithstanding," writes father greenway, "that he had dwelt much in the queen's court, and was in the way of obtaining honours and distinction by his graceful manners and rare parts, he chose rather to bear the cross with the persecuted catholics, _et vivere abjectus in domo domini_, than to sail through the pleasures of a palace and the prosperities of the world, to the shipwreck of his conscience and the destruction of his soul." having only when he completed his minority professed the catholic religion, he became deeply concerned at its fallen state, and his whole thoughts were bent upon its restoration. this change in feeling was occasioned chiefly, if not altogether, by garnet, by whom his conversion had been accomplished. sir everard digby was richly attired in a black velvet doublet, with sleeves slashed with white satin, and wore a short mantle of the same material, similarly lined. he had the enormous trunk hose, heretofore mentioned as the distinguishing peculiarity of the costume of the period, and wore black velvet shoes, ornamented with white roses. an ample ruff encircled his throat. his hat was steeple-crowned, and somewhat broader in the leaf than was ordinarily worn, and shaded with a plume of black feathers. his hair was raven black, and he wore a pointed beard, and moustaches. his figure was tall and stately, and his features grave and finely formed. by this time the group had been joined by the others, and a friendly greeting took place. guy fawkes was presented by catesby to sir william radcliffe and sir everard digby. to garnet he required no introduction, and father oldcorne was known to all. after a little further conversation, the party adjourned to the house, which belonged to a welsh catholic gentleman, named griffiths, who, though absent at the time, had surrendered it to the use of sir everard digby and his friends. on their entrance, viviana was introduced by her father to lady digby, who presided as hostess, and welcomed her with great cordiality. she was then conducted to her own room, where she was speedily joined by sir william; and they remained closeted together till summoned to the principal meal of the day. at the table, which was most hospitably served, viviana found, in addition to her former companions, a large assemblage, to most of whom she was a stranger, consisting of anne vaux, mr. brooksby and his wife, ambrose rookwood, two brothers named winter, two wrights, francis tresham,--persons of whom it will be necessary to make particular mention hereafter,--and several others, in all amounting to thirty. the meal over, the company dispersed, and viviana and her father, passing through an open window, wandered forth upon a beautiful and spreading lawn, and thence under the shade of the beech-trees. they had not been long here, anxiously conferring on recent events, when they perceived garnet and catesby approaching. "father, dear father!" cried viviana, hastily, "i was about to warn you; but i have not time to do so now. some dark and dangerous plot is in agitation to restore our religion. mr. catesby is anxious to league you with it. do not--do not yield to his solicitations!" "fear nothing on that score, viviana," replied sir william, "i have already perplexities enow, without adding to them." "i will leave you, then," she replied. and, as soon as the others came up, she made some excuse for withdrawing, and returned to the house. the window of her chamber commanded the avenue, and from it she watched the group. they remained for a long time pacing up and down, in earnest conversation. by and by, they were joined by oldcorne and fawkes. then came a third party, consisting of the winters and wrights; and, lastly, sir everard digby and tresham swelled the list. the assemblage was then harangued by catesby, and the most profound attention paid to his address. viviana kept her eye fixed upon her father's countenance, and from its changing expression inferred what effect the speech produced upon him. at its conclusion, the assemblage separated in little groups; and she perceived, with great uneasiness, that father garnet passed his arm through that of her father, and led him away. some time elapsed, and neither of them re-appeared. "my warning was in vain; he _has_ joined them!" she exclaimed. "no, viviana!" cried her father's voice behind her. "i have _not_ joined them. nor _shall_ i do so." "heaven be praised!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around his neck. neither of them were aware that they were overheard by garnet, who had noiselessly followed sir william into the room, and muttered to himself, "for all this, he _shall_ join the plot, and she _shall_ wed catesby." he then coughed slightly, to announce his presence; and, apologizing to viviana for the intrusion, told her he came to confess her previously to the celebration of mass, which would take place that evening, in a small chapel in the house. wholly obedient to the command of her spiritual advisers, viviana instantly signified her assent; and, her father having withdrawn, she laid open the inmost secrets of her heart to the jesuit. severely reprobating her love for a heretic, before he would give her absolution, garnet enjoined her, as a penance, to walk barefoot to the holy well on the morrow, and to make a costly offering at the shrine of the saint. compliance being promised to his injunction, he pronounced the absolution, and departed. soon after this, mass was celebrated by garnet, and the sacrament administered to the assemblage. an hour before daybreak, the party again assembled in the chapel, where matins were performed; after which, the female devotees, who were clothed in snow-white woollen robes, with wide sleeves and hoods, and having large black crosses woven in front, retired for a short time, and re-appeared, with their feet bared, and hair unbound. each had a large rosary attached to the cord that bound her waist. catesby thought viviana had never appeared so lovely as in this costume; and as he gazed at her white and delicately formed feet, her small rounded ankles, her dark and abundant tresses falling in showers almost to the ground, he became more deeply enamoured than before. his passionate gaze was, however, unnoticed, as the object of it kept her eyes steadily fixed on the ground. lady digby, who was a most beautiful woman, scarcely appeared to less advantage; and, as she walked side by side with viviana in the procession, the pair attracted universal admiration from all who beheld them. everything being at last in readiness, and the order of march fully arranged, two youthful choristers, in surplices, chanting a hymn to saint winifred, set forth. they were followed by two men bearing silken banners, on one of which was displayed the martyrdom of the saint whose shrine they were about to visit, and on the other a lamb carrying a cross; next came fathers oldcorne and fisher, each sustaining a large silver crucifix; next, garnet alone, in the full habit of his order; next, the females, in the attire before described, and walking two and two; next, sir everard digby and sir william radcliffe; and lastly, the rest of the pilgrims, to the number of fourteen. these were all on foot. but at the distance of fifty paces behind them rode guy fawkes and catesby, at the head of twenty well-armed and well-mounted attendants, intended to serve as a guard in case of need. in such order, this singular procession moved forward at a slow pace, taking its course along a secluded road leading to the ridge of hills extending from the neighbourhood of wrexham to mold, and from thence, in an almost unbroken chain, to holywell. along these heights, whence magnificent views were obtained of the broad estuary of the dee and the more distant ocean, the train proceeded without interruption; and though the road selected was one seldom traversed, and through a country thinly peopled, still, the rumour of the pilgrimage having gone abroad, hundreds were stationed at different points to behold it. some expressions of disapprobation were occasionally manifested by the spectators; but the presence of the large armed force effectually prevented any interference. whenever such a course could be pursued, the procession took its way over the sward. still the sufferings of the females were severe in the extreme; and before viviana had proceeded a mile, her white, tender feet were cut and bruised by the sharp flints over which she walked; every step she took leaving a bloody print behind it. lady digby was in little better condition. but such was the zeal by which they, in common with all the other devotees following them, were animated, that not a single murmur was uttered. proceeding in this way, they reached at mid-day a small stone chapel on the summit of the hill overlooking plas-newydd, where they halted, and devotions being performed, the females bathed their lacerated limbs in a neighbouring brook, after which they were rubbed with a cooling and odorous ointment. thus refreshed, they again set forward, and halting a second time at plas-isaf, where similar religious ceremonies were observed, they rested for the day at a lodging prepared for their reception in the vicinity of mold. the night being passed in prayer, early in the morning they commenced their march in the same order as before. when viviana first set her feet to the ground, she felt as if she were treading on hot iron, and the pain was so excruciating, that she could not repress a cry. "heed not your sufferings, dear daughter," observed garnet, compassionately; "the waters of the holy fountain will heal the wounds both of soul and body." overcoming her agony by a powerful effort, she contrived to limp forward; and the whole party was soon after in motion. halting; for two hours at pentre-terfyn, and again at skeviog, the train, towards evening, reached the summit of the hill overlooking holywell, at the foot of which could be seen the ruins of basingwerk abbey, and the roof of the ancient chapel erected over the sacred spring. at this sight, those who were foremost in the procession fell on their knees; and the horsemen dismounting, imitated their example. an earnest supplication to saint winifred was then poured forth by father garnet, in which all the others joined, and a hymn in her honour chanted by the choristers. their devotions ended, the whole train arose, and walked slowly down the steep descent. as they entered the little town, which owes its name and celebrity to the miraculous spring rising within it, they were met by a large concourse of people, who had flocked from flint, and the other neighbouring places to witness the ceremonial. most of the inhabitants of holywell, holding their saintly patroness in the deepest veneration, viewed this pilgrimage to her shrine as a proper tribute of respect, while those of the opposite faith were greatly impressed by it. as the procession advanced, the crowd divided into two lines to allow it passage, and many fell on their knees imploring a blessing from garnet, which he in no instance refused. when within a hundred yards of the sacred well, they were met by a priest, followed by another small train of pilgrims. a latin oration having been pronounced by this priest, and replied to in the same language by garnet, the train was once more put in motion, and presently reached the ancient fabric built over the sacred fountain. the legend of saint winifred is so well known, that it is scarcely necessary to repeat it. for the benefit of the uninformed, however, it may be stated that she flourished about the middle of the seventh century, and was the daughter of thewith, one of the chief lords of wales. devoutly educated by a monk named beuno, who afterwards received canonization, she took the veil, and retired to a small monastery (the ruins of which still exist), built by her father near the scene of her subsequent martyrdom. persecuted by the addresses of caradoc, son of alan, prince of wales, she fled from him to avoid his violence. he followed, and inflamed by fury at her resistance, struck off her head. for this atrocity, the earth instantly opened and swallowed him alive, while from the spot where the head had fallen gushed forth a fountain of unequalled force and purity, producing more than a hundred tons a minute. the bottom of this miraculous well is strewn with pebbles streaked with red veins, in memory of the virgin saint from whose blood it sprung. on its margin grows an odorous moss, while its gelid and translucent waters are esteemed a remedy for many disorders. winifred's career did not terminate with her decapitation. resuscitated by the prayers of saint beuno, she lived many years a life of the utmost sanctity, bearing, as a mark of the miracle performed in her behalf, a narrow crimson circle round her throat. passing the chapel adjoining the well, built in the reign of henry the seventh by his mother, the pious countess of richmond, the pilgrims came to the swift clear stream rushing from the well. instead of ascending the steps leading to the edifice built over the spring, they plunged into the stream, and crossing it entered the structure by a doorway on the further side. erected by the countess of richmond at the same period as the chapel, this structure, quadrangular in form, and of great beauty, consists of light clustered pillars and mouldings, supporting the most gorgeous tracery and groining, the whole being ornamented with sculptured bosses, pendent capitals, fretwork, niches, and tabernacles. in the midst is a large stone basin, to receive the water of the fountain, around which the procession now grouped, and as soon as all were assembled, at the command of father garnet they fell on their knees. it was a solemn and striking sight to see this large group prostrated around that beautiful fountain, and covered by that ancient structure,--a touching thing to hear the voice of prayer mingling with the sound of the rushing water. after this, they all arose. a hymn was then chanted, and votive offerings made at the shrine of the saint. the male portion of the assemblage then followed garnet to the chapel, where further religious rites were performed, while the female devotees, remaining near the fountain, resigned themselves to the care of several attendants of their own sex, who, having bathed their feet in the water, applied some of the fragrant moss above described to the wounds; and, such was the faith of the patients, or the virtue of the application, that in a short time they all felt perfectly restored, and able to join their companions in the chapel. in this way the evening was spent, and it was not until late that they finished their devotions, and departed to the lodgings provided for them in the town. impressed with a strange superstitious feeling, which he could scarcely acknowledge to himself, guy fawkes determined to pass the night near the well. accordingly, without communicating his intention to his companions, he threw a small knapsack over his shoulder, containing a change of linen, and a few articles of attire, and proceeded thither. it was a brilliant moonlight night, and, as the radiance, streaming through the thin clustered columns of the structure, lighted up its fairy architecture, and fell upon the clear cold waves of the fountain, revealing the blood-streaked pebbles beneath, the effect was inexpressibly beautiful. so charmed was guy fawkes by the sight, that he remained for some time standing near the edge of the basin, as if fascinated by the marvellous spring that boiled up and sparkled at his feet. resolved to try the efficacy of the bath, he threw off his clothes and plunged into it. the water was cold as ice; but on emerging from it he felt wonderfully refreshed. having dressed himself, he wrapped his cloak around him, and, throwing himself on the stone floor, placed the knapsack under his head, and grasping a petronel in his right hand, to be ready in case of a surprise, disposed himself to slumber. [illustration: _vision of guy fawkes at saint winifred's well_] accustomed to a soldier's couch, he soon fell asleep. he had not long closed his eyes when he dreamed that from out of the well a female figure, slight and unsubstantial as the element from which it sprang, arose. it was robed in what resembled a nun's garb; but so thin and vapoury, that the very moonlight shone through it. from the garments of the figure, as well as from the crimson circle round its throat, he knew that it must be the patroness of the place, the sainted winifred, that he beheld. he felt no horror, but the deepest awe. the arm of the figure was raised,--its benignant regards fixed upon him,--and, as soon as it gained the level of the basin, it glided towards him. chapter xii. the vision. before daybreak on the following morning, garnet, who had been engaged in earnest conference with catesby during the whole of the night, repaired to the sacred spring for the purpose of bathing within it, and performing his solitary devotions at the shrine of the saint. on ascending the steps of the structure, he perceived guy fawkes kneeling beside the fountain, apparently occupied in prayer; and, being unwilling to disturb him, he paused. finding, however, after the lapse of a few minutes, that he did not move, he advanced towards him, and was about to lay his hand upon his shoulder, when he was arrested by the very extraordinary expression of his countenance. his lips were partly open, but perfectly motionless, and his eyes, almost starting from their sockets, were fixed upon the boiling waters of the spring. his hands were clasped, and his look altogether was that of one whose faculties were benumbed by awe or terror. aware of the fanatical and enthusiastical character of fawkes, garnet had little doubt that, by keeping long vigil at the fountain, he had worked himself into such a state of over-excitement as to imagine he beheld some preternatural appearance; and it was with some curiosity that he awaited the result. glancing in the same direction, his eye rested upon the bottom of the well, but he could discern nothing except the glittering and blood-streaked pebbles, and the reflection of the early sunbeams that quivered on its steaming surface. at length, a convulsion passed over the frame of the kneeler, and heaving a deep sigh he arose. turning to quit the spring, he confronted garnet, and demanded, in a low voice-- "have you likewise seen the vision, father?" garnet made no reply, but regarded him steadfastly. "has the blessed winifred appeared to you, i say?" continued fawkes. "no," answered garnet; "i am but just come hither. it is for you, my son,--the favoured of heaven,--for whom such glorious visions are reserved. i have seen nothing. how did the saint manifest herself to you?" "in her earthly form," replied fawkes; "or rather, i should say, in the semblance of the form she bore on earth. listen to me, father. i came hither last night to make my couch beside the fountain. after plunging into it, i felt marvellously refreshed, and disposed myself to rest on that stone. scarcely had my eyes closed when the saintly virgin appeared to me. oh! father, it was a vision of seraphic beauty, such as the eye of man hath seldom seen!" "and such only as it is permitted the elect of heaven to see," observed garnet. "alas! father," rejoined guy fawkes, "i can lay little claim to such an epithet. nay, i begin to fear that i have incurred the displeasure of heaven." "think not so, my son," replied garnet, uneasily. "relate your vision, and i will interpret it to you." "thus then it was, father," returned fawkes. "the figure of the saint arose from out the well, and gliding towards me laid its finger upon my brow. my eyes opened, but i was as one oppressed with a nightmare, unable to move. i then thought i heard my name pronounced by a voice so wondrously sweet that my senses were quite ravished. fain would i have prostrated myself, but my limbs refused their office. neither could i speak, for my tongue was also enchained." "proceed, my son," observed garnet; "i am curious to know what ensued." "father," replied guy fawkes, "if the form i beheld was that of saint winifred,--and that it was so, i cannot doubt,--the enterprise on which we are engaged will fail. it is _not_ approved by heaven. the vision warned me to desist." "you cannot desist, my son," rejoined garnet, sternly. "your oath binds you to the project." "true," replied fawkes; "and i have no thought of abandoning it. but i am well assured it will not be successful." "your thinking so, my son, will be the most certain means of realizing your apprehensions," replied garnet, gravely. "but let me hear the exact words of the spirit. you may have misunderstood them." "i cannot repeat them precisely, father," replied fawkes; "but i could not misapprehend their import, which was the deepest commiseration for our forlorn and fallen church, but a positive interdiction against any attempt to restore it by bloodshed. 'suffer on,' said the spirit; 'bear the yoke patiently, and in due season god will avenge your wrongs, and free you from oppression. you are thus afflicted that your faith may be purified. but if you resort to violence, you will breed confusion, and injure, not serve, the holy cause on which you are embarked.' such, father, was the language of the saint. it was uttered in a tone so tender and sympathizing, that every word found an echo in my heart, and i repented having pledged myself to the undertaking. but, when i tell you that she added that all concerned in the conspiracy should perish, perhaps you may be deterred from proceeding further." "never!" returned garnet. "nor will i suffer any one engaged in it to retreat. what matter if a few perish, if the many survive? our blood will not be shed in vain, if the true religion of god is restored. nay, as strongly as the blessed winifred herself resisted the impious ravisher, caradoc, will i resist all inducements to turn aside from my purpose. it may be that the enterprise _will_ fail. it may be that we _shall_ perish. but if we die thus, we shall die as martyrs, and our deaths will be highly profitable to the catholic religion." "i doubt it," observed fawkes. "my son," said garnet, solemnly, "i have ever looked upon you as one destined to be the chief agent in the great work of redemption. i have thought that, like judith, you were chosen to destroy the holofernes who oppresses us. having noted in you a religious fervour, and resolution admirably fitting you for the task, i thought, and still think you expressly chosen by heaven for it. but, if you have any misgiving, i beseech you to withdraw from it. i will absolve you from your oath; and, enjoining you only to strictest secrecy, will pray you to depart at once, lest your irresolution should be communicated to the others." "fear nothing from me, father," rejoined fawkes. "i have no irresolution, no wavering, nor shall any engaged with us be shaken by my apprehension. you have asked me what i saw and heard, and i have told you truly. but i will speak of it no more." "it will be well to observe silence, my son," answered garnet; "for though you, like myself, are unnerved, its effect on others might be injurious. but you have not yet brought your relation to an end. how did the figure disappear?" "as it arose, father," replied fawkes. "uttering in a sweet but solemn voice, which yet rings in my cars, the words, 'be warned!' it glided back to the fountain, whose waves as it approached grew still, and gradually melted from my view." "but when i came hither, you appeared to be gazing at the spring," said garnet. "what did you then behold?" "my first impulse on awakening about an hour ago," replied fawkes, "was to prostrate myself before the fountain, and to entreat the intercession of the saint, who had thus marvellously revealed herself to me. as i prayed, methought its clear lucid waters became turbid, and turned to the colour of blood." "it is a type of the blood of slaughtered brethren of our faith, which has been shed by our oppressors," rejoined garnet. "rather of our own, which shall be poured forth in this cause," retorted fawkes. "no matter. i am prepared to lose the last drop of mine." "and i," said garnet; "and, i doubt not, like those holy men who have suffered for their faith, that we shall both win a crown of martyrdom." "amen!" exclaimed fawkes. "and you think the sacrifice we are about to offer will prove acceptable to god?" "i am convinced of it, my son," answered garnet. "and i take the sainted virgin, from whose blood this marvellous spring was produced, to witness that i devote myself unhesitatingly to the project, and that i firmly believe it will profit our church." as he spoke, a singular circumstance occurred, which did not fail to produce an impression on both parties,--especially guy fawkes. a violent gust of wind, apparently suddenly aroused, whistled through the slender columns of the structure, and catching the surface of the water dashed it in tiny waves against their feet. "the saint is offended," observed fawkes. "it would almost seem so," replied garnet, after a pause. "let us proceed to the chapel, and pray at her shrine. we will confer on this matter hereafter. meantime, swear to me that you will observe profound secrecy respecting this vision." "i swear," replied guy fawkes. at this moment, another and more violent gust agitated the fountain. "we will tarry here no longer," said garnet, "i am not proof against these portents of ill." so saying, he led the way to the chapel. here they were presently joined by several of the female devotees, including viviana, anne vaux, and lady digby. matins were then said, after which various offerings were made at the shrine of the saint. lady digby presented a small tablet set in gold, representing on one side the martyrdom of saint winifred, and on the other the salutation of our lady. anne vaux gave a small enamelled cross of gold; viviana a girdle of the same metal, with a pendant sustaining a small saint john's head surrounded with pearls. "mine will be a poor soldier's offering," said guy fawkes, approaching the shrine, which was hung around with the crutches, staves, and bandages of those cured by the healing waters of the miraculous spring. "this small silver scallop-shell, given me by a pilgrim, who died in my arms near the chapel of saint james of compostella, in spain, is the sole valuable i possess." "it will be as acceptable as a more costly gift, my son," replied garnet, placing it on the shrine. of all the offerings then made, that silver scallop-shell is the only one preserved. chapter xiii. the conspirators. on viviana's return from her devotions, she found her father in the greatest perturbation and alarm. the old steward, heydocke, who had ridden express from ordsall hall, had just arrived, bringing word that the miserable fate of the pursuivant and his crew had aroused the whole country; that officers, attended by a strong force, and breathing vengeance, were in pursuit of sir william radcliffe and his daughter; that large sums were offered for the capture of guy fawkes and father oldcorne; that most of the servants were imprisoned; that he himself had escaped with great difficulty; and that, to sum up this long catalogue of calamities, master humphrey chetham was arrested, and placed in the new fleet. "in short, my dear young mistress," concluded the old man, "as i have just observed to sir william, all is over with us, and there is nothing left but the grave." "what course have you resolved upon, dear father," inquired viviana, turning anxiously to him. "i shall surrender myself," he answered. "i am guilty of no crime, and can easily clear myself from all imputation." "you are mistaken," she replied. "do not hope for justice from those who know it not. but, while the means of escape are allowed you, avail yourself of them." "no, viviana," replied sir william radcliffe, firmly; "my part is taken. i shall abide the arrival of the officers. for you, i shall intrust you to the care of mr. catesby." "you cannot mean this, dear father," she cried, with a look of distress. "and, if you do, i will never consent to such an arrangement." "mr. catesby is strongly attached to you, child," replied sir william, "and will watch over your safety as carefully as i could do myself." "he may be attached to me," rejoined viviana, "though i doubt the disinterestedness of his love. but nothing can remove my repugnance to him. forgive me, therefore, if, in this one instance, i decline to obey your commands. i dare not trust myself with mr. catesby." "how am i to understand you?" inquired sir william. "do not ask me to explain, dear father," she answered, "but imagine i must have good reason for what i say. since you are resolved upon surrendering yourself, i will go into captivity with you. the alternative is less dreadful than that you have proposed." "you distract me, child," cried the knight, rising and pacing the chamber in great agitation. "i cannot bear the thought of your imprisonment. yet if i fly, i appear to confess myself guilty." "if your worship will intrust mistress viviana with me," interposed the old steward, "i will convey her whithersoever you direct,--will watch over her day and night,--and, if need be, die in her defence." "thou wert ever a faithful servant, good heydocke," rejoined sir william, extending his hand kindly to him, "and art as true in adversity as in prosperity." "shame to me if i were not," replied heydocke, pressing the knight's fingers to his lips and bathing them in his tears. "shame to me if i hesitated to lay down my life for a master to whom i owe so much." "if it is your pleasure, dear father," observed viviana, "i will accompany master heydocke; but i would far rather be permitted to remain with you." "it would avail nothing," replied sir william, "we should be separated by the officers. retire to your chamber, and prepare for instant departure; and, in the mean while, i will consider what is best to be done." "your worship's decision must be speedy," observed heydocke; "i had only a few hours' start of the officers. they will be here ere long." "take this purse," replied sir william, "and hire three of the fleetest horses you can procure, and station yourself at the outskirts of the town, on the road to saint asaph. you understand." "perfectly," replied heydocke. and he departed to execute his master's commands, while viviana withdrew to her own chamber. left alone, the knight was perplexing himself as to where he should shape his course, when he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of catesby and garnet. "we have just met your servant, sir william," said the former, "and have learnt the alarming intelligence he has brought." "what is your counsel in this emergency, father?" said radcliffe, appealing to garnet. "flight,--instant flight, my son," was the answer. "my counsel is resistance," said catesby. "we are here assembled in large numbers, and are well armed. let us await the arrival of the officers, and see whether they will venture to arrest you." "they will arrest us all, if they have force sufficient to do so," replied garnet; "and there are many reasons, as you well know, why it is desirable to avoid any disturbance at present." "true," replied catesby. "what say you then," he continued, addressing radcliffe, "to our immediate return to holt, where means may be found to screen you till this storm is blown over?" sir william having assented to the proposal, catesby instantly departed to acquaint the others, and, as soon as preparations could be made, and horses procured, the whole party composing the pilgrimage quitted holywell, and, ascending the hill at the back of the town, took the direction of mold, where they arrived, having ridden at a swift pace, in about half an hour. from thence they proceeded, without accident or interruption, to the mansion they had recently occupied near holt. on reaching it, all the domestics were armed, and certain of their number stationed at the different approaches to the house to give the alarm in case of the enemy's appearance. but as nothing occurred during the night, the fears of sir william and his friends began in some degree to subside. about noon, on the following day, as guy fawkes, who ever since the vision at saint winifred's well had shunned all companionship, walked forth beneath the avenue alone, he heard a light step behind him, and, turning, beheld viviana. gravely bowing, he was about to pursue his course, when quickening her pace she was instantly by his side. "i have a favour to solicit," she said. "there is none i would refuse you," answered fawkes, halting; "but, though i have the will, i may not have the power to grant your request." "hear me, then," she replied, hurriedly. "of all my father's friends--of all who are here assembled, you are the only one i dare trust,--the only one from whom i can hope for assistance." "i am at once flattered and perplexed by your words, viviana," he rejoined; "nor can i guess whither they tend. but speak freely. if i cannot render you aid, i can at least give you counsel." "i must premise, then," said viviana, "that i am aware from certain obscure hints let fall by father oldcorne, that you, mr. catesby, and others are engaged in a dark and dangerous conspiracy." "viviana radcliffe," returned guy fawkes, sternly, "you have once before avowed your knowledge of this plot. i will not attempt disguise with you. a project is in agitation for the deliverance of our fallen church; and, since you have become acquainted with its existence--no matter how--you must be bound by an oath of secrecy, or," and his look grew darker, and his voice sterner, "i will not answer for your life." "i will willingly take the oath, on certain conditions," said viviana. "you must take it unconditionally," rejoined fawkes. "hear me out," said viviana. "knowing that mr. catesby and father garnet are anxious to induce my father to join this conspiracy, i came hither to implore you to prevent him from doing so." "were i even willing to do this,--which i am not," replied fawkes, "i have not the power. sir william radcliffe would be justly indignant at any interference on my part." "heed not that," replied viviana. "you, i fear, are linked to this fearful project beyond the possibility of being set free. but he is not. save him! save him!" "i will take no part in urging him to join it," replied fawkes. "but i can promise nothing further." "then mark me," she returned; "if further attempts are made by any of your confederates to league him with their plot, i myself will disclose all i know of it." "viviana," rejoined fawkes, in a threatening tone, "i again warn you that you endanger your life." "i care not," she rejoined; "i would risk twenty lives, if i possessed them, to preserve my father." "you are a noble-hearted lady," replied fawkes, unable to repress the admiration inspired by her conduct; "and if i can accomplish what you desire, i will. but i see not how it can be done." "everything is possible to one of your resolution," replied viviana. "well, well," replied fawkes, a slight smile crossing his rugged features; "the effort at least shall be made." "thanks! thanks!" ejaculated viviana; and, overcome by her emotion, she sank half-fainting into his arms. while he held her thus, debating within himself whether he should convey her to the house, garnet and catesby appeared at the other end of the avenue. their surprise at the sight was extreme; nor was it less when viviana, opening her eyes as they drew near, uttered a slight cry, and disappeared. "this requires an explanation," said catesby, glancing fiercely at fawkes. "you must seek it, then, of the lady," rejoined the latter, moodily. "it will be easily explained, i have no doubt," interposed garnet. "miss radcliffe was seized with a momentary weakness, and her companion offered her support." "that will scarcely suffice for me," cried catesby. "let the subject be dropped for the present," rejoined garnet, authoritatively. "more important matter claims our attention. we came to seek you, my son," he continued, addressing fawkes. "all those engaged in the great enterprise are about to meet in a summer-house in the garden." "i am ready to attend you," replied fawkes. "will sir william radcliffe be there?" "no," replied garnet; "he has not yet joined us. none will be present at this meeting but the sworn conspirators." with this, the trio took their way towards the garden, and proceeding along a walk edged with clipped yew-trees, came to the summer-house,--a small circular building overrun with ivy and creepers, and ornamented in front by two stone statues on pedestals. here they found sir everard digby, ambrose rookwood, francis tresham, thomas and robert winter, john and christopher wright, awaiting their arrival. the door being closed and bolted, garnet, placing himself in the midst of the assemblage, said, "before we proceed further, i will again administer the oath to all present." drawing from his vest a primer, and addressing sir everard digby, he desired him to kneel, and continued thus in a solemn tone, "you shall swear by the blessed trinity, and by the sacrament you propose to receive, never to disclose directly nor indirectly, by word or circumstance, the matter that shall be proposed to you to keep secret, nor desist from the execution thereof, until the rest shall give you leave." "i swear," replied digby, kissing the primer. the oath was then taken in like manner by the others. this done, catesby was about to address the meeting, when tresham, glancing uneasily at the door, remarked, "are you assured we have no eavesdroppers?" "i will keep watch without," rejoined fawkes, "if you have any fears." "it were better," replied robert winter. "we cannot be too cautious. but if you go forth, you will not be able to take part in the discussion." "my part is to act, not talk," rejoined fawkes, marching towards the door. and shutting it after him, he took up his position outside. upon this catesby commenced a long and inflammatory harangue, in which he expatiated with great eloquence and fervour on the wrongs of the catholic party, and the deplorable condition of their church. "it were easy to slay the tyrant by whom we are oppressed," he said, in conclusion; "but his destruction would be small gain to us. we must strike deeper, to hew down the baneful stock of heresy. all our adversaries must perish with him, and in such a manner as shall best attest the vengeance of heaven. placed beneath the parliament-house, a mine of powder shall hurl its heretical occupants into the air,--nor shall any one survive the terrible explosion. are we all agreed to this plan?" all the conspirators expressed their assent, except sir everard digby. "before i give my concurrence to the measure," observed the latter, "i would fain be resolved by father garnet whether it is lawful to destroy some few of our own faith with so many heretics." "unquestionably, my son," replied garnet. "as in besieging a city we have a right to kill all within it, whether friends or enemies, so in this case we are justified in destroying the innocent with the guilty, because their destruction will be advantageous to the catholic cause." "i am satisfied," replied digby. "as to the tyrant and apostate james," continued garnet, "he is excommunicated, and his subjects released from their allegiance. i have two breves sent over by his holiness pope clement viii. three years ago, one directed to the clergy, and the other to the nobility of this realm, wherein, alluding to queen elizabeth, it is expressly declared that, 'so soon as that miserable woman should depart out of this life, none shall be permitted to ascend the throne, how near soever in proximity of blood, unless they are such as will not only tolerate the catholic faith, but in every way support it.' by this brief, james is expressly excluded. he has betrayed, not supported the church of rome. having broken his word with us, and oppressed our brethren more rigorously even than his predecessor, the remorseless elizabeth, he is unworthy longer to reign, and must be removed." "he must," reiterated the conspirators. "the parliament-house being the place where all the mischief done us has been contrived by our adversaries, it is fitting that it should be the place of their chastisement," remarked catesby. "doubtless," rejoined ambrose rookwood. "yet if the blow we meditate should miscarry," observed thomas winter, "the injury to the catholic religion will be so great, that not only our enemies, but our very friends will condemn us." "there is no chance of miscarriage, if we are true to each other," returned catesby, confidently. "and if i suspected any one of treachery, i would plunge my sword into his bosom, were he my brother." "you would do wrong to act thus on mere suspicion," remarked tresham, who stood near him. "in a case like this, he who gives the slightest ground for doubt would merit death," replied catesby, sternly; "and i would slay him." "hum!" exclaimed tresham, uneasily. "mr. catesby will now perhaps inform us what has been done to carry the project into effect?" inquired sir everard digby. "a small habitation has been taken by one of our confederates, mr. thomas percy, immediately adjoining the parliament-house," replied catesby, "from the cellar of which it is proposed to dig a mine through the wall of the devoted building, and to deposit within it a sufficient quantity of gunpowder and other combustibles to accomplish our purpose. this mine must be digged by ourselves, as we can employ no assistants, and will be a laborious and dangerous task. but i for one will cheerfully undertake it." "and i," said the elder wright. "and i," cried several others. "supposing the mine digged, and the powder deposited," observed ambrose rookwood, "whose hand will fire the train?" "mine!" cried guy fawkes, throwing open the door. as soon as he had spoken, he retired and closed it after him. "he will keep his word," remarked garnet. "he is of a nature so resolute that he would destroy himself with the victims rather than fail. catiline was not a bolder conspirator than guy fawkes." "well, gentlemen," observed catesby, "we are now at the latter end of july. all must be ready against the meeting of parliament in november." "there is some likelihood, i hear, that the meeting of the house will be prorogued till february," remarked tresham. "so much the better," rejoined catesby, "it will give us more time for preparation." "so much the worse, i think," cried ambrose rookwood. "delays are ever dangerous, and doubly dangerous in a case like ours." "i am far from desiring to throw any impediment in the way of our design," observed sir everard digby, "but i would recommend, before we proceed to this terrible extremity, that one last effort should be made to move the king in our behalf." "it is useless," replied catesby. "so far from toleration, he meditates severer measures against us; and, i am well assured, if parliament is allowed to meet, such laws will be passed as will bring all of us within premunire. no, no. we have no hope from james, nor his ministers." "nor yet from france or spain," observed thomas winter. "in my conference with the constable velasco at bergen, i received assurances of the good-will of philip towards us, but no distinct promise of interference in our behalf. the archduke albert is well disposed, but he can render no assistance. we must depend upon ourselves." "ay, marry, must we," replied catesby, "and fortunate is it that we have devised a plan by which we can accomplish our purpose unaided. we only require funds to follow up with effect the blow we shall strike." "my whole fortune shall be placed at your disposal," replied sir everard digby. "part of mine has already been given," said tresham, "and the rest shall follow." "would i had aught to peril in the matter except my life," said catesby. "i would throw everything upon the stake." "you do enough in venturing thus much, my son," rejoined garnet. "to you the whole conduct of the enterprise is committed." "i live for nothing else," replied catesby, "and if i see it successful, i shall have lived long enough." "cannot sir william radcliffe be induced to join us?" asked rookwood. "he would be an important acquisition, and his wealth would prove highly serviceable." "i have sounded him," answered catesby. "but he appears reluctant." "be not satisfied with one attempt," urged christopher wright. "the jeopardy in which he now stands may make him change his mind." "i am loth to interrupt the discussion," returned garnet, "but i think we have tarried here long enough. we will meet again at midnight, when i hope to introduce sir william radcliffe to you as a confederate." the party then separated, and garnet went in search of the knight. ascertaining that he was in his own chamber, he proceeded thither, and found him alone. entering at once upon the subject in hand, garnet pleaded his cause with so much zeal that he at last wrung a reluctant consent from the listener. scarcely able to conceal his exultation, he then proposed to sir william to adjourn with him to the private chapel in the house, where, having taken the oath, and received the sacrament upon it, he should forthwith be introduced to the conspirators, and the whole particulars of the plot revealed to him. to this the knight, with some hesitation, agreed. as they traversed a gallery leading to the chapel, they met viviana. for the first time in his life radcliffe's gaze sank before his daughter, and he would have passed her without speaking had she not stopped him. "father! dear father!" she cried, "i know whither you are going--and for what purpose. do not--do not join them." [illustration: _guy fawkes preventing sir william radcliffe from joining the conspiracy._] sir william radcliffe made no reply, but endeavoured gently to push her aside. she would not, however, be repulsed, but prostrating herself before him, clasped his knees, and besought him not to proceed. making a significant gesture to sir william, garnet walked forward. "viviana," cried the knight, sternly, "my resolution is taken. i command you to retire to your chamber." so saying, he broke from her, and followed garnet. clasping her hands to her brow, viviana gazed for a moment with a frenzied look after him, and then rushed from the gallery. on reaching the chapel, sir william, who had been much shaken by this meeting, was some minutes in recovering his composure. garnet employed the time in renewing his arguments, and with so much address that he succeeded in quieting the scruples of conscience which had been awakened in the knight's breast by his daughter's warning. "and now, my son," he said, "since you have determined to enrol your name in the list of those sworn to deliver their church from oppression, take this primer in your hand, and kneel down before the altar, while i administer the oath which is to unite you to us." garnet then advanced towards the altar, and sir william was about to prostrate himself upon a cushion beside it, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and guy fawkes strode into the chapel. "hold!" he exclaimed, grasping radcliffe's right arm, and fixing his dark glance upon him; "you shall not take that oath." "what mean you?" cried garnet, who, as well as the knight, was paralyzed with astonishment at this intrusion. "sir william radcliffe is about to join us." "i know it," replied fawkes; "but it may not be. he has no heart in the business, and will lend it no efficient assistance. we are better without him, than with him." as he spoke, he took the primer from the knight's hand, and laid it upon the altar. "this conduct is inexplicable," cried garnet, angrily. "you will answer for it to others, as well as to me." "i will answer for it to all," replied guy fawkes. "let sir william radcliffe declare before me, and before heaven, that he approves the measure, and i am content he should take the oath." "i cannot belie my conscience by saying so," replied the knight, who appeared agitated by conflicting emotions. "yet you have promised to join us," cried garnet, reproachfully. "better break that promise than a solemn oath," rejoined guy fawkes, sternly. "sir william radcliffe, there are reasons why you should not join this conspiracy. examine your inmost heart, and it will tell you what they are." "i understand you," replied the knight. "get hence," cried garnet, unable to control his indignation, "or i will pronounce our church's most terrible malediction against you." "i shall not shrink from it, father," rejoined fawkes, humbly, but firmly, "seeing i am acting rightly." "undeceive yourself, then, at once," returned garnet, "and learn that you are thwarting our great and holy purpose." "on the contrary," replied fawkes, "i am promoting it, by preventing one from joining it who will endanger its success." "you are a traitor!" cried garnet, furiously. "a traitor!" exclaimed guy fawkes, his eye blazing with fierce lustre, though his voice and demeanour were unaltered,--"i, who have been warned thrice,--twice by the dead,--and lastly by a vision from heaven, yet still remain firm to my purpose,--i, who have voluntarily embraced the most dangerous and difficult part of the enterprise,--i, who would suffer the utmost extremity of torture, rather than utter a word that should reveal it,--a traitor! no, father, i am none. if you think so, take this sword and at once put an end to your doubts." there was something so irresistible in the manner of guy fawkes, that garnet remained silent. "do with me what you please," continued fawkes; "but do not compel sir william radcliffe to join the conspiracy. he will be fatal to it." "no one shall compel me to join it," replied the knight. "perhaps it is better thus," returned garnet, after a pause, during which he was buried in reflection. "i will urge you no further, my son. but before you depart you must swear not to divulge what you have just learnt." "willingly," replied the knight. "there is another person who must also take that oath," said guy fawkes, "having accidentally become acquainted with as much as yourself." and stepping out of the chapel, he immediately afterwards returned with viviana. "you will now understand why i would not allow sir william to join the conspiracy," he observed to garnet. "i do," replied the latter, gloomily. the oath administered, the knight and his daughter quitted the chapel, accompanied by guy fawkes. viviana was profuse in her expressions of gratitude, nor was her father less earnest in his acknowledgments. a few hours after this, sir william radcliffe informed sir everard digby that it was his intention to depart immediately, and, though the latter attempted to dissuade him by representing the danger to which he would be exposed, he continued inflexible. the announcement surprised both catesby and garnet, who were present when it was made, and added their entreaties to those of digby--but without effect. catesby's proposal to serve as an escort was likewise refused by sir william, who said he had no fears, and when questioned as to his destination, he returned an evasive answer. this sudden resolution of the knight coupled with his refusal to join the plot, alarmed the conspirators, and more than one expressed fears of treachery. sir everard digby, however, was not of the number, but asserted that radcliffe was a man of the highest honour, and he would answer for his secrecy with his life. "will you answer for that of his daughter?" demanded tresham. "_i_ will," replied fawkes. "to put the matter beyond a doubt," observed catesby, "i will set out shortly after him, and follow him unobserved till he halts for the night, and ascertain whether he stops at any suspicious quarter." "do so, my son," replied garnet. "it is needless," observed sir everard digby; "but do as you please." by this time, radcliffe's horses being brought round by heydocke, he and his daughter took a hasty leave of their friends. when they had been gone a few minutes, catesby called for his steed; and, after exchanging a word or two with garnet, rode after them. he had proceeded about a couple of miles along a cross-road leading to nantwich, which he learnt from some cottagers was the route taken by the party before him, when he heard the tramp of a horse in the rear, and, turning at the sound, beheld guy fawkes. drawing in the bridle, he halted till the latter came up, and angrily demanded on what errand he was bent. "my errand is the same as your own," replied fawkes. "i intend to follow sir william radcliffe, and, if need be, defend him." whatever catesby's objections might be to this companionship, he did not think fit to declare them, and, though evidently much displeased, suffered guy fawkes to ride by his side without opposition. having gained the summit of the mountainous range extending from malpas to tottenhall, whence they beheld the party whose course they were tracking enter a narrow lane at the foot of the hill, catesby, fearful of losing sight of them, set spurs to his steed. guy fawkes kept close beside him, and they did not slacken their pace until they reached the lane. having proceeded along it for a quarter of a mile, they were alarmed by the sudden report of fire-arms, followed by a loud shriek, which neither of them doubted was uttered by viviana. again dashing forward, on turning a corner of the road, they beheld the party surrounded by half-a-dozen troopers. sir william radcliffe had shot one of his assailants, and, assisted by heydocke, was defending himself bravely against the others. with loud shouts, catesby and guy fawkes galloped towards the scene of strife. but they were too late. a bullet pierced the knight's brain; and he no sooner fell, than, regardless of himself, the old steward flung away his sword, and threw himself, with the most piteous lamentations, on the body. viviana, meanwhile, had been compelled to dismount, and was in the hands of the troopers. on seeing her father's fate, her shrieks were so heart-piercing, that even her captors were moved to compassion. fighting his way towards her, catesby cut down one of the troopers, and snatching her from the grasp of the other, who was terrified by the furious assault, placed her on the saddle beside him, and striking spurs into his charger at the same moment, leapt the hedge, and made good his retreat. this daring action, however, could not have been accomplished without the assistance of guy fawkes, who warded off with his rapier all the blows aimed at him and his lovely charge. while thus engaged, he received a severe cut on the head, which stretched him senseless and bleeding beneath his horse's feet. chapter xiv. the packet. on recovering from the effects of the wound he had received from the trooper, guy fawkes found himself stretched upon a small bed in a cottage, with viviana and catesby watching beside him. a thick fold of linen was bandaged round his head, and he was so faint from the great effusion of blood he had sustained, that, after gazing vacantly around him for a few minutes, and but imperfectly comprehending what he beheld, his eyes closed, and he relapsed into insensibility. restoratives being applied, he revived in a short time, and, in answer to his inquiries how he came thither, was informed by catesby that he had been left for dead by his assailants, who, contenting themselves with making the old steward prisoner, had ridden off in the direction of chester. "what has become of sir william radcliffe?" asked the wounded man in a feeble voice. catesby raised his finger to his lips, and fawkes learnt the distressing nature of the question he had asked by the agonizing cry that burst from viviana. unable to control her grief, she withdrew, and catesby then told him that the body of sir william radcliffe was lying in an adjoining cottage, whither it had been transported from the scene of the conflict; adding that it was viviana's earnest desire that it should be conveyed to manchester to the family vault in the collegiate church; but that he feared her wish could not be safely complied with. a messenger, however, had been despatched to holt; and sir everard digby, and fathers garnet and oldcorne, were momentarily expected, when some course would be decided upon for the disposal of the unfortunate knight's remains. "poor viviana!" groaned fawkes. "she has now no protector." "rest easy on that score," rejoined catesby. "she shall never want one while i live." the wounded man fixed his eyes, now blazing with red and unnatural light, inquiringly upon him, but he said nothing. "i know what you mean," continued catesby; "you think i shall wed her, and you are in the right. i shall. the marriage is essential to our enterprise; and the only obstacle to it is removed." fawkes attempted to reply, but his parched tongue refused its office. catesby arose, and carefully raising his head, held a cup of water to his lips. the sufferer eagerly drained it, and would have asked for more; but seeing that the request would be refused, he left it unuttered. "have you examined my wound?" he said, after a pause. catesby answered in the affirmative. "and do you judge it mortal?" continued fawkes. "not that i have any fear of death. i have looked him in the face too often for that. but i have somewhat on my mind which i would fain discharge before my earthly pilgrimage is ended." "do not delay it, then," rejoined the other. "knowing i speak to a soldier, and a brave one, i do not hesitate to tell you your hours are numbered." "heaven's will be done!" exclaimed fawkes, in a tone of resignation. "i thought myself destined to be one of the chief instruments of the restoration of our holy religion. but i find i was mistaken. when father garnet arrives, i beseech you let me see him instantly. or, if he should not come speedily, entreat miss radcliffe to grant me a few moments in private." "why not unburthen yourself to me?" returned catesby, distrustfully. "in your circumstances i should desire no better confessor than a brother soldier,--no other crucifix than a sword-hilt." "nor i," rejoined fawkes. "but this is no confession i am about to make. what i have to say relates to others, not to myself." "indeed!" exclaimed catesby. "then there is the more reason why it should not be deferred. i hold it my duty to tell you that the fever of your wound will, in all probability, produce delirium. make your communication while your senses remain to you. and whatever you enjoin shall be rigorously fulfilled." "will you swear this?" cried fawkes, eagerly. but before an answer could be returned, he added, in an altered tone, "no,--no,--it cannot be." "this is no time for anger," rejoined catesby, sternly, "or i should ask whether you doubt the assurance i have given you?" "i doubt nothing but your compliance with my request," returned fawkes. "and oh! if you hope to be succoured at your hour of need, tell miss radcliffe i desire to speak with her." "the message will not need to be conveyed," said viviana, who had noiselessly entered the room; "she is here." guy fawkes turned his gaze in the direction of the voice; and, notwithstanding his own deplorable condition, he was filled with concern at the change wrought in her appearance by the terrible shock she had undergone. her countenance was as pale as death,--her eyes, from which no tears would flow, as is ever the case with the deepest distress, were glassy and lustreless,--her luxuriant hair hung in dishevelled masses over her shoulders,--and her attire was soiled and disordered. "you desire to speak with me," she continued, advancing towards the couch of the wounded man. "it must be alone," he replied. viviana glanced at catesby, who reluctantly arose, and closed the door after him. "we _are_ alone now," she said. "water! water!" gasped the sufferer, "or i perish." his request being complied with, he continued in a low solemn voice, "viviana, you have lost the dearest friend you had on earth, and you will soon lose one who, if he had been spared, would have endeavoured, as far as he could, to repair the loss. i say not this to aggravate your distress, but to prove the sincerity of my regard. let me conjure you, with my dying breath, not to wed mr. catesby." "fear it not," replied viviana. "i would rather endure death than consent to do so." "be upon your guard against him, then," continued fawkes. "when an object is to be gained, he suffers few scruples to stand in his way." "i am well aware of it," replied viviana; "and on the arrival of sir everard digby, i shall place myself under his protection." "should you be driven to extremity," said fawkes, taking a small packet from the folds of his doublet, "break open this; it will inform you what to do. only promise me you will not have recourse to it till all other means have failed." viviana took the packet, and gave the required promise. "conceal it about your person, and guard it carefully," continued fawkes; "for you know not when you may require it. and now, having cleared my conscience, i can die easily. let me have your prayers." viviana knelt down by the bedside, and poured forth the most earnest supplications in his behalf. "perhaps," she said, as she arose, "and it is some consolation to think so,--you may be saved by death from the commission of a great crime, which would for ever have excluded you from the joys of heaven." "say rather," cried guy fawkes, whose brain began to wander, "which would have secured them to me. others will achieve it; but i shall have no share in their glory, or their reward." "their reward will be perdition in this world and in the next," rejoined viviana. "i repeat, that though i deeply deplore your condition, i rejoice in your delivery from this sin. it is better--far better--to die thus, than by the hands of the common executioner." "what do i see?" cried guy fawkes, trying to raise himself, and sinking back again instantly upon the pillow. "elizabeth orton rises before me. she beckons me after her--i come!--i come!" "heaven pity him!" cried viviana. "his senses have left him!" "she leads me into a gloomy cavern," continued fawkes, more wildly; "but my eyes are like the wolf's, and can penetrate the darkness. it is filled with barrels of gunpowder. i see them ranged in tiers, one above another. ah! i know where i am now. it is the vault beneath the parliament-house. the king and his nobles are assembled in the hall above. lend me a torch, that i may fire the train, and blow them into the air. quick! quick! i have sworn their destruction, and will keep my oath. what matter if i perish with them? give me the torch, i say, or it will be too late. is the powder damp that it will not kindle? and see! the torch is expiring--it is gone out! distraction!--to be baffled thus! why do you stand and glare at me with your stony eyes? who are those with you? fiends!--no! they are armed men. they seize me--they drag me before a grave assemblage. what is that hideous engine? the rack!--bind me on it--break every limb--ye shall not force me to confess--ha! ha! i laugh at your threats--ha! ha!" "mother of mercy! release him from this torture!" cried viviana. "so! ye have condemned me," continued fawkes, "and will drag me to execution. well, well, i am prepared. but what a host is assembled to see me! ten thousand faces are turned towards me, and all with one abhorrent bloodthirsty expression. and what a scaffold! get it done quickly, thou butcherly villain. the rope is twisted round my throat in serpent folds. it strangles me--ah!" "horror!" exclaimed viviana. "i can listen to this no longer. help, mr. catesby, help!" "the knife is at my breast--it pierces my flesh--my heart is torn forth--i die! i die!" and he uttered a dreadful groan. "what has happened?" cried catesby, rushing into the room. "is he dead?" "i fear so," replied viviana; "and his end has been a fearful one." "no--no," said catesby; "his pulse still beats--but fiercely and feverishly. you had better not remain here longer, miss radcliffe. i will watch over him. all will soon be over." aware that she could be of no further use, viviana cast a look of the deepest commiseration at the sufferer, and retired. the occupant of the cottage, an elderly female, had surrendered all the apartments of her tenement, except one small room, to her guests, and she was therefore undisturbed. the terrible event which had recently occurred, and the harrowing scene she had just witnessed, were too much for viviana, and her anguish was so intense, that she began to fear her reason was deserting her. she stood still,--gazed fearfully round, as if some secret danger environed her,--clasped her hands to her temples, and found them burning like hot iron,--and, then, alarmed at her own state, knelt down, prayed, and wept. yes! she wept, for the first time, since her father's destruction, and the relief afforded by those scalding tears was inexpressible. from this piteous state she was aroused by the tramp of horses at the door of the cottage, and the next moment father garnet presented himself. "how uncertain are human affairs!" he said, after a sorrowful greeting had passed between them. "i little thought, when we parted yesterday, we should meet again so soon, and under such afflicting circumstances." "it is the will of heaven, father," replied viviana, "and we must not murmur at its decrees, but bear our chastening as we best may." "i am happy to find you in such a comfortable frame of mind, dear daughter. i feared the effect of the shock upon your feelings. but i am glad to find you bear up against it so well." "i am surprised at my own firmness, father," replied viviana. "but i have been schooled in affliction. i have no tie left to bind me to the world, and shall retire from it, not only without regret, but with eagerness." "say not so, dear daughter," replied garnet. "you have, i trust, much happiness in store for you; and when the sharpness of your affliction is worn off, you will view your condition in a more cheering light." "impossible!" she cried, mournfully. "hope is wholly extinct in my breast. but i will not contest the point. is not sir everard digby with you?" "he is not, daughter," replied garnet, "and i will explain to you wherefore. soon after your departure yesterday, the mansion we occupied at holt was attacked by a band of soldiers, headed by miles topcliffe, one of the most unrelenting of our persecutors; and though they were driven off with some loss, yet, as there was every reason to apprehend, they would return with fresh force, sir everard judged it prudent to retreat; and accordingly he and his friends, with all their attendants, except those he has sent with me, have departed for buckinghamshire." "where, then, is father oldcorne?" inquired viviana. "alas! daughter," rejoined garnet, "i grieve to say he is a prisoner. imprudently exposing himself during the attack, he was seized and carried off by topcliffe and his myrmidons." "how true is the saying that misfortunes never come single!" sighed viviana. "i seem bereft of all i hold dear." "sir everard has sent four of his trustiest servants with me," remarked garnet. "they are well armed, and will attend you wherever you choose to lead them. he has also furnished me with a sum of money for your use." "he is most kind and considerate," replied viviana. "and now, father," she faltered, "there is one subject which it is necessary to speak upon; and, though i shrink from it, it must not be postponed." "i guess what you mean, daughter," said garnet, sympathizingly; "you allude to the interment of sir william radcliffe. is the body here?" "it is in an adjoining cottage," replied viviana in a broken voice. "i have already expressed my wish to mr. catesby to have it conveyed to manchester, to our family vault." "i see not how that can be accomplished, dear daughter," replied garnet; "but i will confer with mr. catesby on the subject. where is he?" "in the next room, by the couch of guy fawkes, who is dying," said viviana. "dying!" echoed garnet, starting. "i heard he was dangerously hurt, but did not suppose the wound would prove fatal. here is another grievous blow to the good cause." at this moment the door was opened by catesby. "how is the sufferer?" asked garnet. "a slight change for the better appears to have taken place," answered catesby. "his fever has in some decree abated, and he has sunk into a gentle slumber." "can he be removed with safety?" inquired garnet; "for, i fear, if he remains here, he will fall into the hands of topcliffe and his crew, who are scouring the country in every direction." and he recapitulated all he had just stated to viviana. catesby was for some time lost in reflection. "i am fairly perplexed as to what course it will be best to pursue," he said. "dangers and difficulties beset us on every side. i am inclined to yield to viviana's request, and proceed to manchester." "that will be rushing into the very face of danger," observed garnet. "and, therefore, may be the safest plan," replied catesby. "our adversaries will scarcely suspect us of so desperate a step." "perhaps you are in the right, my son," returned garnet, after a moment's reflection. "at all events, i bow to your judgment." "the plan is too much in accordance with my own wishes to meet with any opposition on my part," observed viviana. "will you accompany us, father?" asked catesby; "or do you proceed to gothurst?" "i will go with you, my son. viviana will need a protector. and, till i have seen her in some place of safety, i will not leave her." "since we have come to this determination," rejoined catesby, "as soon as the needful preparations can be made, and guy fawkes has had some hours' repose, we will set out. under cover of night we can travel with security; and, by using some exertion, may reach ordsall hall, whither, i presume, viviana would choose to proceed, in the first instance, before daybreak." "i am well mounted, and so are my attendants," replied garnet; "and, by the provident care of sir everard digby, each of them has a led horse with him." "that is well," said catesby. "and now, viviana, may i entreat you to take my place for a short time by the couch of the sufferer. in a few hours everything shall be in readiness." he then retired with garnet, while viviana proceeded to the adjoining chamber, where she found guy fawkes still slumbering tranquilly. as the evening advanced, he awoke, and appeared much refreshed. while he was speaking, garnet and catesby approached his bedside, and he seemed overjoyed at the sight of the former. the subject of the journey being mentioned to him, he at once expressed his ready compliance with the arrangement, and only desired that the last rites of his church might be performed for him before he set out. garnet informed him that he had come for that very purpose; and as soon as they were left alone, he proceeded to the discharge of his priestly duties, confessed and absolved him, giving him the viaticum and the extreme unction. and, lastly, he judged it expedient to administer a powerful opiate, to lull the pain of his wound on the journey. this done, he summoned catesby, who, with two of the attendants, raised the couch on which the wounded man was stretched, and conveyed him to the litter. so well was this managed, that fawkes sustained no injury, and little inconvenience, from the movement. two strong country vehicles had been procured; the one containing the wounded man's litter, the other the shell, which had been hastily put together, to hold the remains of the unfortunate sir william radcliffe. viviana being placed in the saddle, and catesby having liberally rewarded the cottagers who had afforded them shelter, the little cavalcade was put in motion. in this way they journeyed through the night; and shaping their course through tarporley, northwich, and altringham, arrived at daybreak in the neighbourhood of ordsall hall. chapter xv. the elixir. on beholding the well-remembered roof and gables of the old mansion peeping from out the grove of trees in which it was embosomed, viviana's heart died away within her. the thought that her father, who had so recently quitted it in the full enjoyment of health, and of every worldly blessing, should be so soon brought back a corpse, was almost too agonizing for endurance. reflecting, however, that this was no season for the indulgence of grief, but that she was called upon to act with firmness, she bore up resolutely against her emotion. arrived within a short distance of the hall, catesby caused the little train to halt under the shelter of the trees, while he rode forward to ascertain that they could safely approach it. as he drew near, everything proclaimed that the hand of the spoiler had been there. crossing the drawbridge, he entered the court, which bore abundant marks of the devastation recently committed. various articles of furniture, broken, burnt, or otherwise destroyed, were lying scattered about. the glass in the windows was shivered; the doors forced from their hinges; the stone-copings of the walls pushed off; the flower-beds trampled upon; the moat itself was in some places choked up with rubbish, while in others its surface was covered with floating pieces of timber. led by curiosity catesby proceeded to the spot where the stables had stood. nothing but a heap of blackened ruins met his gaze. scarcely one stone was standing on another. the appearance of the place was so desolate and disheartening, that he turned away instantly. leaving his horse in a shed, he entered the house. here, again, he encountered fresh ravages. the oak-panels and skirting-boards were torn from the walls; the ceilings pulled down; and the floor lay inch-deep in broken plaster and dust. on ascending to the upper rooms, he found the same disorder. the banisters of the stairs were broken; the bedsteads destroyed; the roof partially untiled. every room was thickly strewn with leaves torn from valuable books, with fragments of apparel, and other articles, which the searchers not being able to carry off had wantonly destroyed. having contemplated this scene of havoc for some time, with feelings of the bitterest indignation, catesby descended to the lowest story; and, after searching ineffectually for the domestics, was about to depart, when, turning suddenly, he perceived a man watching him from an adjoining room. catesby instantly called to him; but, seeing that the fellow disregarded his assurances, and was about to take to his heels, he drew his sword, and threatened him with severe punishment if he attempted to fly. thus exhorted, the man--who was no other than the younger heydocke--advanced towards him; and throwing himself at his feet, begged him in the most piteous terms to do him no injury. "i have already told you i am a friend," replied catesby, sheathing his sword. "ah! mr. catesby, is it you i behold?" cried martin heydocke, whose fears had hitherto prevented him from noticing the features of the intruder. "what brings your worship to this ill-fated house?" "first let me know if there is any enemy about?" replied catesby. "none that i am aware of," rejoined martin. "having ransacked the premises, and done all the mischief they could, as you perceive, the miscreants departed the day before yesterday, and i have seen nothing of them since, though i have been constantly on the watch. the only alarm i have had was that occasioned by your worship just now." "are you alone here?" demanded catesby. "no, your worship," answered martin. "there are several of the servants concealed in a secret passage under the house. but they are so terrified by what has lately happened, that they never dare show themselves, except during the night-time." "i do not wonder at it," replied catesby. "and now may i inquire whether your worship brings any tidings of sir william radcliffe and mistress viviana?" rejoined martin. "i hope no ill has befallen them. my father, old jerome heydocke, set out to holywell a few days ago, to apprise them of their danger, and i have not heard of them since." "sir william radcliffe is dead," replied catesby. "the villains have murdered him. your father is a prisoner." "alas! alas!" cried the young man, bursting into tears; "these are fearful times to live in. what will become of us all?" "we must rise against the oppressor," replied catesby, sternly. "bite the heel that tramples upon us." "we must," rejoined martin. "and if my poor arm could avail, it should not be slow to strike." "manfully resolved!" cried catesby, who never lost an opportunity of gaining a proselyte. "i will point out to you a way by which you may accomplish what you desire. but we will talk of this hereafter. hoard up your vengeance till the fitting moment for action arrives." he then proceeded to explain to the young man, who was greatly surprised by the intelligence, that viviana was at hand, and that the body of sir william had been brought thither for interment in the family vault at the collegiate church. having ascertained that there was a chamber, which, having suffered less than the others, might serve for viviana's accommodation, catesby returned to the party. a more melancholy cavalcade has been seldom seen than now approached the gates of ordsall hall. first rode viviana, in an agony of tears, for her grief had by this time become absolutely uncontrollable, with catesby on foot, leading her horse. next came garnet, greatly exhausted and depressed; his eyes cast dejectedly on the ground. then came the litter, containing guy fawkes; and, lastly, the vehicle with the body of sir william radcliffe. on arriving at the gate, viviana was met by two female servants, whom martin heydocke had summoned from their hiding-places; and, as soon as she had dismounted, she was supported, for she was scarcely able to walk unaided, to the chamber destined for her reception. this done, catesby proceeded, with some anxiety, to superintend the removal of fawkes, who was perfectly insensible. his wound had bled considerably during the journey; but the effusion had stopped when the faintness supervened. he was placed in one of the lower rooms till a sleeping-chamber could be prepared for him. the last task was to attend to the remains of the late unfortunate possessor of the mansion. by catesby's directions a large oak table, once occupying the great hall, was removed to the star chamber, already described as the principal room of the house; and, being securely propped up,--for, like the rest of the furniture, it had been much damaged by the spoilers, though, being of substantial material, it offered greater resistance to their efforts,--the shell containing the body was placed upon it. "better he should lie thus," exclaimed catesby, when the melancholy office was completed, "than live to witness the wreck around him. fatal as are these occurrences," he added, pursuing the train of thought suggested by the scene, "they are yet favourable to my purpose. the only person who could have prevented my union with viviana radcliffe--her father--lies there. who would have thought when she rejected my proposal a few days ago, in this very room, how fortune would conspire--and by what dark and inscrutable means--to bring it about! fallen as it is, this house is not yet fallen so low, but i can reinstate it. its young mistress mine, her estates mine,--for she is now inheritress of all her father's possessions,--the utmost reach of my ambition were gained, and all but one object of my life--for which i have dared so much, and struggled so long--achieved!" "what are you thinking of, my son?" asked garnet, who had watched the changing expression of his sombre countenance,--"what are you thinking of?" he said, tapping him on the shoulder. "of that which is never absent from my thoughts, father--the great design," replied catesby; "and of the means of its accomplishment, which this sad scene suggests." "i do not understand you, my son," rejoined the other. "does not radcliffe's blood cry aloud for vengeance?" continued catesby; "and think you his child will be deaf to the cry? no, father, she will no longer tamely submit to wrongs that would steel the gentlest bosom, and make firm the feeblest arm, but will go hand and heart with us in our project. viviana must be mine," he added, altering his tone, "ours, i should say,--for, if she is mine, all the vast possessions that have accrued to her by her father's death shall be devoted to the furtherance of the mighty enterprise." "i cannot think she will refuse you now, my son," replied garnet. "she _shall not_ refuse me, father," rejoined catesby. "the time is gone by for idle wooing." "i will be no party to forcible measures, my son," returned garnet, gravely. "as far as persuasion goes, i will lend you every assistance in my power, but nothing further." "persuasion is all that will be required, i am assured, father," answered catesby, hastily, perceiving he had committed himself too far. "but let us now see what can be done for guy fawkes." "would there was any hope of his life!" exclaimed garnet, sighing deeply. "in losing him, we lose the bravest of our band." "we do," returned catesby. "and yet he has been subject to strange fancies of late." "he has been appalled, but never shaken," rejoined garnet. "of all our number, you and he were the only two upon whom i could rely. when he is gone, you will stand alone." catesby made no reply, but led the way to the chamber where the wounded man lay. he had regained his consciousness, but was too feeble to speak. after such restoratives as were at hand had been administered, catesby was about to order a room to be fitted up for him, when viviana, whose anxiety for the sufferer had overcome her affliction, made her appearance. on learning catesby's intentions, she insisted upon fawkes being removed to the room allotted to her, which had not been dismantled like the rest. seeing it was in vain to oppose her, catesby assented, and the sufferer was accordingly carried thither, and placed within the bed--a large antique piece of furniture, hung with faded damask curtains. the room was one of the oldest in the house, and at the further end stood a small closet, approached by an arched doorway, and fitted up with a hassock and crucifix, which, strange to say, had escaped the ravages of the searchers. placed within the couch, guy fawkes began to ramble as before about the conspiracy; and fearing his ravings might awaken the suspicion of the servants, catesby would not suffer any of them to come near him, but arranged with garnet to keep watch over him by turns. by degrees, he became more composed; and, after dozing a little, opened his eyes, and, looking round, inquired anxiously for his sword. at first, catesby, who was alone with him at the time, hesitated in his answer, but seeing he appeared greatly disturbed, he showed him that his hat, gauntlets, and rapier were lying by the bedside. "i am content," replied the wounded man, smiling faintly; "that sword has never left my side, waking or sleeping, for twenty years. let me grasp it once more--perhaps for the last time." catesby handed him the weapon. he looked at it for a few moments, and pressed the blade to his lips. "farewell, old friend!" he said, a tear gathering in his eye, "farewell! catesby," he added, as he resigned the weapon to him, "i have one request to make. let my sword be buried with me." "it shall," replied catesby, in a voice suffocated by emotion, for the request touched him where his stern nature was most accessible: "i will place it by you myself." "thanks!" exclaimed fawkes. and soon after this, he again fell into a slumber. his sleep endured for some hours; but his breathing grew fainter and fainter, so that at the last it was scarcely perceptible. a striking change had likewise taken place in his countenance, and these signs convinced catesby he had not long to live. while he was watching him with great anxiety, viviana appeared at the door of the chamber, and beckoned him out. noiselessly obeying the summons, and following her along the gallery, he entered a room where he found garnet. "i have called you to say that a remedy has been suggested to me by martin heydocke," observed viviana, "by which i trust guy fawkes may yet be saved." "how?" asked catesby, eagerly. "doctor dee, the warden of manchester, of whom you must have heard," she continued, "is said to possess an elixir of such virtue, that a few drops of it will snatch him who drinks them from the very jaws of death." "i should not have suspected you of so much credulity, viviana," replied catesby; "but grant that doctor dee possesses this marvellous elixir--which for my own part i doubt--how are we to obtain it?" "if you will repair to the college, and see him, i doubt not he will give it you," rejoined viviana. catesby smiled incredulously. "i have a claim upon doctor dee," she persisted, "which i have never enforced. i will now use it. show him this token," she continued, detaching a small ornament from her neck; "tell him you bring it from me, and i am sure he will comply with your request." "your commands shall be obeyed, viviana," replied catesby; "but i frankly confess i have no faith in the remedy." "it is at least worth the trial, my son," observed garnet. "doctor dee is a wonderful person, and has made many discoveries in medicine, as in other sciences, and this marvellous specific may, for aught we know, turn out no imposture." "if such is your opinion," replied catesby, "i will set out at once. if it is to be tried at all, it must be without delay. the poor sufferer is sinking fast." "go then," cried viviana, "and heaven speed your mission! if you could prevail upon doctor dee to visit the wounded man in person, i should prefer it. besides, i have another request to make of him--but that will do hereafter. lose not a moment now." "i will fly on the wings of the wind," replied catesby. "heaven grant that when i return the object of our solicitude may not be past all human aid!" with this, he hurried to an out-building in which the horses were placed, and choosing the strongest and fleetest from out their number, mounted, and started at full gallop in the direction of manchester; nor did he relax his speed until he reached the gates of the ancient college. hanging the bridle of his smoking steed to a hook in the wall, he crossed the large quadrangular court; and finding the principal entrance open, passed the lofty room now used as the refectory, ascended the flight of stone stairs that conducts the modern visitor to the library, and was traversing the long galleries communicating with it, and now crowded with the learning of ages, bequeathed by the benevolence of his rival, humphrey chetham, when he encountered a grave but crafty-looking personage, in a loose brown robe and polish cap, who angrily demanded his business. apologizing for the intrusion, catesby was about to explain, when a small oak door near them was partly opened, and an authoritative voice, from within, exclaimed, "do not hinder him, kelley. i know his business, and will see him." the seer made no further remark, but pointing to the door, catesby at once comprehended that it was dee's voice he had heard; and, though somewhat startled by the intimation that he was expected, entered the room. he found the doctor surrounded by his magical apparatus, and slowly returning to the chair he had just quitted. without looking behind him to see whom he addressed, dee continued, "i have just consulted my show-stone, and know why you are come hither. you bring a token from viviana radcliffe." "i do," replied catesby, in increased astonishment. "it is here." "it is needless to produce it," replied dee, still keeping his back towards him. "i have seen it already. kelley," he continued, "i am about to set out for ordsall hall immediately. you must accompany me." "amazement!" cried catesby. "is the purpose of my visit then really known to your reverence?" "you shall hear," rejoined dee, facing him. "you have a friend who is at the point of death, and having heard that i possess an elixir of wonderful efficacy, are come in quest of it." "true," replied catesby, utterly confounded. "the name of that friend," pursued dee, regarding him fixedly, "is guy fawkes,--your own, robert catesby." "i need no more to convince me, reverend sir," rejoined catesby, trembling, in spite of himself, "that all i have heard of your wonderful powers falls far short of the truth." "you are but just in time," replied dee, bowing gravely, in acknowledgment of the compliment. "another hour, and it would have been too late." "then you think he will live!" cried catesby, eagerly. "i am sure of it," replied dee, "provided----" "provided what?" interrupted catesby. "is there aught i can do to ensure his recovery?" "no," replied dee, sternly. "i am debating within myself whether it is worth while reviving him for a more dreadful fate." "what mean you, reverend sir?" asked catesby, a shade passing over his countenance. "you understand my meaning, and therefore need no explanation," replied dee. "return to ordsall hall, and tell miss radcliffe i will be there in an hour. bid her have no further fear. if the wounded man breathes when i arrive, i will undertake to cure him. add further, that i know the other request she desires to make of me, and that it is granted before it is asked. farewell, sir, for a short time." on reaching the court, catesby expanded his chest, shook his limbs, and exclaimed, "at length, i breathe freely. the atmosphere of that infernal chamber smelt so horribly of sulphur that it almost stifled me. well, if doctor dee has not dealings with the devil, man never had! however, if he cures guy fawkes, i care not whence the medicine comes from." as he descended smithy bank, and was about to cross the old bridge over the irwell, he perceived a man riding before him, who seemed anxious to avoid him. struck by this person's manner, he urged his horse into a quicker pace, and being better mounted of the two, soon overtook him, when to his surprise he found it was martin heydocke. "what are you doing here, sirrah?" he demanded. "i have been sent by mistress viviana with a message to mr. humphrey chetham," replied the young man, in great confusion. "indeed!" exclaimed catesby, angrily. "and how dared you convey a message to him, without consulting me on the subject?" "i was not aware you were my master," replied martin, sulkily. "if i owe obedience to any one, it is to mr. chetham, whose servant i am. but if mistress viviana gives me a message to deliver, i will execute her commands, whoever may be pleased or displeased." "i did but jest, thou saucy knave," returned catesby, who did not desire to offend him. "here is a piece of money for thee. now, if it be no secret, what was miss radcliffe's message to thy master?" "i know not what her letter contained," replied martin; "but his answer was, that he would come to the hall at midnight." "it is well i ascertained this," thought catesby, and he added aloud, "i understood your master had been arrested and imprisoned." "so he was," replied martin; "but he had interest enough with the commissioners to procure his liberation." "enough," replied catesby; and striking spurs into his charger, he dashed off. a quarter of an hour's hard riding brought him to the hall, and, on arriving there, he proceeded at once to the wounded man's chamber, where he found viviana and garnet. "have you succeeded in your errand?" cried the former, eagerly. "will doctor dee come, or has he sent the elixir?" "he will bring it himself," replied catesby. viviana uttered an exclamation of joy, and the sound appeared to reach the ears of the sufferer, for he stirred, and groaned faintly. "doctor dee desired me to tell you," continued catesby, drawing viviana aside, and speaking in a low tone, "that your other request was granted." viviana looked surprised, and as if she did not clearly understand him. "might he not refer to humphrey chetham?" remarked catesby, somewhat maliciously. "ah! you have learnt from martin heydocke that i have written to him," returned viviana, blushing deeply. "what i was about to ask of doctor dee had no reference to humphrey chetham. it was to request permission to privately inter my father's remains in our family vault in the collegiate church. but how did he know i had any request to make?" "that passes my comprehension," replied catesby, "unless he obtained his information from his familiar spirits." shortly after this, dr. dee and kelley arrived at the hall. catesby met them at the gate, and conducted them to the wounded man's chamber. coldly saluting garnet, whom he eyed with suspicion, and bowing respectfully to viviana, the doctor slowly advanced to the bedside. he gazed for a short time at the wounded man, and folded his arms thoughtfully upon his breast. the eyes of the sufferer were closed, and his lips slightly apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them. his bronzed complexion had assumed the ghastly hue of death, and his strongly-marked features had become fixed and rigid. his black hair, stiffened and caked with blood, escaped from the bandages around his head, and hung in elf locks on the pillow. it was a piteous spectacle; and doctor dee appeared much moved by it. "the worst is over," he muttered: "why recall the spirit to its wretched tenement?" "if you can save him, reverend sir, do not hesitate," implored viviana. "i am come hither for that purpose," replied dee; "but i must have no other witness to the experiment except yourself, and my attendant kelley." "i do not desire to be present, reverend sir," replied viviana; "but i will retire into that closet, and pray that your remedy may prevail." "my prayers for the same end shall be offered in the adjoining room," observed garnet; and taking catesby's arm, who seemed spell-bound by curiosity, he dragged him away. the door closed, and viviana withdrew into the closet, where she knelt down before the crucifix. doctor dee seated himself on the bedside; and taking a gourd-shaped bottle, filled with a clear sparkling liquid, from beneath his robe, he raised it to his eyes with his left hand, while he placed his right on the wrist of the wounded man. in this attitude he continued for a few seconds, while kelley, with his arms folded, likewise kept his gaze fixed on the phial. at the expiration of that time, dee, who had apparently counted the pulsations of the sufferer, took out the glass stopper from the bottle, the contents of which diffused a pungent odour around; and wetting a small piece of linen with it, applied it to his temples. he then desired kelley to raise his head, and poured a few drops down his throat. this done, he waited a few minutes, and repeated the application. "look!" he cried to kelley. "the elixir already begins to operate. his chest heaves. his limbs shiver. that flush upon the cheek, and that dampness upon the brow, denote that the animal heat is restored. a third draught will accomplish the cure." "i can already feel his heart palpitate," observed kelley, placing his hand on the patient's breast. "heaven be praised!" ejaculated viviana, who had suspended her devotions to listen. "hold him tightly," cried dee to his assistant, "while i administer the last draught. he may injure himself by his struggles." kelley obeyed, and twined his arms tightly round the wounded man. and fortunate it was that the precaution was taken, for the elixir was no sooner poured down his throat than his chest began to labour violently, his eyes opened, and, raising himself bolt-upright, he struggled violently to break from the hold imposed upon him. this he would have effected, if dee had not likewise lent his aid to prevent him. "this is, indeed, a wonderful sight!" cried viviana, who had quitted the closet, and now gazed on, in awe and astonishment. "i can never be sufficiently thankful to you, reverend sir." "give thanks to him to whom alone they are due," replied dee. "summon your friends. they may now resume their posts. my task is accomplished." catesby and garnet being called into the room, could scarcely credit their senses when they beheld guy fawkes, who by this time had ceased struggling, reclining on kelley's shoulder, and, except a certain wildness in the eye and cadaverousness of hue, looking as he was wont to do. [illustration: _doctor dee resuscitating guy fawkes_] chapter xvi. the collegiate church at manchester. bidding kelley remain with guy fawkes, doctor dee signified to viviana that he had a few words to say to her in private before his departure, and leading the way to an adjoining room, informed her that he was aware of her desire to have her father's remains interred in the collegiate church, and that, so far from opposing her inclinations, he would willingly accede to them, only recommending as a measure of prudence that the ceremonial should be performed at night, and with as much secrecy as possible. viviana thanked him in a voice of much emotion for his kindness, and entirely acquiesced in his suggestion of caution. at the same time, she could not help expressing her surprise that her thoughts should be known to him. "though, indeed," she added, "after the wonderful exhibition i have just witnessed of your power, i can scarcely suppose that any limits are to be placed to it." "few things are hidden from me," replied dee, with a gratified smile; "even the lighter matters of the heart, in which i might be supposed to take little interest, do not altogether elude my observation. in reference to this, you will not, i am sure be offended with me, viviana, if i tell you i have noticed with some concern the attachment that has arisen between you and humphrey chetham." viviana uttered an exclamation of surprise, and a deep blush suffused her pallid cheeks. "i am assuming the privilege of an old man with you, viviana," continued dee, in a graver tone, "and i may add, of an old friend,--for your lamented mother was one of my dearest and best friends, as you perchance called to mind, when you sent me to-day, by mr. catesby, the token i gave her years ago. you have done unwisely in inviting humphrey chetham to come hither to-night." "how so?" she faltered. "because, if he keeps his appointment, fatal consequences may ensue," answered dee. "your message has reached the ears of one from whom,--most of all,--you should have concealed it." "mr. catesby has heard of it, i know," replied viviana. "but you do not apprehend any danger from him?" "he is chetham's mortal foe," rejoined dee, "and will slay him, if he finds an opportunity." "you alarm me," she cried. "i will speak to mr. catesby on the subject, and entreat him, as he values my regard, to offer no molestation to his fancied rival." "_fancied_ rival!" echoed dee, raising his brows contemptuously. "do you seek to persuade me that you do not love humphrey chetham?" "assuredly not," replied viviana. "i freely acknowledge my attachment to him. it is as strong as my aversion to mr. catesby. but the latter is aware that the suit of his rival is as hopeless as his own." "explain yourself, i pray you?" said dee. "my destiny is the cloister,--and this he well knows," she rejoined. "as soon as my worldly affairs can be arranged, i shall retire to the english nunnery at brussels, where i shall vow myself to heaven." "such is your present intention," replied dee. "but you will never quit your own country." "what shall hinder me?" asked viviana, uneasily. "many things," returned dee. "amongst others, this meeting with your lover." "call him not by that name, i beseech you, reverend sir," she rejoined. "humphrey chetham will never be other to me than a friend." "it may be," answered dee. "but your destiny is _not_ the cloister." "for what am i reserved, then?" demanded viviana, trembling. "all i dare tell you," he returned, "all it is needful for you to know, is, that your future career is mixed up with that of guy fawkes. but do not concern yourself about what is to come. the present is sufficient to claim your attention." "true," replied viviana; "and my first object shall be to despatch a messenger to humphrey chetham to prevent him from coming hither." "trouble yourself no further on that score," returned dee. "i will convey the message to him. as regards the funeral, it must take place without delay. i will be at the south porch of the church with the keys at midnight, and robert burnell, the sexton, and another assistant on whom i can depend, shall be in attendance. though it is contrary to my religious opinions and feelings to allow a romish priest to perform the service, i will not interfere with father garnet. i owe your mother a deep debt of gratitude, and will pay it to her husband and her child." "thanks!--in _her_ name, thanks!" cried viviana, in a voice suffocated by emotion. "and now," continued dee, "i would ask you one further question. my art has made me acquainted that a plot is hatching against the king and his government by certain of the catholic party. are you favourable to the design?" "i am not," replied viviana, firmly. "nor can you regard it with more horror than myself." "i was sure of it," returned dee. "nevertheless, i am glad to have my supposition confirmed from your own mouth." with this, he moved towards the door, but viviana arrested his departure. "stay, reverend sir," she cried, with a look of great uneasiness; "if you are in possession of this dread secret, the lives of my companions are in your power. you will not betray them. or, if you deem it your duty to reveal the plot to those endangered by it, you will give its contrivers timely warning." "fear nothing," rejoined dee. "i cannot, were i so disposed, interfere with the fixed purposes of fate. the things revealed by my familiar spirits never pass my lips. they are more sacred than the disclosures made to a priest of your faith at the confessional. the bloody enterprise on which these zealots are bent will fail. i have warned fawkes; but my warning, though conveyed by the lips of the dead, and by other means equally terrible, was unavailing. i would warn catesby and garnet, but they would heed me not. viviana radcliffe," he continued, in a solemn voice, "you questioned me just now about the future. have you courage to make the same demand from your dead father? if so, i will compel his corpse to answer you." "oh! no--no," cried viviana, horror-stricken; "not for worlds would i commit so impious an act. gladly as i would know what fate has in store for me, nothing should induce me to purchase the knowledge at so dreadful a price." "farewell, then," rejoined dee. "at midnight, at the south porch of the collegiate church, i shall expect you." so saying, he took his departure; and, on entering the gallery, he perceived catesby hastily retreating. "aha!" he muttered. "we have had a listener here. well, no matter. what he has heard may prove serviceable to him." he then returned to the chamber occupied by guy fawkes, and finding he had dropped into a deep and tranquil sleep, motioned kelley, who was standing by the bedside watching his slumbers with folded arms, to follow him, and bowing gravely to garnet quitted the hall. as he crossed the court, on his way to the drawbridge, catesby suddenly threw himself in his path, and laying his hand upon his sword, cried in a menacing voice,--"doctor dee, neither you nor your companion shall quit the hall till you have solemnly sworn not to divulge aught pertaining to the plot, of which you have so mysteriously obtained information." "is this my recompence for rescuing your comrade from the jaws of death, sir?" replied dee, sternly. "the necessity of the case must plead its excuse," rejoined catesby. "my own safety, and the safety of those leagued with me, require that i should be peremptory in my demand. did i not owe you a large debt of gratitude for your resuscitation of guy fawkes, i would have insured your secrecy with your life. as it is, i will be content with your oath." "fool!" exclaimed dee, "stand aside, or i will compel you to do so." "think not to terrify me by idle threats," returned catesby. "i willingly acknowledge your superior skill,--as, indeed, i have good reason to do,--in the science of medicine; but i have no faith in your magical tricks. a little reflection has shown me how the knowledge i at first thought so wonderful was acquired. you obtained it by means of martin heydocke, who, mounted on a swift steed, reached the college before me. he told you of the object of my visit,--of viviana's wish to have her father interred in the collegiate church,--of her message to humphrey chetham. you were, therefore, fully prepared for my arrival, and at first, i must confess, completely imposed upon me. nay, had i not overheard your conversation just now with viviana, i might have remained your dupe still. but your allusion to chetham's visit awakened my suspicions, and, on re-considering the matter, the whole trick flashed upon me." "what more?" demanded dee, his brow lowering, and his eyes sparkling with rage. "thus much," returned catesby. "i have your secret, and you have mine. and though the latter is the more important, inasmuch as several lives hang upon it, whereas a conjuror's worthless reputation is alone dependent on the other, yet both must be kept. swear, then, not to reveal the plot, and in my turn i will take any oath you choose to dictate not to disclose the jugglery i have detected." "i will make no terms with you," returned dee; "and if i do not reveal your damnable plot, it is not from consideration of you or your associates, but because the hour for its disclosure is not yet arrived. when full proof of your guilt can be obtained, then rest assured it will be made known,--though not by me. not one of your number shall escape--not one." catesby again laid his hand upon his sword, and seemed from his looks to be meditating the destruction of the doctor and his assistant. but they appeared wholly unconcerned at his glances. "what you have said concerning martin heydocke is false--as false as your own foul and bloody scheme," pursued dee. "i have neither seen, nor spoken with him." "but your assistant, edward kelley, has," retorted catesby, "and that amounts to the same thing." "for the third and last time i command you to stand aside," cried dee, in a tone of concentrated anger. catesby laughed aloud. "what if i refuse?" he said, in a jeering voice. doctor dee made no answer; but, suddenly drawing a small phial from beneath his robe, cast its contents in his opponent's face. blinded by the spirit, catesby raised his hand to his eyes, and while in this condition a thick cloth was thrown over his head from behind, and, despite his resistance, he was borne off, and bound with a strong cord to an adjoining tree. half an hour elapsed, during which he exhausted his fury in vain outcries for assistance, and execrations and menaces against dee and his companion. at the expiration of that time, hearing steps approaching, he called loudly to be released, and was answered by the voice of martin heydocke. "what! is it your worship i behold?" cried martin, in a tone of affected commiseration. "mercy on us! what has happened? have the rascally searchers been here again?" "hold your peace, knave, and unbind me," rejoined catesby, angrily. "i shrewdly suspect," he added, as his commands were obeyed, and the cord twined around his arms unfastened, and the cloth removed,--"i shrewdly suspect," he said, fixing a stern glance upon martin, which effectually banished the smile from his demure countenance, "that you have had some share in this business." "what i, your worship?" exclaimed martin. "not the slightest, i assure you. it was by mere chance i came this way, and, perceiving some one tied to a tree, was about to take to my heels, when, fancying i recognised your worship's well-formed legs, i ventured forward." "you shall become more intimately acquainted with my worship's boots, rascal, if i find my suspicions correct," rejoined catesby. "have you the effrontery to tell me you have never seen this rope and this cloth before?" "certes, i have, your worship," replied martin. "may the first hang me, and the last serve as my winding-sheet, if i speak not the truth! ah, now i look again," he added, pretending to examine them, "it must be a horse-cloth and halter from the stable. peradventure, i _have_ seen them." "that i will be sworn you have, and used them too," rejoined catesby. "i am half inclined to tie you to the tree in my place. but where is your employer?--where is doctor dee?" "doctor dee is _not_ my employer," answered martin, "neither do i serve him. mr. humphrey chetham, as i have already told your worship, is my master. as to the doctor, he left the hall some time since. father garnet thought you had accompanied him on the road. i have seen nothing of him. of a truth i have not." catesby reflected a moment, and then strode towards the hall, while martin, with a secret smile, picked up the halter and cloth, and withdrew to the stable. repairing to the chamber of the wounded man, catesby found garnet seated by his couch, and related what had occurred. the jesuit listened with profound attention to the recital, and on its conclusion observed,-- "i am sorry you have offended doctor dee, my son. he might have proved a good friend. as it is, you have made him a dangerous enemy." "he was not to be trusted, father," returned catesby. "but if you have any fears of him, or kelley, i will speedily set them at rest." "no violence, my son," rejoined garnet. "you will only increase the mischief you have already occasioned. i do not think dee will betray us. but additional circumspection will be requisite. tarry here while i confer with viviana on this subject. she has apparently some secret influence with the doctor, and may be prevailed upon to exert it in our behalf." it was long before garnet returned. when he reappeared, his looks convinced catesby that the interview had not proved satisfactory. "your imprudence has placed us in a perilous position, my son," he observed. "viviana refuses to speak to doctor dee on the subject, and strongly reprobates your conduct." catesby's brow lowered. "there is but one course to pursue," he muttered, rising; "our lives or his must be sacrificed. i will act at once." "hold!" exclaimed garnet authoritatively. "wait till to-morrow and, if aught occurs in the interim to confirm your suspicions, do as you think proper. i will not oppose you." "if i forbear so long," returned catesby, "it will not be safe to remain here." "i will risk it," said garnet, "and i counsel you to do the same. you will not leave viviana at this strait." "i have no such thoughts," replied catesby. "if i go, she goes too." "then it will be in vain, i am sure, to endeavour to induce her to accompany you till her father is interred," observed garnet. "true," replied catesby; "i had forgotten that. we shall meet the hoary juggler at the church, and an opportunity may occur for executing my purpose there. unless he will swear at the altar not to betray us, he shall die by my hand." "an oath in such a case would be no security, my son," returned garnet; "and his slaughter and that of his companion would be equally inefficacious, and greatly prejudicial to our cause. if he means to betray us, he has done so already. but i have little apprehension. i do not think him well affected towards the government, and i cannot but think, if you had not thus grossly insulted him, he would have favoured rather than opposed our design. if he was aware of the plot, and adverse to it, what need was there to exert his skill in behalf of our dying friend, who, but for him, would have been, ere this, a lump of lifeless clay? no, no, my son. you are far too hasty in your judgment. nor am i less surprised at your injustice. overlooking the great benefit conferred upon us, because some trifling scheme has been thwarted, you would requite our benefactor by cutting his throat." "your rebuke is just, father," returned catesby. "i have acted heedlessly. but i will endeavour to repair my error." "enough, my son," replied garnet. "it will be advisable to go well armed to the church to-night, for fear of a surprise. but i shall not absent myself on that account." "nor i," rejoined catesby. the conversation was then carried on, on other topics, when they were interrupted by the entrance of viviana, who came to consult them about the funeral. it was arranged--since better could not be found--that the vehicle used to bring thither the body of the unfortunate knight should transport it to its last home. no persuasions of garnet could induce viviana to relinquish the idea of attending the ceremony; and catesby, though he affected the contrary, secretly rejoiced at her determination. night came, and all was in readiness. viviana to the last indulged a hope that humphrey chetham would arrive in time to attend the funeral with her; but, as he did not appear, she concluded he had received doctor dee's warning. martin heydocke was left in charge of guy fawkes, who still continued to slumber deeply, and, when within half an hour of the appointed time, the train set out. they were all well mounted, and proceeded at a slow pace along the lane skirting the west bank of the irwell. the night was profoundly dark; and, as it was not deemed prudent to carry torches, some care was requisite to keep in the right road. catesby rode first, and was followed by garnet and viviana, after whom came the little vehicle containing the body. the rear was brought up by three of the servants sent by sir everard digby; a fourth acting as driver of the sorry substitute for a hearse. not a word was uttered by any of the party. in this stealthy manner was the once-powerful and wealthy sir william radcliffe, the owner of the whole district through which they were passing, conveyed to the burial-place of his ancestors! in shorter time than they had allowed themselves for the journey, the melancholy cavalcade reached salford bridge, and crossing it at a quick pace, as had been previously arranged by catesby, arrived without molestation or notice (for no one was abroad in the town at that hour) at the southern gate of the collegiate church, where, it may be remembered, guy fawkes had witnessed the execution of the two seminary priests, and on the spikes of which their heads and dismembered bodies were now fixed. an old man here presented himself, and, unlocking the gate, informed them he was robert burnell, the sexton. the shell was then taken out, and borne on the shoulders of the servants towards the church, burnell leading the way. garnet followed; and as soon as catesby had committed the horses to the care of the driver of the carriage, he tendered his arm to viviana, who could scarcely have reached the sacred structure unsupported. doctor dee met them at the church porch, as he had appointed, and, as soon as they had passed through it, the door was locked. addressing a few words in an under tone to viviana, but not deigning to notice either of her companions, dee directed the bearers of the body to follow him, and proceeded towards the choir. the interior of the reverend and beautiful fane was buried in profound gloom, and the feeble light diffused by the sexton's lantern only made the darkness more palpable. on entering the broad and noble nave nothing could be seen of its clustered pillars, or of the exquisite pointed arches, enriched with cinquefoil and quatrefoil, inclosing blank shields, which they supported. neither could its sculptured cornice; its clerestory windows; its upper range of columns, supporting demi-angels playing on musical instruments; its moulded roof crossed by transverse beams, enriched in the interstices with sculptured ornaments, be distinguished. most of these architectural glories were invisible; but the very gloom in which they were shrouded was imposing. as the dim light fell upon pillar after pillar as they passed, revealing their mouldings, piercing a few feet into the side aisles, and falling upon the grotesque heads, the embattled ornaments and grotesque tracery of the arches, the effect was inexpressibly striking. nor were the personages inappropriate to the sombre scene. the reverend figure of dee, with his loose flowing robe and long white beard; the priestly garb and grave aspect of garnet; the soldier-like bearing of catesby, his armed heel and rapier-point clanking upon the pavement; the drooping figure of viviana, whose features were buried in her kerchief, and whose sobs were distinctly audible; the strangely-fashioned coffin, and the attendants by whom it was borne;--all constituted a singular, and, at the same time, deeply-interesting picture. approaching the magnificent screen terminating the nave, they passed through an arched gateway within it, and entered the choir. the west-end of this part of the church was assigned as the burial-place of the ancient and honourable family, the head of which was about to be deposited within it, and was designated from the circumstance, the "radcliffe chancel." a long slab of grey marble, in which a brass plate, displaying the armorial bearings of the radcliffes, was inserted, had been removed, and the earth thrown out of the cavity beneath it. kelley, who had assisted in making the excavation, was standing beside it, leaning on a spade, with a lantern at his feet. he drew aside as the funeral train approached, and the shell was deposited at the edge of the grave. picturesque and striking as was the scene in the nave, it fell far short of that now exhibited. the choir of the collegiate church at manchester may challenge comparison with any similar structure. its thirty elaborately-carved stalls, covered with canopies of the richest tabernacle work, surmounted by niches, mouldings, pinnacles, and perforated tracery, and crowned with a richly-sculptured cornice; its side aisles, with their pillars and arches; its moulded ceiling rich in the most delicate and fairy tracery; its gorgeous altar-screen of carved oak; and its magnificent eastern window, then filled with stained glass, form a _coup-d'oeil_ of almost unequalled splendour and beauty. few of these marvels could now be seen. but such points of the pinnacles and hanging canopies of the stalls, of the façades of the side-aisles, and of the fretted roof, as received any portion of the light, came in with admirable effect. "all is prepared, you perceive," observed dee to viviana. "i will retire while the ceremony is performed." and gravely inclining his head, he passed through an arched door in the south aisle, and entered the chapter-house. garnet was about to proceed with the service appointed by the romish church for the burial of the dead, when viviana, uttering a loud cry, would have fallen, if catesby had not flown to her assistance, and borne her to one of the stalls. recovering her self-possession the next moment, she entreated him to leave her; and while the service proceeded, she knelt down and prayed fervently for the soul of the departed. placing himself at the foot of the body, garnet sprinkled it with holy water, which he had brought with him in a small silver consecrated vessel. he then recited the _de profundis_, the _miserere_, and other antiphons and prayers; placed incense in a burner, which he had likewise brought with him, and having lighted it, bowed reverently towards the altar, sprinkled the body thrice with holy water, at the sides, at the head, and the feet; and then walking round it with the incense-burner, dispersed its fragrant odour over it. this done, he recited another prayer, pronounced a solemn benediction over the place of sepulture, and the body was lowered into it. the noise of the earth falling upon the shell aroused viviana from her devotions. she looked towards the grave, but could see nothing but the gloomy group around it, prominent among which appeared the tall figure of catesby. the sight was too much for her, and, unable to control her grief, she fainted. meanwhile, the grave was rapidly filled, all lending their aid to the task; and nothing was wanting but to restore the slab to its original position. by the united efforts of catesby, kelley, and the sexton, this was soon accomplished, and the former, unaware of what had happened, was about to proceed to viviana, to tell her all was over, when he was arrested by a loud knocking at the church door, accompanied by a clamorous demand for admittance. "we are betrayed!" exclaimed catesby. "it is as i suspected. take care of viviana, father. i will after the hoary impostor, and cleave his skull! extinguish the lights--quick! quick!" garnet hastily complied with these injunctions, and the choir was plunged in total darkness. he then rushed to the stalls, but could nowhere find viviana. he called her by name, but received no answer, and was continuing his fruitless search, when he heard footsteps approaching, and the voice of catesby exclaimed, "follow me with your charge, father." "alas! my son, she is not here," replied garnet. "i have searched each stall as carefully as i could in the dark. i fear she has been spirited away." "impossible!" cried catesby. and he ran his hand along the row of sculptured seats, but without success. "she is indeed gone!" he exclaimed distractedly. "it was here i left her--nay, here i beheld her at the very moment the lights were extinguished. viviana!--viviana!" but all was silent. "it is that cursed magician's handiwork!" he continued, striking his forehead in despair. "did you find him?" demanded garnet. "no," replied catesby. "the door of the chapter-house was locked inside. the treacherous villain did well to guard against my fury." "you provoked his resentment, my son," rejoined garnet. "but this is not a season for reproaches. something must be done. where is kelley?" at the suggestion, catesby instantly darted to the spot where the seer had stood. he was not there. he then questioned the servants, whose teeth were chattering with fright, but they had neither heard him depart, nor could tell anything about him; and perceiving plainly from their trepidation that these men would lend no aid, even if they did not join the assailants, he returned to communicate his apprehensions to garnet. during all this time the knocking and vociferations at the door had continued with increased violence, and reverberated in hollow peals along the roof and aisles of the church. the emergency was a fearful one. catesby, however, had been too often placed in situations of peril, and was too constitutionally brave, to experience much uneasiness for himself; but his apprehensions lest garnet should be captured, and the sudden and mysterious disappearance of viviana almost distracted him. persuading himself she might have fallen to the ground, or that he had overlooked the precise spot where he had left her, he renewed his search, but with no better success than before; and he was almost beginning to believe that some magic might have been practised to cause her disappearance, when it occurred to him that she had been carried off by kelley. "fool that i was, not to think of that before!" he exclaimed. "i have unintentionally aided their project by extinguishing the lights. but now that i am satisfied she is gone, i can devote my whole energies to the preservation of garnet. they shall not capture us so easily as they anticipate." with this, he approached the priest, and grasping his hand drew him noislessly along. they had scarcely passed through the arched doorway in the screen, and set foot within the nave, when the clamour without ceased. the next moment a thundering crash was heard; the door burst open, and a number of armed figures bearing torches, with drawn swords in their hands, rushed with loud vociferations into the church. "we must surrender, my son," cried garnet. "it will be useless to contend against that force." "but we may yet escape them," rejoined catesby. and glancing hastily round he perceived a small open door in the wall at the right, and pointing it out to the priest, hurried towards it. on reaching it, they found it communicated with a flight of stone steps, evidently leading to the roof. "saved! saved!" cried catesby, triumphantly. "mount first, father. i will defend the passage." the pursuers, who saw the course taken by the fugitives, set up a loud shout, and ran as swiftly as they could in the same direction, and by the time the latter had gained the door they were within a few yards of it. garnet darted up the steps; but catesby lingered to make fast the door, and thus oppose some obstacle to the hostile party. his efforts, however, were unexpectedly checked, and, on examination, he found it was hooked to the wall at the back. undoing the fastening, the door swung to, and he instantly bolted it. overjoyed at his success, and leaving his pursuers, who at this moment arrived, to vent their disappointment in loud menaces, he hastened after garnet. calling loudly to him, he was answered from a small dark chamber on the right, into which the priest had retreated. "we have but prolonged our torture," groaned garnet. "i can find no outlet. our foes will speedily force an entrance, and we must then fall into their hands." "there must be some door opening upon the roof, father," rejoined catesby. "mount as high as you can, and search carefully. i will defend the stairs, and will undertake to maintain my post against the whole rout." thus urged, garnet ascended the steps. after the lapse of a few minutes, during which the thundering at the door below increased, and the heavy blows of some weighty implement directed against it, were distinctly heard, he cried, "i have found a door, but the bolts are rusty--i cannot move them." "use all your strength, father," shouted catesby, who having planted himself with his drawn sword at an advantageous point, was listening with intense anxiety to the exertions of the assailing party. "do not relax your efforts for a moment." "it is in vain, my son," rejoined garnet, in accents of despair. "my hands are bruised and bleeding, but the bolts stir not." "distraction!" cried catesby, gnashing his teeth with rage. "let me try." and he was about to hasten to the priest's assistance, when the door below was burst open with a loud crash, and the assailants rushed up the steps. the passage was so narrow that they were compelled to mount singly, and catesby's was scarcely a vain boast when he said he could maintain his ground against the whole host. shouting to garnet to renew his efforts, he prepared for the assault. reserving his petronels to the last, he trusted solely to his rapier, and leaning against the newel, or circular column round which the stairs twined, he was in a great measure defended from the weapons of his adversaries, while they were completely exposed to his attack. the darkness, moreover, in which he was enveloped offered an additional protection, whereas the torches they carried made his mark certain. as soon as the foremost of the band came within reach, catesby plunged his sword into his breast, and pushed him back with all his force upon his comrades. the man fell heavily backwards, dislodging the next in advance, who in his turn upset his successor, and so on, till the whole band was thrown into confusion. a discharge of fire-arms followed; but, sheltered by the newel, catesby sustained no injury. at this moment, he was cheered by a cry from garnet that he had succeeded in forcing back the bolts, terror having supplied him with a strength not his own; and, making another sally upon his assailants, amid the disorder that ensued, catesby retreated, and rapidly tracking the steps, reached the door, through which the priest had already passed. when within a short distance of the outlet, catesby felt, from the current of fresh air that saluted him, that it opened upon the roof of the church. nor was he deceived. a few steps placed him upon the leads, where he found garnet. "it is you, my son," cried the latter, on beholding him; "i thought from the shouts you had fallen into the hands of the enemy." "no, heaven be praised! i am as yet safe, and trust to deliver you out of their hands. come with me to the battlements." "the battlements!" exclaimed garnet. "a leap from such a height as that were certain destruction." "it were so," replied catesby, dragging him along. "but trust to me, and you shall yet reach the ground uninjured." arrived at the battlements, catesby leaned over them, and endeavoured to ascertain what was beneath. it was still so dark that he could scarcely discern any objects but those close to him, but as far as he could trust his vision, he thought he perceived a projecting building some twelve or fourteen feet below; and calling to mind the form of the church, which he had frequently seen and admired, he remembered its chantries, and had no doubt but it was the roof of one of them that he beheld. if he could reach it, the descent from thence would be easy, and he immediately communicated the idea to garnet, who shrank aghast from it. little time, however, was allowed for consideration. their pursuers had already scaled the stairs, and were springing one after another upon the leads, uttering the most terrible threats against the destroyer of their comrade. hastily divesting himself of his cloak, catesby clambered over the battlements, and, impelled by fear, garnet threw off his robe, and followed his example. clinging to the grotesque stone waterspouts which projected below the battlements, and placing the points of his feet upon the arches of the clerestory windows, and thence upon the mullions and transom bars, catesby descended in safety, and then turned to assist his companion, who was quickly by his side. the most difficult and dangerous part of the descent had yet to be accomplished. they were now nearly thirty feet from the ground, and the same irregularities in the walls which had favoured them in the upper structure did not exist in the lower. but their present position, exposed as it was to their pursuers, who, having reached the point immediately overhead, were preparing to fire upon them, was too dangerous to allow of its occupation for a moment, and garnet required no urging to make him clamber over the low embattled parapet. descending a flying buttress that defended an angle of the building, catesby, who was possessed of great strength and activity, was almost instantly upon the ground. garnet was not so fortunate. missing his footing, he fell from a considerable height, and his groans proclaimed that he had received some serious injury. catesby instantly flew to him, and demanded, in a tone of the greatest anxiety, whether he was much hurt. "my right arm is broken," gasped the sufferer, raising himself with difficulty. "what other injuries i have sustained i know not; but every joint seems dislocated, and my face is covered with blood. heaven have pity on me!" as he spoke, a shout of exultation arose from the hostile party, who, having heard garnet's fall, and the groans that succeeded it, at once divined the cause, and made sure of a capture. a deep silence followed, proving that they had quitted the roof, and were hastening to secure their prey. aware that it would take them some little time to descend the winding staircase, and traverse the long aisle of the church, catesby felt certain of distancing them. but he could not abandon garnet, who had become insensible from the agony of his fractured limb, and, lifting him carefully in his arms, he placed him upon his shoulder, and started at a swift pace towards the further extremity of the churchyard. at the period of this history, the western boundary of the collegiate church was formed by a precipitous sandstone rock of great height, the base of which was washed by the waters of the irwell, while its summit was guarded by a low stone wall. in after years, a range of small habitations was built upon this spot, but they have been recently removed, and the rock having been lowered, a road now occupies their site. nerved by desperation, catesby, who was sufficiently well acquainted with the locality to know whither he was shaping his course, determined to hazard a descent, which, under calmer circumstances, he would have deemed wholly impracticable. his pursuers, who issued from the church porch a few seconds after he had passed it, saw him hurry towards the low wall edging the precipice, and, encumbered as he was with the priest, vault over it. not deeming it possible he would dare to spring from such a height, they darted after him. but they were deceived, and could scarcely credit their senses when they found him gone. by the light of their torches they perceived him shooting down the almost perpendicular side of the rock, and the next moment a hollow plunge told that he had reached the water. they stared at each other in mute astonishment. "will you follow him, dick haughton?" observed one, as soon as he had recovered his speech. "not i," replied the fellow addressed. "i have no fancy for a broken neck. follow him thyself if thou hast a mind to try the soundness of thy pate. i warrant that rock will put it to the proof." "yet the feat has just been done, and by one burthened with a wounded comrade into the bargain," remarked the first speaker. "he must be the devil, that's certain," rejoined haughton; "and doctor dee himself is no match for him." "he has the devil's luck, that's certain," cried a third soldier. "but, hark! he is swimming across the river. we may yet catch him on the opposite bank. come along, comrades." with this, they rushed out of the churchyard; made the best of their way to the bridge; and crossing it, flew to the bank of the river, where they dispersed in every direction, in search for the fugitive. but they could not discover a trace of him or his wounded companion. chapter xvii. the rencounter. catesby himself could scarcely tell how he accomplished his hair-breadth escape. reckless almost of the result, he slided down the rock, catching at occasional irregularities as he descended. the river was of great depth at this point, and broke the force of his fall. on rising, he struck out a few yards, and suffered himself to be carried down the stream. he had never for one moment relinquished his hold of garnet, and being an admirable swimmer, found little difficulty in sustaining him with one arm, while with the other he guided his course in the water. in this way he reached the shore in safety, about a hundred yards below the bridge, by which means he avoided his pursuers, who, as has just been stated, searched for him above it. after debating with himself for a short time as to what course he should pursue, he decided upon conveying garnet to the hall, where he could procure restoratives and assistance; and though he was fully sensible of the danger of this plan, not doubting the mansion would be visited and searched by his pursuers before morning, yet the necessity of warning guy fawkes outweighed every other consideration. accordingly, again shouldering the priest, who, though he had regained his sensibility, was utterly unable to move, he commenced his toilsome march; and being frequently obliged to pause and rest himself, more than an hour elapsed before he reached his destination. it was just growing light as he crossed the drawbridge, and seeing a horse tied to a tree, and the gate open, he began to fear the enemy had preceded him. full of misgiving, he laid garnet upon a heap of straw in an outbuilding, and entered the house. he found no one below, though he glanced into each room. he then noiselessly ascended the stairs, with the intention of proceeding to guy fawkes's chamber. as he traversed the gallery, he heard voices in one of the chambers, the door of which was ajar, and pausing to listen, distinguished the tones of viviana. filled with astonishment, he was about to enter the room to inquire by what means she had reached the hall, when he was arrested by the voice of her companion. it was that of humphrey chetham. maddened by jealousy, catesby's first impulse was to rush into the room, and stab his rival in the presence of his mistress. but he restrained his passion by a powerful effort. after listening for a few minutes intently to their conversation, he found that chetham was taking leave, and creeping softly down-stairs, stationed himself in the hall, through which he knew his rival must necessarily pass. chetham presently appeared. his manner was dejected; his looks downcast; and he would have passed catesby without observing him, if the latter had not laid his hand upon his shoulder. "mr. catesby!" exclaimed the young merchant, starting as he beheld the stern glance fixed upon him "i thought----" "you thought i was a prisoner, no doubt," interrupted catesby, bitterly. "but you are mistaken. i am here to confound you and your juggling and treacherous associate." "i do not understand you," replied chetham. "i will soon make myself intelligible," retorted catesby. "follow me to the garden." "i perceive your purpose, mr. catesby," replied chetham, calmly; "but it is no part of my principles to expose my life to ruffianly violence. if you choose to lay aside this insolent demeanour, which is more befitting an alsatian bully than a gentleman, i will readily give you such explanation of my conduct as will fully content you, and satisfy you that any suspicions you may entertain of me are unfounded." "coward!" exclaimed catesby, striking him. "i want no explanation. defend yourself, or i will treat you with still greater indignity." "lead on, then," cried chetham: "i would have avoided the quarrel if i could. but this outrage shall not pass unpunished." as they quitted the hall, viviana entered it; and, though she was greatly surprised by the appearance of catesby, his furious gestures left her in no doubt as to his purpose. she called to him to stop. but no attention was paid by either party to her cries. [illustration: _guy fawkes protecting humphrey chetham from catesby._] on gaining a retired spot beneath the trees, catesby, without giving his antagonist time to divest himself of the heavy horseman's cloak with which he was encumbered, and scarcely to draw his sword, assaulted him. the combat was furious on both sides, but it was evident that the young merchant was no match for his adversary. he maintained his ground, however, for some time with great resolution; but, being hotly pressed, in retreating to avoid a thrust, his foot caught in the long grass, and he fell. catesby would have passed his sword through his body, if it had not been turned aside by another weapon. it was that of guy fawkes, who, followed by martin heydocke, had staggered towards the scene of strife, reaching it just in time to save the life of humphrey chetham. "heaven be praised! i am not too late!" he exclaimed. "put up your blade, catesby; or, turn it against me." chapter xviii. the explanation. uttering an exclamation of rage, catesby turned fiercely upon fawkes, and for a moment appeared disposed to accept his invitation to continue the combat with him. but as he regarded the other's haggard features, and perceived in them the traces of his recent struggle with death--as he saw he was scarcely able to wield the blade he opposed against him--his wrath changed to compassion, and he sheathed his sword. by this time, humphrey chetham had sprung to his feet, and picking up his fallen weapon, stood on his defence. but finding that catesby meditated no further hostilities, he returned it to the scabbard. "i owe my life to you," he said to guy fawkes, in a tone of deep gratitude. "you owe it to viviana radcliffe, not to me," returned fawkes feebly, and leaning upon his sword for support. "had it not been for her cries, i should have known nothing of this quarrel. and i would now gladly learn what has occasioned it." "so would i," added chetham; "for i am as ignorant as yourself how i have offended mr. catesby." "i will tell you, then," returned catesby, sternly. "you were a party to the snare set for us by dr. dee, from which i narrowly escaped with life, and father garnet at the expense of a broken limb." "is garnet hurt?" demanded fawkes, anxiously. "grievously," replied catesby; "but he is out of the reach of his enemies, of whom," he added, pointing to chetham, "one of the most malignant and treacherous now stands before you." "i am quite in the dark as to what has happened," observed fawkes, "having only a few minutes ago been roused from my slumbers by the shrieks of viviana, who entreated me to come and separate you. but i cannot believe humphrey chetham so treacherous as you represent him." "so far from having any enmity towards father garnet," observed chetham, "my anxious desire was to preserve him; and with that view, i was repairing to dr. dee, when i encountered mr. catesby in the hall, and before i could offer any explanation, i was forced by his violence and insults into this combat." "is this the truth, catesby?" asked fawkes, "something near it," rejoined the latter; "but perhaps mr. chetham will likewise inform you by whose agency viviana was transported hither from the collegiate church?" "that inquiry ought rather to be made of the lady herself, sir," rejoined chetham, coldly. "but, as i am assured she would have no objection to my answering it, i shall not hesitate to do so. she was conveyed hither by kelley and an assistant, who departed as soon as their task was completed." "indeed!" exclaimed catesby between his ground teeth. "but how chanced it, sir, that you arrived here so opportunely?" "i might well refuse to answer a question thus insolently put," rejoined chetham. "but to prevent further misunderstanding, i will tell you, that i came by viviana's invitation at midnight; and, ascertaining from my servant, martin heydocke, whom i found watching by the couch of guy fawkes, the melancholy business on which she was engaged, i determined to await her return, which occurred about an hour afterwards, in the manner i have just related." "i was in the court-yard when mistress viviana was brought back," interposed martin heydocke, who was standing at a respectful distance from the group; "and, after kelley had delivered her to my charge, i heard him observe in an under tone to his companion, 'let us ride back as fast as we can, and see what they have done with the prisoners.'" "they made sure of their prey before it was captured," observed catesby, bitterly. "but we have disappointed them. dee and his associate may yet have reason to repent their perfidy." "you will do well not to put yourself again in their power," observed humphrey chetham. "if you will be counselled by me, you and guy fawkes will seek safety in instant flight." "and leave you with viviana?" rejoined catesby, sarcastically. "she is in no present danger," replied chetham. "but, if it is thought fitting or desirable, i will remain with her." "i do not doubt it," returned catesby, with a sneer; "but it is neither fitting nor desirable. and, hark ye, young sir, if you have indulged any expectations with regard to viviana radcliffe, it is time you were undeceived. she will never wed one of your degree, nor of your faith." "i have her own assurance she will never wed at all," replied chetham, in an offended tone. "but had she not crushed my hopes by declaring she was vowed to a convent, no menaces of yours, who have neither right nor title thus to interfere, should induce me to desist from my suit." "either resign all pretensions to her hand, or prepare to renew the combat," cried catesby, fiercely. "no more of this," interposed guy fawkes. "let us return to the house, and adjust our differences there." "i have no further business here," observed humphrey chetham. "having taken leave of viviana," he added, with much emotion, "i do not desire to meet her again." "it is well, sir," rejoined catesby: "yet, stay!--you mean us no treachery?" "if you suspect me, i will remain," replied humphrey chetham. "on no account," interposed guy fawkes. "i will answer for him with my life." "perhaps, when i tell you i have procured the liberation of father oldcorne," returned chetham, "and have placed him in security in ordsall cave, you will admit that you have done me wrong." "i have been greatly mistaken in you, sir, i must own," observed catesby, advancing towards him, and extending his hand. but humphrey chetham folded his arms upon his breast, and bowing coldly, withdrew. he was followed by martin heydocke, and presently afterwards the tramp of his horse's feet was heard crossing the drawbridge. chapter xix. the discovery. tendering his arm to fawkes, who was almost too feeble to walk unsupported, catesby led him slowly to the hall. on reaching it, they met viviana, in a state bordering upon distraction, but her distress was speedily relieved by their assurances that the young merchant had departed unhurt,--a statement immediately afterwards confirmed by the entrance of martin heydocke, charged with a message from his master to her. without communicating his design to the others, and, indeed, almost shunning viviana, catesby proceeded to the outbuilding where he had deposited garnet. he found him in great pain, and praying fervently to be released from his suffering. "do not despair, father," said catesby, in as cheerful a tone as he could assume, "the worst is over. viviana is in safety. father oldcorne has escaped, and is within a short distance of us, and guy fawkes is fully able to undertake a journey of any distance. you are our sole concern. but i am assured, if you will allow me to exercise the slight surgical skill i possess in your behalf, that you will be able to accompany us." "do with me what you please, my son," groaned garnet. "but, if my case is as desperate as i believe it, i entreat you not to bestow any further care upon me, and, above all, not to expose yourself to risk on my account. our enemies are sure to pursue us,--and what matter if i am captured? they will wreak their vengeance on a worthless carcass,--for such i shall soon be. but it would double the anguish i now endure, if you and fawkes were to fall into their hands. go, then, and leave me here to perish. my dying moments will be cheered by the conviction that the great enterprise--for which alone i desire to live--will not be unaccomplished." "there is no need to leave you, father," replied catesby, "nor shall any consideration induce me to do so, till i have rendered you every aid that circumstances will permit." "my son," replied garnet, faintly, "the most efficacious balm you can apply will be the certainty that you are in safety. you say viviana is here. fly with fawkes, and leave me to her care." "she must go with us," observed catesby, uneasily. "not so, my son," returned garnet; "her presence will only endanger you. she must _not_ go. and you must abandon all hopes of an union with her." "i would as soon abandon the great design itself," returned catesby, moodily. "if you persist in this, you will ruin it," rejoined garnet. "think of her no more. bend your thoughts exclusively on the one grand object, and be what you are chosen to be, the defender and deliverer of our holy church." "i would gladly act as you advise me, father," replied catesby; "but i am spell-bound by this maiden." "this is idle from you, my son," replied garnet, reproachfully. "separate yourself from her, and you will soon regain your former mastery over yourself." "well, well, father," rejoined catesby, "the effort, at least, shall be made. but her large possessions, which would be so useful to our cause, and which, if i wedded her, would be wholly devoted to it,--think of what we lose, father." "i _have_ thought of it, my son," replied garnet; "but the consideration does not alter my opinion: and if i possess any authority over you, i strictly enjoin you not to proceed farther in the matter. viviana never can be yours." "she _shall_ be, nevertheless," muttered catesby, "and before many hours have elapsed,--if not by her own free will, by force. i have ever shown myself obedient to your commands, father," he added aloud, "and i shall not transgress them now." "heaven keep you in this disposition, my dear son!" exclaimed garnet, with a look of distrust: "and let me recommend you to remove yourself as soon as possible out of the way of temptation." catesby muttered an affirmative, and taking garnet in his arms, conveyed him carefully to his own chamber, and placing him on a couch, examined his wounds, which were not so serious as either he or the sufferer imagined, and with no despicable skill--for the experiences of a soldier's life had given him some practice--bandaged his broken arm, and fomented his bruises. this done, garnet felt so much easier, that he entreated catesby to send viviana to him, and to make preparations for his own immediate departure. feigning acquiescence, catesby quitted the room, but with no intention of complying with the request. not a moment he felt must be lost if he would execute his dark design, and, after revolving many wild expedients, an idea occurred to him. it was to lure viviana to the cave where father oldcorne was concealed; and he knew enough of the pliant disposition of the latter to be certain he would assent to his scheme. no sooner did this plan occur to him than he hurried to the cell, and found the priest, as chetham had stated. as he had foreseen, it required little persuasion to induce oldcorne to lend his assistance to the forced marriage, and he only feared the decided opposition they should encounter from viviana. "fear nothing, then, father," said catesby; "in this solitary spot no one will hear her cries. whatever resistance she may make, perform the ceremony, and leave the consequences to me." "the plan is desperate, my son," returned oldcorne, "but so are our fortunes. and, as viviana will not hear reason, we have no alternative. you swear that if you are once wedded to her, all her possessions shall be devoted to the furtherance of the great cause." "all, father--i swear it," rejoined catesby, fervently. "enough," replied oldcorne. "the sooner it is done, the better." it was then agreed between them that the plan least likely to excite suspicion would be for oldcorne to proceed to the hall, and under some plea prevail upon viviana to return with him to the cave. acting upon this arrangement, they left the cell together, shaping their course under the trees to avoid observation; and while oldcorne repaired to the hall, catesby proceeded to the stable, and saddling the only steed left, rode back to the cave, and concealing the animal behind the brushwood, entered the excavation. some time elapsed before the others arrived, and as in his present feverish state of mind moments appeared ages, the suspense was almost intolerable. at length, he heard footsteps approaching, and, with a beating heart, distinguished the voice of viviana. the place was buried in profound darkness; but oldcorne struck a light, and set fire to a candle in a lantern. the feeble glimmer diffused by it was not sufficient to penetrate the recesses of the cavern; and catesby, who stood at the farther extremity, was completely sheltered from observation. "and now, father," observed viviana, seating herself with her back towards catesby, upon the stone bench once used by the unfortunate prophetess, "i would learn the communication you desire to make to me. it must be something of importance since you would not disclose it at the hall." "it is, daughter," replied oldcorne, who could scarcely conceal his embarrassment. "i have brought you hither, where i am sure we shall be uninterrupted, to confer with you on a subject nearest my heart. your lamented father being taken from us, i, as his spiritual adviser, aware of his secret wishes and intentions, conceive myself entitled to assume his place." "i consider you in the light of a father, dear sir," replied viviana, "and will follow your advice as implicitly as i would that of him i have lost." "since i find you so tractable, child," returned oldcorne, reassured by her manner, "i will no longer hesitate to declare the motive i had in bringing you hither. you will recollect that i have of late strongly opposed your intention of retiring to a convent." "i know it, father," interrupted viviana; "but----" "hear me out," continued oldcorne; "recent events have strengthened my disapproval of the step. you are now called upon to active duties, and must take your share in the business of life,--must struggle and suffer like others,--and not shrink from the burthen imposed upon you by heaven." "i do not shrink from it, father," replied viviana: "and if i were equal to the active life you propose, i would not hesitate to embrace it, but i feel i should sink under it." "not if you had one near you who could afford you that support which feeble woman ever requires," returned oldcorne. "what mean you, father?" inquired viviana, fixing her dark eyes full upon him. "that you must marry, daughter," returned oldcorne, "unite yourself to some worthy man, who will be to you what i have described." "and was it to tell me this that you brought me here?" asked viviana, in a slightly offended tone. "it was, daughter," replied oldcorne; "but i have not yet done. it is not only needful you should marry, but your choice must be such as i, who represent your father, and have your welfare thoroughly at heart, can approve." "you can find me a husband, i doubt not?" remarked viviana, coldly. "i have already found one," returned oldcorne: "a gentleman suitable to you in rank, religion, years,--for _your_ husband should be older than yourself, viviana." "i will not affect to misunderstand you, father," she replied; "you mean mr. catesby." "you have guessed aright, dear daughter," rejoined oldcorne. "i thought i had made myself sufficiently intelligible on this point before, father," she returned. "true," replied oldcorne; "but you are no longer, as i have just laboured to convince you, in the same position you were when the subject was formerly discussed." "to prevent further misunderstanding, father," rejoined viviana, "i now tell you, that in whatever position i may be placed, i will never, under any circumstances, wed mr. catesby." "what are your objections to him, daughter?" asked oldcorne. "they are numberless," replied viviana; "but it is useless to particularize them. i must pray you to change the conversation, or you will compel me to quit you." "nay, daughter, if you thus obstinately shut your ears to reason, i must use very different language towards you. armed with parental authority, i shall exact obedience to my commands." "i cannot obey you, father," replied viviana, bursting into tears,--"indeed, indeed i cannot. my heart, i have already told you, is another's." "he who has robbed you of it is a heretic," rejoined oldcorne, sternly, "and therefore your union with him is out of the question. promise me you will wed mr. catesby, or, in the name of your dead father, i will invoke a curse upon your head. promise me, i say." "never," replied viviana, rising. "my father would never have enforced my compliance, and i dread no curse thus impiously pronounced. you are overstepping the bounds of your priestly office, sir. farewell." as she moved to depart, a strong grasp was laid on her arm, and turning, she beheld catesby. "you here, sir?" she cried, in great alarm. "ay," replied catesby. "at last you are in my power, viviana." "i would fain misunderstand you, sir," she rejoined, trembling; "but your looks terrify me. you mean no violence?" "i mean that father oldcorne shall wed us,--and that too without a moment's delay," replied catesby, sternly. "monster!" shrieked viviana, "you will not,--dare not commit this foul offence. and if you dare, father oldcorne will not assist you. ah! what means that sign? i cannot be mistaken in you, father? you cannot be acting in concert with this wicked man? save me from him!--save me." but the priest kept aloof, and taking a missal from his vest, hastily turned over the leaves. viviana saw that her appeal to him was vain. "let me go!" she shrieked, struggling with catesby. "you cannot force me to wed you whether i will or not; and i will die rather than consent. let me go, i say? help!--help!" and she made the cavern ring with her screams. "heed her not, father," shouted catesby, who still held her fast, "but proceed with the ceremony." oldcorne, however, appeared irresolute, and viviana perceiving it, redoubled her cries. "this will be no marriage, father," she said, "even if you proceed with it. i will protest against it to all the world, and you will be deprived of your priestly office for your share in so infamous a transaction." "you will think otherwise anon, daughter," replied oldcorne, advancing towards them with the missal in his hand. "if it be no marriage," observed catesby, significantly, "the time will come when you may desire to have the ceremony repeated." "mr. catesby," cried viviana, altering her manner, as if she had taken a sudden resolution, "one word before you proceed with your atrocious purpose, which must end in misery to us all. there are reasons why you can never wed me." "ha!" exclaimed catesby, starting. "is it so, my son?" asked oldcorne, uneasily. "pshaw!" exclaimed catesby. "she knows not what she says. proceed, father." "i have proofs that will confound you," cried viviana, breaking from him. and darting towards the light, she took from her bosom the packet given her by guy fawkes, and tore it open. a letter was within it, and a miniature. opening the letter, she cast her eye rapidly over its contents, and then looking up, exclaimed in accents of delirious joy, "saved! saved! father oldcorne, this man is married already." catesby, who had watched her proceedings in silent astonishment, and was now advancing towards her, recoiled as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet. "can this be true?" cried the priest, in astonishment. "let your own eyes convince you," rejoined viviana, handing him the letter. "i am satisfied," returned oldcorne, after he had glanced at it. "we have both been spared the commission of a great crime. mr. catesby, it appears from this letter that you have a wife living in spain." "it is useless to deny it," replied catesby. "but, as you were ignorant of the matter, the offence (if any) would have lain wholly at my door; nor should i have repented of it, if it had enabled me to achieve the object i have in view." "thank heaven it has gone no further!" exclaimed oldcorne. "daughter, i humbly entreat your forgiveness." "how came that packet in your possession?" demanded catesby fiercely of viviana. "it was given me by guy fawkes," she replied. "guy fawkes!" exclaimed catesby. "has he betrayed his friend?" "he has proved himself your best friend, by preventing you from committing a crime, which would have entailed wretchedness on yourself and me," returned viviana. "i have done with him, and with all of you," cried catesby, with a fierce glance at oldcorne. "henceforth, pursue your projects alone. you shall have no further assistance from me. i will serve the spaniard. englishmen are not to be trusted." so saying, he rushed out of the cavern, and seeking his horse, mounted him, and rode off at full speed. "how shall i obtain your forgiveness for my conduct in this culpable affair, dear daughter?" said oldcorne, with an imploring look at viviana. "by joining me in thanksgivings to the virgin for my deliverance," replied viviana, prostrating herself before the stone cross. oldcorne knelt beside her, and they continued for some time in earnest prayer. they then arose, and quitting the cave, proceeded to the hall. chapter xx. the departure from the hall. guy fawkes was as much surprised to hear of the sudden departure of catesby as he was concerned at the cause; but he still thought it probable he would return. in this expectation, however, he was disappointed. the day wore on, and no one came. the uncertainty in which fawkes was kept, added to his unwillingness to leave garnet, still detained him, in spite of the risk he ran, at the hall; and it was only when urged by viviana that he began seriously to reflect whither he should bend his steps. towards evening, garnet was so much better, that he was able to sit up, and he passed some hours in conference with oldcorne. "if i do not suffer a relapse," he observed to the latter, "i will set out with guy fawkes to-morrow, and we will proceed by easy stages to london." "i cannot but approve your resolution," returned oldcorne; "for though so long a journey may be inconvenient, and retard your recovery, yet every hour you remain here is fraught with additional peril. i will accompany you. we shall both be safer in the capital; and perhaps viviana, now she will be no longer exposed to the persecutions of catesby, will form one of the party." "i should not wonder," replied garnet. "i shall be deeply concerned if catesby has really abandoned the enterprise. but i cannot think it. i did all i could to dissuade him from prosecuting this union, knowing how hopeless it was, and little thinking he would be rash enough to seek to accomplish it by force, or that he would find an assistant in you." "say no more about it, father, i entreat you," rejoined oldcorne. "the scheme failed, as it deserved to do; and i sincerely repent the share i was induced by catesby's artful representations to take in it. if we have lost our leader we have still guy fawkes, who is a host in himself, and as true as the steel that hangs by his side." "we cannot spare catesby," replied garnet. "with many faults, he has one redeeming quality, courage. i am not sorry he has been thwarted in his present scheme, as if he returns to us, as i doubt not he will, it will fix his mind steadily on the one object, which should be ever before it. give me your arm, father. i am glad to find i can walk, though feebly. that is well," he added, as they emerged upon the gallery; "i shall be able to reach viviana's chamber without further assistance. do you descend, and see that martin heydocke is on the watch." in obedience to the injunctions of his superior, oldcorne went in search of martin heydocke, who had been stationed in the court-yard to give timely notice of any hostile approach; but not finding him there, he proceeded towards the drawbridge. garnet, meanwhile, had reached the door of viviana's chamber, which was slightly ajar, and he was about to pass through it, when he perceived that she was on her knees before guy fawkes, whom she was addressing in the most passionate terms. the latter was seated at a table, with his head upon his hand, in a thoughtful posture. surprised at the sight, and curious to hear what viviana could be saying, garnet drew back to listen. "when you quit this house," were the first words that caught the listener's ear, "we shall never meet again; and oh! let me have the consolation of thinking that, in return for the devoted attachment you have shown me, and the dangers from which you have preserved me, i have preserved you from one equally imminent. catesby, from whatever motive, has abandoned the conspiracy. do you act likewise, and the whole dreadful scheme will fall to the ground." "catesby cannot abandon it," replied fawkes. "he is bound by ties that no human power can sunder. and, however he may estrange himself from us now, when the time for action arrives, rest assured he will not be absent." [illustration: _viviana radcliffe imploring guy fawkes to abandon the conspiracy_] "it may be so," replied viviana; "but i deny that the oath either he or you have taken is binding. the deed you have sworn to do is evil, and no vow, however solemnly pronounced, can compel you to commit crime. avoid this sin--avoid further connexion with those who would work your undoing, and do not stain your soul with guilt from which it will never be cleansed." "you seek in vain to move me," replied guy fawkes, firmly. "my purpose is unalterable. the tempest that clears away the pestilence destroys many innocent lives, but it is not the less wholesome on that account. our unhappy land is choked with the pestilence of heresy, and must be freed from it, cost what it will, and suffer who may. the wrongs of the english catholics imperatively demand redress; and, since it is denied us, we must take it. oppression can go no farther; nor endurance hold out longer. if this blow be not struck we shall have no longer a religion. and how comes it, viviana, that you, a zealous catholic, whose father perished by these very oppressors, and who are yourself in danger from them, can seek to turn me from my purpose?" "because i know it is wrongful," she replied. "i have no desire to avenge the death of my slaughtered father, still less to see our religion furthered by the dreadful means you propose. in his own due season, the lord will redress our wrongs." "the lord has appointed me one of the ministers of his vengeance," cried fawkes, in a tone of enthusiasm. "do not deceive yourself," returned viviana, "it is not by heaven, but by the powers of darkness, that you are incited to this deed. do not persevere in this fatal course," she continued, clasping her hands together, and gazing imploringly in his face, "do not--do not!" guy fawkes continued in the same attitude as before, with his gaze turned upwards, and apparently lost in thought. "have i no power to move you?" cried viviana, her eyes streaming with tears. "none whatever," replied guy fawkes, firmly. "then you are lost," she rejoined. "if it is heaven's will, i am," answered fawkes; "but at least i believe i am acting rightly." "and rest assured you are so, my son," cried garnet, throwing open the door, and stepping into the room. "i have overheard your conversation, and i applaud your resolution." "you need have no fears of me, father," replied fawkes. "i do not lightly undertake a project; but once embarked in it nothing can turn me aside." "in this case your determination is wisely formed, my son," returned garnet; "and if viviana will ever give me an opportunity of fully discussing the matter, i am sure i can satisfy her you are in the right." "i will discuss it with you whenever you think proper," she replied. "but no arguments will ever convince me that your project is approved by heaven." "let it pass now, daughter," rejoined garnet; "enough has been said on the subject. i came hither to tell guy fawkes, that if our enemies permit us to pass the night without molestation (as heaven grant they may!) i think i shall be strong enough to set out with him to-morrow, when i propose we should journey together to london." "agreed," replied fawkes. "father oldcorne will accompany us," pursued garnet. "and i, too, will go with you, if you will permit me," said viviana. "i cannot remain here; and i have no further fears of mr. catesby. doctor dee told me my future fate was strangely mixed up with that of guy fawkes. i know not how it may be, but i will not abandon him while there is a hope to cling to." "viviana radcliffe," rejoined guy fawkes, coldly, "deeply as i feel the interest you take in me, i think it right to tell you that no efforts you can use will shake me from my purpose. if i live, i will execute my design." "while i live, i will urge you to it," remarked garnet. "and while _i_ live, i will dissuade you from it," added viviana. "we shall see who will obtain the victory." "we shall," replied garnet, smiling confidently. "hear me further," continued viviana; "i do not doubt that your zeal is disinterested; yet still, your mode of life, and the difficulties in which you are placed, may not unnaturally influence your conduct. that this may no longer be the case, i here place part of my fortune at your disposal. i require little or nothing myself. but i would, if possible, save one to whom i owe so much, and whom i value so much, from destruction." "i fully appreciate your generosity--to give it its lightest term--viviana," returned guy fawkes, in a voice of deep emotion. "under any circumstances i should reject it,--under the present, i do so the more positively, because the offer, kind as it is, seems to imply that my poverty leads me to act contrary to my principles. gold has no power over me: i regard it as dross; and when i could easily have won it, i neglected the opportunity. as no reward would ever induce me to commit an action my conscience disapproved, so none will deter me from a purpose which i regard as my duty." "enough," replied viviana, sadly. "i will no longer question your motives, or oppose your plan, but will pray heaven to open your eyes to the truth." "your conduct is in all respects worthy of you, daughter," observed garnet, kindly. "you have rejected one offer," continued viviana, looking at fawkes; "but i trust you will not decline that i am about to propose to you." "what is it?" asked fawkes, in some surprise. "it is that i may be permitted to regard you as a father," replied viviana, with some hesitation. "having lost my own father, i feel i need some protector, and i would gladly make choice of you, if you will accept the office." "i willingly accede to your request, and am much flattered by it, viviana," replied fawkes. "i am a homeless man, and a friendless, and the affection of such a being as yourself will fill up the only void in my heart. but i am wedded to the great cause. i can never be more to you than a father." "nay, i ask nothing more," she replied, blushing deeply. "having thus arranged the terms upon which we shall travel," observed garnet, with a smile, "nothing is needed but to prepare for our journey. we start early to-morrow morning." "i shall be ready at daybreak," replied viviana. "and i am ready now," added guy fawkes. "in my opinion, we run great risk in remaining here another night. but be it as you will." at this moment they were interrupted by the entrance of father oldcorne, who with a countenance of great alarm informed them he could nowhere find martin heydocke. "do you suspect any treachery on his part?" asked garnet of viviana. "i have always found him trustworthy," she answered; "and his father was _my_ father's oldest servant. i cannot think he would betray us. at the same time, i must admit his disappearance at this juncture looks suspicious." "if my strength were equal to it," returned guy fawkes, "i would keep watch throughout the night; but that might prevent me from accompanying you to-morrow. my advice, i repeat, is--to set out at once." this opinion, however, was overruled by garnet and viviana, who did not think the danger so urgent, and attributed the absence of martin heydocke to some unimportant cause. guy fawkes made no further remonstrance, and it was agreed they should start, as originally proposed, at daybreak. the party then separated, and viviana wandered alone over the old house, taking a farewell, which she felt would be her last, of every familiar object. few things were as she had known them, but even in their present forlorn state they were dear to her; and the rooms she trod, though dismantled, were the same she had occupied in childhood. there is no pang more acute to a sensitive nature than that occasioned by quitting an abode or spot endeared by early recollections and associations, to which we feel a strong presentiment we shall never return. viviana experienced this feeling in its full force, and she lingered in each room as if she had not the power to leave it. her emotions at length became so overpowering, that to relieve them she strolled forth into the garden. here, new objects awakened her attention, and recalled happier times with painful distinctness. twilight was fast deepening, and, viewed through this dim and softened medium, everything looked as of old, and produced a tightening and stifling sensation in her breast, that nothing but a flood of tears could remove. the flowers yielded forth their richest scents, and the whole scene was such as she had often beheld it in times long ago, when sorrow was wholly unknown to her. perfumes, it is well known, exercise a singular influence over the memory. a particular odour will frequently call up an event and a long train of circumstances connected with the time when it was first inhaled. without being aware whence it arose, viviana felt a tide of recollections pressing upon her, which she would have willingly repressed, but which it was out of her power to control. her tears flowed abundantly, and at length, with a heart somewhat lightened of its load, she arose from the bench on which she had thrown herself, and proceeded along a walk to gather a few flowers as memorials of the place. in this way, she reached the further end of the garden, and was stooping to pluck a spray of some fragrant shrub, when she perceived the figure of a man behind a tree at a little distance from her. from his garb, which was that of a soldier, she instantly knew he was an enemy, and, though greatly alarmed, she had the courage not to scream, but breaking off the branch, she uttered a careless exclamation, and slowly retraced her steps. she half expected to hear that the soldier was following her, and prepared to start off at full speed to the house; but, deceived by her manner, he did not stir. on reaching the end of the walk, she could not resist the inclination to look back, and glancing over her shoulder, perceived the man watching her. but as she moved, he instantly withdrew his head. her first step on reaching the house was to close and fasten the door; her next to hasten to guy fawkes's chamber, where she found him, together with garnet and oldcorne. all three were astounded at the intelligence, agreeing that an attack was intended, and that a large force was, in all probability, concealed in the garden awaiting only the arrival of night to surprise and seize them. the disappearance of the younger heydocke was no longer a mystery. he had been secured and carried off by the hostile party, to prevent him from giving the alarm. the emergency was a fearful one, and it excited consternation amongst all except guy fawkes, who preserved his calmness. "i foresaw we should be attacked to-night," he said, "and i am therefore not wholly unprepared. our only chance is to steal out unobserved; for resistance would be in vain, as their force is probably numerous, and i am as helpless as an infant, while father garnet's broken arm precludes any assistance from him. the subterranean passage leading from the oratory to the further side of the moat having been stopped up by the pursuivant and his band, it will be necessary to cross the drawbridge, and as soon as it grows sufficiently dark, we must make the attempt. we have no horses, and must trust to our own exertions for safety. catesby would now be invaluable. it is not his custom to desert his friends at the season of their greatest need." "great as is my danger," observed viviana, "i would rather, so far as i am concerned, that he were absent, than owe my preservation to him. i have no fears for myself." "and my only fears are for you," rejoined fawkes. half an hour of intense anxiety was now passed by the party. garnet was restless and uneasy. oldcorne betrayed his agitation by unavailing lamentations, by listening to every sound, and by constantly rushing to the windows to reconnoitre, until he was checked by fawkes, who represented to him the folly of his conduct. viviana, though ill at ease, did not allow her terror to appear, but endeavoured to imitate the immoveable demeanour of guy fawkes, who always became more collected in proportion to the danger by which he was threatened. at the expiration of the time above mentioned, it had become quite dark, and desiring his companions to follow him, guy fawkes drew his sword, and, grasping viviana's hand, led the way down stairs. before opening the door, he listened intently, and, hearing no sound, issued cautiously forth. the party had scarcely gained the centre of the court, when a caliver was discharged at them, which, though it did no damage, served as a signal to the rest of their foes. guy fawkes, who had never relinquished his hold of viviana, now pressed forward as rapidly as his strength would permit, and the two priests followed. but loud shouts were raised on the drawbridge, and it was evident it was occupied by the enemy. uncertain what to do, guy fawkes halted, and was about to return to the house, when a shout from behind told him their retreat was intercepted. in this dilemma there was nothing for it but to attempt to force a passage across the drawbridge, or to surrender at discretion; and though guy fawkes would not at other seasons have hesitated to embrace the former alternative, he knew that his strength was not equal to it now. while he was internally resolving not to yield himself with life, and supporting viviana, who clung closely to him, the clatter of hoofs was heard rapidly approaching along the avenue, and presently afterwards two horsemen galloped at full speed toward the drawbridge. the noise had likewise attracted the attention of the enemy; who, apprehensive of a rescue, prepared to stop them. but the tremendous pace of the riders rendered this impossible. a few blows were exchanged, a few shots fired, and they had crossed the drawbridge. "who goes there?" shouted guy fawkes, as the horsemen approached him. "it is the voice of guy fawkes," cried the foremost, whose tones proclaimed it was catesby. "they are here," he cried, reining in his steed. "where is viviana?" vociferated his companion, who was no other than humphrey chetham. "here--here," replied guy fawkes. with the quickness of thought, the young merchant was by her side, and in another moment she was placed on the saddle before him, and borne at a headlong pace across the drawbridge. "follow me," cried catesby. "i will clear a passage for you. once across the drawbridge, you are safe. a hundred yards down the avenue, on the right, you will find a couple of horses tied to a tree. quick! quick!" as he spoke, a shot whizzed past his head, and a tumultuous din in the rear told that their pursuers were close upon them. striking spurs into his steed, catesby dashed forward, and dealing blows right and left, cleared the drawbridge of its occupants, many of whom leaped into the moat to escape his fury. his companions were close at his heels, and got over the bridge in safety. "fly!--fly!" cried catesby,--"to the horses--the horses! i will check all pursuit." so saying, and while the others flew towards the avenue, he faced his opponents, and making a desperate charge upon them, drove them backwards. in this conflict, though several shots were fired, and blows aimed at him on all sides, he sustained no injury, but succeeded in defending the bridge sufficiently long to enable his friends to mount. he then rode off at full speed, and found the party waiting for him at the end of the avenue. father oldcorne was seated on the same steed as his superior. after riding with them upwards of a mile, humphrey chetham dismounted, and resigning his horse to viviana, bade her farewell, and disappeared. "and now to london!" cried catesby, striking into a road on the right, and urging his steed to a rapid pace. "ay, to london!--to the parliament house!" echoed fawkes, following him with the others. end of the first book. [illustration: _guy fawkes and catesby landing the powder._] book the second. the discovery. the next point to be considered is the means to compass and work these designs. these means were most cruel and damnable;--by mining, and by thirty-six barrels of powder, having crows of iron, stones, and wood, laid upon the barrels, to have made the breach the greater. lord! what a wind, what a fire, what a motion and commotion of earth and air would there have been!--_sir edward coke's speech on the trial of the conspirators in the gunpowder plot._ chapter i. the landing of the powder. towards the close of the sixth day after their departure from ordsall hall, the party approached the capital. the sun was setting as they descended highgate hill, and the view of the ancient, and then most picturesque city, was so enchanting, that viviana, who beheld it for the first time, entreated her companions to pause for a few minutes to allow her to contemplate it. from the spot where they halted, the country was completely open to clerkenwell, and only a few scattered habitations lay between them and the old grey ramparts of the city, with their gates and fortifications, which were easily discernible even at that distance. above them rose the massive body and central tower of saint paul's cathedral,--a structure far surpassing that which has succeeded it,--while amid the innumerable gables, pointed roofs, and twisted chimneys of the houses sprang a multitude of lesser towers and spires, lending additional beauty to the scene. viviana was enraptured, and, while gazing on the prospect, almost forgot her sorrows. guy fawkes and catesby, who were a little in advance of the others, turned their gaze westward, and the former observed to his companion, "the sun is setting over the parliament house. the sky seems stained with blood. it looks portentous of what is to follow." "i would gladly behold the explosion from this hill, or from yon heights," replied catesby, pointing towards hampstead. "it will be a sight such as man has seldom seen." "i shall never live to witness it!" exclaimed guy fawkes, in a melancholy tone. "what! still desponding?" returned catesby, reproachfully. "i thought, since you had fully recovered from your wound, you had shaken off your fears." "you misunderstand me," replied fawkes. "i mean that i shall perish with our foes." "why so?" cried catesby. "there will be plenty of time to escape after you have fired the train." "i shall not attempt it," rejoined fawkes, in a sombre voice. "i will abide the result in the vault. if i perish, it will be a glorious death." "better live to see the regeneration of our faith, and our restoration to our rights," rejoined catesby. "but we will speak of this hereafter. here comes garnet." "where do you propose we should lodge to-night?" asked the latter, riding up. "at the house at lambeth, where the powder is deposited," returned catesby. "will it be safe?" asked garnet, uneasily. "we shall be safer there than elsewhere, father," replied catesby. "if it is dark enough to-night, fawkes and i will remove a portion of the powder. but we are losing time. we must pass through the city before the gates are closed." in this suggestion garnet acquiesced, and calling to viviana to follow them,--for, since his late atrocious attempt, catesby had not exchanged a word or look with her, but during the whole of the journey kept sedulously aloof,--the whole party set forward, and proceeding at a brisk pace, soon reached the walls of the city. passing through cripplegate, they shaped their course towards london bridge. viviana was filled with astonishment at all she saw: the multitude and magnificence of the shops, compared with such as she had previously seen; the crowds in the streets,--for even at that hour they were thronged; the varied dresses of the passengers--the sober garb of the merchant, contrasting with the showy cloak, the preposterous ruff, swelling hose, plumed cap, and swaggering gait of the gallant or the ruffler; the brawls that were constantly occurring; the number of signs projecting from the dwellings; all she witnessed or heard surprised and amused her, and she would willingly have proceeded at a slower pace to indulge her curiosity, had not her companions urged her onward. as they were crossing eastcheap, in the direction of crooked-lane, a man suddenly quitted the footpath, and, rushing towards garnet, seized his bridle, and cried, "i arrest you. you are a romish priest." "it is false, knave," returned garnet. "i am as good a protestant as thyself, and am just arrived with my companions from a long journey." "your companions are all rank papists," rejoined the stranger. "you yourself are father garnet, superior of the jesuits, and, if i am not deceived, the person next you is father oldcorne, also of that order. if i am wrong you can easily refute the charge. come with me to the council. if you refuse, i will call assistance from the passengers." garnet saw he was lost if he did not make an immediate effort at self-preservation, and resolving to be beforehand with his assailant, he shouted at the top of his voice, "help! help! my masters. this villain would rob me of my purse." "he is a romish priest," vociferated the stranger. "i call upon you to assist me to arrest him." while the passengers, scarcely knowing what to make of these contradictory statements, flocked round them, guy fawkes, who was a little in advance of catesby, rode back, and seeing how matters stood, instantly drew a petronel, and with the butt-end felled the stranger to the ground. thus liberated, garnet struck spurs into his steed, and the whole party dashed off at a rapid pace. shouts were raised by the bystanders, a few of whom started in pursuit, but the speed at which the fugitives rode soon bore them out of danger. by this time they had reached london bridge, and viviana, in some degree recovered from the fright caused by the recent occurrence, ventured to look around her. she could scarcely believe she was crossing a bridge, so completely did the tall houses give it the appearance of a street; and, if it had not been for occasional glimpses of the river caught between the openings of these lofty habitations, she would have thought her companions had mistaken the road. as they approached the ancient gateway (afterwards denominated traitor's tower), at the southwark side of the bridge, she remarked with a shudder the dismal array of heads garnishing its spikes, and pointing them out to fawkes, cried, "heaven grant yours may never be amongst the number!" fawkes made no answer, but dashed beneath the low and gloomy arch of the gate. striking into a street on the right, the party skirted the walls of saint saviour's church, and presently drew near the globe theatre, above which floated its banner. adjoining it was the old bear-garden--the savage inmates of which made themselves sufficiently audible. garnet hastily pointed out the first-mentioned place of amusement to viviana as they passed it, and her reading having made her well acquainted with the noble dramas produced at that unpretending establishment--little better than a barn in comparison with a modern playhouse,--she regarded it with deep interest. another theatre--the swan--speedily claimed her attention; and, leaving it behind, they came upon the open country. it was now growing rapidly dark, and catesby, turning off into a narrow lane on the right, shouted to his companions to keep near him. the tract of land they were traversing was flat and marshy. the air was damp and unwholesome--for the swamp had not been drained as in later times,--and the misty exhalations arising from it added to the obscurity. catesby, however, did not relax his pace, and his companions imitated his example. another turn on the right seemed to bring them still nearer the river, and involved them in a thicker fog. all at once catesby stopped, and cried, "we should be near the house. and yet this fog perplexes me. stay here while i search for it." "if you leave us, we shall not readily meet again," rejoined fawkes. but the caution was unheeded, catesby having already disappeared. a few moments afterwards, fawkes heard the sound of a horse's hoofs approaching him; and, thinking it was catesby, he hailed the rider. the horseman made no answer, but continued to advance towards them. just then the voice of catesby was heard at a little distance, shouting, "i was right. it is here." the party then hastened in the direction of the cry, and perceived through the gloom a low building, before the door of which catesby, who had dismounted, was standing. "a stranger is amongst us," observed fawkes, in an under tone, as he rode up. "where is he?" demanded catesby, hastily. "here," replied a voice. "but, fear nothing. i am a friend." "i must have stronger assurance than that," replied catesby. "who are you?" "robert keyes," replied the other, "do you not know my voice?" "in good truth i did not," rejoined catesby; "and you have spoken just in time. your arrival is most opportune. but what brings you here to-night?" "the same errand as yourself, i conclude, catesby," replied keyes. "i came here to see that all was in safety. but, who have you with you?" "let us enter the house, and you shall learn," replied catesby. with this, he tapped thrice at the door in a peculiar manner, and presently a light was seen through the windows, and a voice from within demanded who knocked. "your master," replied catesby. upon this, the door was instantly unbarred. after a hasty greeting between catesby and his servant, whom he addressed as thomas bates, the former inquired whether aught had occurred during his absence, and was answered that, except an occasional visit from mr. percy, one of the conspirators, no one had been near the house; everything being in precisely the same state he had left it. "that is well," replied catesby. "now, then, to dispose of the horses." all the party having dismounted, their steeds were led to a stable at the back of the premises by catesby and bates, while the others entered the house. it was a small, mean-looking habitation, standing at a short distance from the river-side, on the skirts of lambeth marsh, and its secluded situation and miserable appearance seldom induced any one to visit it. on one side was a deep muddy sluice communicating with the river. within, it possessed but slight accommodation, and only numbered four apartments. one of the best of these was assigned to viviana, and she retired to it as soon as it could be prepared for her reception. garnet, who still carried his arm in a sling, but who was in other respects almost recovered from his accident, tendered every assistance in his power, and would have remained with her, but she entreated to be left alone. on descending to the lower room, he found catesby, who, having left bates in care of the horses, produced such refreshments as they had brought with them. these were scanty enough; but a few flasks of excellent wine which they found within the house made some amends for the meagre repast. viviana was solicited by guy fawkes to join them; but she declined, alleging that she was greatly fatigued, and about to retire to rest. their meal ended, catesby proposed that they should ascertain the condition of the powder, as he feared it might have suffered from being so long in the vault. before making this examination, the door was carefully barred; the shutters of the windows closed; and guy fawkes placed himself as sentinel at the door. a flag beneath the grate, in which a fire was never kindled, was then raised, and disclosed a flight of steps leading to a vault beneath. catesby having placed a light in a lantern, descended with keyes; but both garnet and oldcorne refused to accompany them. the vault was arched and lofty, and, strange to say, for its situation, dry--a circumstance owing, in all probability, to the great thickness of the walls. on either side were ranged twenty barrels filled with powder; and at the further end stood a pile of arms, consisting of pikes, rapiers, demi-lances, petronels, calivers, corslets, and morions. removing one of the barrels from its station, catesby forced open the lid, and examined its contents, which he found perfectly dry and uninjured. "it is fit for use," he observed, with a significant smile, as he exhibited a handful of the powder to keyes, who stood at a little distance with the lantern; "if it will keep as well in the cellar beneath the parliament house, our foes will soon be nearer heaven, than they would ever be if left to themselves." "when do you propose to transport it across the river?" asked keyes. "to-night," replied catesby. "it is dark and foggy, and fitting for the purpose. bates!" he shouted; and at the call his servant instantly descended. "is the wherry at her moorings?" "she is, your worship," replied bates. "you must cross the river instantly, then," rejoined catesby, "and proceed to the dwelling adjoining the parliament house, which we hired from ferris. here is the key. examine the premises,--and bring word whether all is secure." bates was about to depart, when keyes volunteering to accompany him, they left the house together. having fastened down the lid of the cask, catesby summoned fawkes to his assistance, and by his help as many barrels as could be safely stowed in the boat were brought out of the vault. more than two hours elapsed before bates returned. he was alone, and informed them that all was secure, but that keyes had decided on remaining where he was,--it being so dark and foggy, that it was scarcely possible to cross the river. "i had some difficulty in landing," he added, "and got considerably out of my course. i never was out on so dark a night before." "it is the better for us," rejoined catesby. "we shall be sure to escape observation." in this opinion guy fawkes concurred, and they proceeded to transport the powder to the boat, which was brought up the sluice within a few yards of the door. this done, and the barrels covered with a piece of tarpaulin, they embarked, and fawkes, seizing an oar, propelled the skiff along the narrow creek. as bates had stated, the fog was so dense that it was wholly impossible to steer correctly, and fawkes was therefore obliged to trust to chance as to the course he took. however, having fully regained his strength, he rowed with great swiftness, and, as far as he could judge, had gained the mid-stream, when, before he could avoid it, he came in violent contact with another boat, oversetting it, and plunging its occupants in the stream. disregarding the hints and even menaces of catesby, who urged him to proceed, fawkes immediately lay upon his oars, and, as the water was perfectly smooth, succeeded, without much difficulty, in extricating the two men from their perilous situation. their boat having drifted down the stream, could not be recovered. the chief of these personages was profuse in his thanks to his deliverers, whom he supposed were watermen, and they took care not to undeceive him. "you may rely upon my gratitude," he said; "and when i tell you i am the earl of salisbury, you will be satisfied i have the means of evincing it." "the earl of salisbury!" exclaimed catesby, who was seated by fawkes, having taken one of the oars. "is it possible?" "i have been on secret state business," replied the earl, "and did not choose to employ my own barge. i was returning to whitehall, when your boat struck against mine." "it is our bitterest enemy," observed catesby, in an under tone, to fawkes. "fate has delivered him into our hands." "what are you about to do?" demanded fawkes, observing that his companion no longer pulled at the oar. "shoot him," replied catesby. "keep still, while i disengage my petronel." "it shall not be," returned fawkes, laying a firm grasp upon his arm. "let him perish with the others." "if we suffer him to escape now, we may never have such a chance again," rejoined catesby. "i will shoot him." "i say you shall not," rejoined fawkes. "his hour is not yet come." "what are you talking about, my masters?" demanded the earl, who was shivering in his wet garments. "nothing," replied catesby, hastily. "i will throw him overboard," he whispered to fawkes. "again i say, you shall not," replied the latter. "i see what you are afraid of," cried the earl. "you are smugglers. you have got some casks of distilled waters on board, and are afraid i may report you. fear nothing. land me near the palace, and count upon my gratitude." "our course lies in a different direction," replied catesby, sternly. "if your lordship lands at all, it must be where we choose." "but i have to see the king to-night. i have some important papers to deliver to him respecting the papists," replied salisbury. "indeed!" exclaimed catesby. "we must, at least, have those papers," he observed, in a whisper, to fawkes. "that is a different affair," replied fawkes. "they may prove serviceable to us." "my lord," observed catesby, "by a strange chance you have fallen into the hands of catholics. you will be pleased to deliver these papers to us." "ah! villains, would you rob me?" cried the earl. "you shall take my life sooner." "we will take both, if you resist," replied catesby, in a menacing tone. "nay, then," returned salisbury, attempting to draw his sword, "we will see who will obtain the mastery. we are equally matched. come on; i fear you not." but the waterman who had rowed the earl was not of equal courage with his employer, and refused to take part in the conflict. "it will be useless to contend with us," cried catesby, relinquishing the oar to fawkes, and springing forward. "i must have those papers," he added, seizing the earl by the throat, "or i will throw you overboard." "i am mistaken in you," returned salisbury; "you are no common mariner." "it matters not who or what i am," rejoined catesby, fiercely. "your papers, or you die." finding it in vain to contend with his opponent, the earl was fain to yield, and reluctantly produced a packet from his doublet, and delivered it to him. "you will repent this outrage, villain," he said. "your lordship will do well to recollect you are still in my power," rejoined catesby. "one thrust of my sword will wipe off some of the injuries you have inflicted on our suffering party." "i have heard your voice before," cried salisbury; "you shall not escape me." "your imprudence has destroyed you," retorted catesby, clutching the earl's throat more tightly, and shortening his sword, with the intent to plunge it into his breast. "hold!" exclaimed fawkes, grasping his arm, and preventing the blow. "i have already said you shall not slay him. you are in possession of his papers. what more would you have?" "his life," replied catesby, struggling to liberate his arm. "let him swear not to betray us," rejoined fawkes. "if he refuses, i will not stay your hand." "you hear what my companion says, my lord," cried catesby. "will you swear to keep silence as to what has just occurred?" after a moment's hesitation, salisbury assented, and catesby relinquished his grasp. during this time, the boat had drifted considerably down the stream, and, in spite of the darkness, catesby noticed with some uneasiness that they were approaching more than one vessel. the earl of salisbury also perceived this, and raised a cry for help, but was instantly checked by catesby, who took a seat beside him, and placing the point of his rapier at his breast, swore he would stab him if he made any further clamour. the threat, and the dangerous propinquity of his enemy, effectually silenced the earl, and catesby directed fawkes to make for the shore as quickly as he could. his injunctions were obeyed, and fawkes plied the oars with so much good-will, that in a few minutes the wherry struck against the steps, which projected far into the water, a little to the right of the star chamber, precisely on the spot where westminster bridge now stands. here the earl and his companion were allowed to disembark, and they had no sooner set foot on land than guy fawkes pushed off the boat, and rowed as swiftly as he could towards the centre of the stream. he then demanded of catesby whether he should make for the parliament house, or return. "i scarcely know what to advise," replied catesby. "i do not think the earl will attempt pursuit. and yet i know not. the papers we have obtained may be important. cease rowing for a moment, and let us listen." guy fawkes complied, and they listened intently, but could only hear the rippling of the current against the sides of the skiff. "we have nothing to fear," observed catesby. "he will not pursue us, or he cannot find a boat." as he spoke, the glimmer of torches was visible on the shore, and the plunge of oars into the water convinced him his opinion was erroneous. "what course shall we take?" inquired fawkes. "i care not," replied catesby, sullenly. "if i had had my own way, this would not have happened." "have no fears," replied fawkes, rowing swiftly down the stream. "we shall easily escape." "we will not be taken alive," returned catesby, seating himself on one of the barrels, and hammering against the lid with the butt-end of his petronel. "i will sooner blow us all to perdition than he shall capture us." "you are right," replied fawkes. "by my patron, saint james, he is taking the same course as ourselves." "well, let him board us," replied catesby. "i am ready for him." "do as you think proper if the worst occurs," returned fawkes. "but, if we make no noise, i am assured we shall not be perceived." with this he ceased rowing, and suffered the boat to drop down the stream. as ill-luck would have it, it seemed as if the hostile bark had struck completely into their track, and, aided by the current, and four sturdy rowers, was swiftly approaching. "the earl will be upon us in a few minutes," replied catesby. "if you have any prayers to offer, recite them quickly, for i swear i will be as good as my word." "i am ever prepared for death," replied fawkes. "ha! we are saved!" this last exclamation was occasioned by his remarking a large barge, towards which they were rapidly drifting. "what are you about to do?" cried catesby.--"leap on board, and abandon the skiff, together with its contents?" "no," replied fawkes; "sit still, and leave the rest to me." by this time, they had approached the barge, which was lying at anchor, and guy fawkes, grasping at a boat-hook, fixed it in the vessel as they passed, and drew their own boat close to its side--so close, in fact, that it could not be distinguished from it. the next moment, the chase came up, and they distinctly perceived the earl of salisbury seated in the stern of the boat, holding a torch. as he approached the barge, he held the light towards it; but the skiff being on the off-side, entirely escaped notice. when the chase had got to a sufficient distance to be out of hearing, the fugitives rowed swiftly in the contrary direction. not judging it prudent to land, they continued to ply the oars, until fatigue compelled them to desist, and they had placed some miles between them and their pursuers. "long before this, the earl must have given up the chase," observed catesby. "we must return before daybreak, and either land our powder near the parliament house, or take it back to the vault at lambeth." "we shall run equal risk either way," replied fawkes, "and, having ventured thus far, we may as well go through with it. i am for landing at westminster." "and i," rejoined catesby. "i do not like giving up a project when i have once undertaken it." "you speak my sentiments exactly," returned fawkes. "westminster be it." after remaining stationary for about an hour, they rowed back again, and, aided by the stream, in a short time reached their destination. the fog had in a great degree cleared off, and day began to break as they approached the stairs leading to the parliament house. though this was not what they desired, inasmuch as the light added to the risk they would have run in landing the powder, it enabled them to ascertain that no one was on the watch. running swiftly in towards a sort of wharf, protected by a roofed building, catesby leapt ashore, and tied the skiff to a ring in the steps. he then desired fawkes to hand out the powder as quickly as he could. the order was promptly obeyed, and in a few minutes several barrels were on the strand. "had you not better fetch keyes to help us, while i get out the rest?" observed fawkes. catesby assented, and hurrying to the house, found keyes, who was in great alarm about them. he instantly accompanied the other to the wharf, and by their united efforts the powder was expeditiously and safely removed. chapter ii. the traitor. the habitation, to which the powder was conveyed, adjoined, as has already been stated, the parliament house, and stood at the south-west corner of that structure. it was a small building, two stories high, with a little garden attached to it, surrounded by lofty walls, and belonged to whinneard, the keeper of the royal wardrobe, by whom it was let to a person named ferris. from the latter it was hired by thomas percy, one of the conspirators, and a relative of the earl of northumberland,--of whom it will be necessary to speak more fully hereafter,--for the purpose to which it was now put. having bestowed the barrels of powder carefully in the cellar, and fastened the door of the house and the garden-gate after them, the trio returned to the boat, and rowed back to lambeth, where they arrived without being noticed. they then threw themselves upon the floor, and sought some repose after their fatigue. it was late in the day before they awoke. garnet and oldcorne had been long astir; but viviana had not quitted her chamber. catesby's first object was to examine the packet he had obtained from the earl of salisbury, and withdrawing to a corner, he read over the papers one by one carefully. guy fawkes watched his countenance as he perused them, but he asked no questions. many of the documents appeared to have little interest, for catesby tossed them aside with an exclamation of disappointment. at length, however, a small note dropped from the bundle. catesby picked it up, opened it, and his whole expression changed. his brow grew contracted; and, springing to his feet, he uttered an ejaculation of rage, crying, "it is as i suspected. we have traitors among us." "whom do you suspect?" cried fawkes. "tresham!" cried catesby, in a voice of thunder,--"the fawning, wily, lying tresham. fool that i was to league him with us." "he is your own kinsman," observed garnet. "he is," replied catesby; "but were he my own brother he should die. here is a letter from him to lord mounteagle, which has found its way to the earl of salisbury, hinting that a plot is hatching against the state, and offering to give him full information of it." "traitor! false, perjured traitor!" cried fawkes. "he must die." "he shall fall by my hand," rejoined catesby. "stay! a plan occurs to me. he cannot be aware that this letter is in my possession. i will send bates to bid him come hither. we will then charge him with his criminality, and put him to death." "he deserves severe punishment, no doubt," replied garnet; "but i am unwilling you should proceed to the last extremities with him." "there is no alternative, father," replied catesby. "our safety demands his destruction." garnet returned no answer, but bowed his head sorrowfully upon his breast. bates was then despatched to tresham; and preparations were made by the three lay conspirators for executing their fell design. it was agreed, that on his arrival, tresham should be seized and disarmed, and after being interrogated by catesby touching the extent of his treachery, should be stabbed by guy fawkes. this being resolved upon, it became a question how they should act in the interim. it was possible that, after the loss of his papers, some communication might take place between the earl of salisbury and lord mounteagle, and through the latter with tresham. thus prepared, on the arrival of bates, tresham, seeing through their design, instead of accompanying him, might give information of their retreat to the officers. the contingency was by no means improbable; and it was urged so strongly by garnet, that catesby began to regret his precipitancy in sending the message. still, his choler was so greatly roused against tresham, that he resolved to gratify his vengeance at any risk. "if he betrays us, and brings the officers here, we shall know how to act," he remarked to fawkes. "there is that below which will avenge us on them all." "true," replied fawkes. "but i trust we shall not be obliged to resort to it." soon after this, bates returned with a message from tresham, stating that he would be at the rendezvous at nightfall, and that he had important disclosures to make to them. he desired them, moreover, to observe the utmost caution, and not to stir abroad. "he may, perhaps, be able to offer an explanation of his conduct," observed keyes. "impossible," returned catesby. "but he shall not die without a hearing." "that is all i desire," returned keyes. while the others were debating upon the interrogations they should put to tresham, and further examining the earl of salisbury's papers, garnet repaired to viviana's chamber, and informed her what was about to take place. she was filled with consternation, and entreated to be allowed to see guy fawkes for a few moments alone. moved by her supplications, garnet complied, and presently afterwards fawkes entered the room. "you have sent for me, viviana," he said. "what would you?" "i have just heard you are about to put one of your companions to death," she replied. "it must not be." "viviana radcliffe," returned fawkes, "by your own desire you have mixed yourself up with my fortunes. i will not now discuss the prudence of the step you have taken. but i deem it necessary to tell you, once for all, that any attempts to turn me from the line of conduct i have marked out to myself will fail. tresham has betrayed us, and he must pay the penalty of his treason." "but not with his life," replied viviana. "do you not now perceive into what enormities this fatal enterprise will lead you? it is not one crime alone that you are about to commit, but many. you constitute yourselves judges of your companion, and without allowing him to defend himself, take his life. disguise it as you may, it is assassination--cold-blooded assassination." "his life is justly forfeited," replied guy fawkes, sternly. "when he took the oath of secrecy and fidelity to our league, he well knew what the consequences would be if he violated it. he has done so. he has compromised our safety. nay, he has sold us to our enemies, and nothing shall save him." "if this is so," replied viviana, "how much better would it be to employ the time now left in providing for your safety, than in contriving means of vengeance upon one, who will be sufficiently punished for his baseness by his own conscience. even if you destroy him, you will not add to your own security, while you will commit a foul and needless crime, equal, if not exceeding in atrocity that you seek to punish." "viviana," replied fawkes, in an angry tone, "in an evil hour, i consented to your accompanying me. i now repent my acquiescence. but, having passed my word, i cannot retract. you waste time, and exhaust my patience and your own by these unavailing supplications. when i embarked in this enterprise, i embraced all its dangers, all its crimes if you will, and i shall not shrink from them. the extent of tresham's treachery is not yet known to us. there may be--and god grant it!--extenuating circumstances in his conduct that may save his life. but, as the case stands at present, his offence appears of that dye that nothing can wash it out but his blood." and he turned to depart. "when do you expect this wretched man?" asked viviana, arresting him. "at nightfall," replied fawkes. "oh! that there were any means of warning him of his danger!" she cried. "there are none," rejoined fawkes, fiercely,--"none that you can adopt. and i must lay my injunctions upon you not to quit your chamber." so saying, he retired. left alone, viviana became a prey to the most agonizing reflections. despite the strong, and almost unaccountable interest she felt in guy fawkes, she began to repent the step she had taken in joining him, as calculated to make her a party to his criminal conduct. but this feeling was transient, and was succeeded by a firmer determination to pursue the good work she had undertaken. "though slight success has hitherto attended my efforts," she thought, "that is no reason why i should relax them. the time is arrived when i may exert a beneficial influence over him; and it may be, that what occurs to-night will prove the first step towards complete triumph. in any case, nothing shall be wanting to prevent the commission of the meditated atrocity." with this, she knelt down and prayed long and fervently, and arose confirmed and strengthened in her resolution. meanwhile, no alteration had taken place in the purposes of the conspirators. night came, but with it came not tresham. catesby, who, up to this time had managed to restrain his impatience, now arose, and signified his intention of going in search of him, and was with difficulty prevented from carrying his threat into execution by guy fawkes, who represented the folly and risk of such a course. "if he comes not before midnight, we shall know what to think, and how to act," he observed; "but till then let us remain tranquil." keyes and the others adding their persuasions to those of fawkes, catesby sat sullenly down, and a profound silence ensued. in this way, some hours were passed, when just at the stroke of midnight, viviana descended from her room, and appeared amongst them. her countenance was deathly pale, and she looked anxiously around the assemblage. all, however, with the exception of fawkes, avoided her gaze. "is he come?" she exclaimed at length. "i have listened intently, but have heard nothing. you cannot have murdered him. and yet your looks alarm me. father garnet, answer me,--is the deed done?" "no, my daughter," replied garnet, sternly. "then he has escaped!" she cried, joyfully. "you expected him at nightfall." "it is not yet too late," replied fawkes, in a sombre tone; "his death is only deferred." "oh! do not say so," she cried, in a voice of agony. "i hoped you had relented." at this moment a peculiar knock was heard at the door. it was thrice repeated, and the strokes vibrated, though with different effect, through every bosom. "he is here," cried catesby, rising. "viviana, go to your chamber," commanded guy fawkes, grasping her hand, and leading her towards the stairs. but she resisted his efforts, and fell on her knees. "i will not go," she cried, in a supplicating tone, "unless you will spare this man's life." "i have already told you my fixed determination," rejoined fawkes, fiercely. "if you will not retire of your own free will, i must force you." "if you attempt it, i will scream, and alarm your victim," she replied. "mr. catesby," she added, "have my prayers, my entreaties, no weight with you? will you not grant me his life?" "no!" replied catesby, fiercely. "she must be silenced," he added, with a significant look at fawkes. "she shall," replied the latter, drawing his poniard. "viviana!" he continued, in a voice, and with a look that left no doubt as to his intentions, "do not compel me to be your destroyer." as he spoke, the knocking was repeated, and viviana uttered a prolonged and piercing cry. guy fawkes raised his weapon, and was about to strike, but his resolution failed him, and his arm dropped nerveless to his side. "your better angel has conquered!" she cried, clasping his knees. while this was passing, the door was thrown open by catesby, and tresham entered the room. "what means this outcry?" he asked, looking round in alarm. "ah! what do i see? viviana radcliffe here! did she utter the scream?" "she did," replied viviana, rising, "and she hoped to warn you by it. but you were led on by your fate." "warn me from what?" ejaculated tresham, starting. "i am among friends." "you are among those who have resolved upon your death," replied viviana. "ah!" exclaimed tresham, making an effort to gain the door, and draw his sword. in both attempts, however, he was foiled, for catesby intercepted him, while fawkes and keyes flung themselves upon him, and binding his arms together with a sword-belt, forced him into a chair. "of what am i accused?" he demanded, in a voice tremulous with rage and terror. "you shall learn presently," replied catesby. and he motioned to fawkes to remove viviana. "let me remain," she cried, fiercely. "my nature is changed, and is become as savage as your own. if blood must be spilt, i will tarry to look upon it." "this is no place for you, dear daughter," interposed garnet. "nor for you either, father," retorted viviana, bitterly; "unless you will act as a minister of christ, and prevent this violence." "let her remain, if she will," observed catesby. "her presence need not hinder our proceedings." so saying, he seated himself opposite tresham, while the two priests placed themselves on either side. guy fawkes took up a position on the left of the prisoner, with his drawn dagger in his hand, and keyes stationed himself near the door. the unfortunate captive regarded them with terrified glances, and trembled in every limb. "thomas tresham," commenced catesby, in a stern voice, "you are a sworn brother in our plot. before i proceed further, i will ask you what should be his punishment who violates his oath, and betrays his confederates? we await your answer?" but tresham remained obstinately silent. "i will tell you, since you refuse to speak," continued catesby. "it is death--death by the hands of his associates." "it may be," replied tresham; "but i have neither broken my oath, nor betrayed you." "your letter to lord mounteagle is in my possession," replied catesby. "behold it!" "perdition!" exclaimed tresham. "but you will not slay me? i have betrayed nothing. i have revealed nothing. on my soul's salvation, i have not! spare me! spare me! and i will be a faithful friend in future. i have been indiscreet--i own it--but nothing more. i have mentioned no names. and lord mounteagle, as you well know, is as zealous a catholic as any now present." "your letter has been sent to the earl of salisbury," pursued catesby, coldly. "it was from him i obtained it." "then lord mounteagle has betrayed me," returned tresham, becoming pale as death. "have you nothing further to allege?" demanded catesby. as tresham made no answer, he turned to the others, and said, "is it your judgment he should die?" all, except viviana, answered in the affirmative. "tresham," continued catesby, solemnly, "prepare to meet your fate like a man. and do you, father," he added to garnet, "proceed to shrive him." "hold!" cried viviana, stepping into the midst of them,--"hold!" she exclaimed, in a voice so authoritative, and with a look so commanding, that the whole assemblage were awe-stricken. "if you think to commit this crime with impunity, you are mistaken. i swear by everything sacred, if you take this man's life, i will go forth instantly, and denounce you all to the council. you may stare, sirs, and threaten me, but you shall find i will keep my word." "we must put her to death too," observed catesby, in an under tone to fawkes, "or we shall have a worse enemy left than tresham." "i cannot consent to it," replied fawkes. "if you mistrust this person, why not place him in restraint?" pursued viviana. "you will not mend matters by killing him." "she says well," observed garnet; "let us put him in some place of security." "i am agreed," replied fawkes. "and i," added keyes. "my judgment, then, is overruled," rejoined catesby. "but i will not oppose you. we will imprison him in the vault beneath this chamber." "he must be without light," said garnet. "and without arms," added keyes. "and without food," muttered catesby. "he has only exchanged one death for another." the flag was then raised, and tresham thrust into the vault, after which it was restored to its former position. "i have saved you from the lesser crime," cried viviana to guy fawkes; "and, with heaven's grace, i trust to preserve you from the greater!" chapter iii. the escape prevented. viviana having retired to her chamber, apparently to rest, a long and anxious consultation was held by the conspirators as to the next steps to be pursued. garnet was of opinion that, as the earl of salisbury was aware of a conspiracy against the state being on foot among the catholics, their project ought to be deferred, if not altogether abandoned. "we are sure to be discovered," he said. "arrests without end will take place. and such rigorous measures will be adopted by the earl, such inquiries instituted, that all will infallibly be brought to light. besides, we know not what tresham may have revealed. he denies having betrayed our secret, but no credit can be attached to his assertions." "shall we examine him again, father," cried catesby, "and wring the truth from him by threats or torture?" "no, my son," replied garnet; "let him remain where he is till morning. a night of solitary confinement, added to the stings of his own guilty conscience, is likely to produce a stronger effect upon him than any torments we could inflict. he shall be interrogated strictly to-morrow, and, i will answer for it, will make a full confession. but even if he has revealed nothing material, there exists another and equally serious ground of alarm. i allude to your meeting with the earl on the river. i should be the last to counsel bloodshed. but if ever it could be justified, it might have been so in this case." "i would have slain him if i had had my own way," returned catesby, with a fierce and reproachful look at fawkes. "if i have done wrong, i will speedily repair my error," observed the latter. "do you desire his death, father? and will you absolve me from the deed?" he added, turning to garnet. "it is better as it is," replied garnet, making a gesture in the negative. "i would not have our high and holy purpose stained by common slaughter. the power that delivered him into your hands, and stayed them, no doubt preserved him for the general sacrifice. my first fear was lest, having noticed the barrels of powder within the boat, he might have suspected your design. but i am satisfied his eyes were blinded, and his reason benighted, so that he could discern nothing." "such was my own opinion, father," replied fawkes. "let us observe the utmost caution, but proceed at all hazards with the enterprise. if we delay, we fail." "right," returned catesby; "and for that counsel i forgive you for standing between me and our enemy." upon this, it was agreed that if nothing occurred in the interim, more powder should be transported to the habitation in westminster on the following night,--that fawkes and catesby, who might be recognised by salisbury's description, should keep close house during the day,--and that the rest of the conspirators should be summoned to assist in digging the mine. prayers were then offered up by the two priests for their preservation from peril, and for success in their enterprise; after which, they threw themselves on benches or seats, and courted slumber. all slept soundly except fawkes, who, not being able to close his eyes, from an undefinable apprehension of danger, arose, and cautiously opening the door, kept watch outside. shortly afterwards, viviana, who had waited till all was quiet, softly descended the stairs, and, shading her light, gazed timorously round. satisfied she was not observed, she glided swiftly and noiselessly to the fire-place, and endeavoured to raise the flag. but it resisted all her efforts, and she was about to abandon the attempt in despair, when she perceived a bolt on one side, that had escaped her notice. hastily withdrawing it, she experienced no further difficulty. the stone revolved on hinges like a trap-door, and lifting it, she hurried down the steps. alarmed by her approach, tresham had retreated to the further end of the vault, and snatching up a halbert from the pile of weapons, cried, in a voice of desperation-- "stand off! i am armed, and have severed my bonds. off, i say! you shall not take me with life." "hush!" cried viviana, putting her finger to her lips, "i am come to set you free." "do i behold an inhabitant of this world?" cried tresham, crossing himself, and dropping the halbert, "or some blessed saint? ah!" he exclaimed, as she advanced towards him, "it is viviana radcliffe--my preserver. pardon, sweet lady. my eyes were dazzled by the light, and your sudden appearance and speech,--and i might almost say looks,--made me think you were some supernatural being come to deliver me from these bloody-minded men. where are they?" "in the room above," she replied, in a whisper,--"asleep,--and if you speak so loud you will arouse them." "let us fly without a moment's delay," returned tresham, in the same tone, and hastily picking up a rapier and a dagger. "stay!" cried viviana, arresting him. "before you go, you must tell me what you are about to do." "we will talk of that when we are out of this accursed place," he replied. "you shall not stir a footstep," she rejoined, placing herself resolutely between him and the outlet, "till you have sworn neither to betray your confederates, nor to do them injury." "may heaven requite me, if i forgive them!" cried tresham between his ground teeth. "remember!--you are yet in their power," she rejoined. "one word from me, and they are at your side. swear!--and swear solemnly, or you do not quit this spot." tresham gazed at her fiercely, and griped his dagger, as if determined to free himself at any cost. "ah!" she ejaculated, noticing the movement, "you are indeed a traitor. you have neither sense of honour nor gratitude, and i leave you to your fate. attempt to follow me, and i give the alarm." "forgive me, viviana," he cried, abjectly prostrating himself at her feet, and clinging to the hem of her dress. "i meant only to terrify you; i would not injure you for worlds. do not leave me with these ruthless cut-throats. they will assuredly murder me. do not remain with them yourself, or you will come to some dreadful end. fly with me, and i will place you beyond their reach--will watch over your safety. or, if you are resolved to brave their fury, let me go, and i will take any oath you propose. as i hope for salvation i will not betray them." "peace!" cried viviana, contemptuously. "if i set you free, it is not to save you, but them." "what mean you?" asked tresham, hesitating. "question me not, but follow," she rejoined, "and tread softly, as you value your life." tresham needed no caution on this head, and as they emerged from the trap-door in breathless silence, and he beheld the figures of his sleeping foes, he could scarcely muster sufficient courage to pass through them. motioning him to proceed quickly, viviana moved towards the door, and to her surprise found it unfastened. without pausing to consider whence this neglect could arise, she opened it, and tresham, who trembled in every limb, and walked upon the points of his feet, stepped forth. as he crossed the threshold, however, a powerful grasp was laid upon his shoulder, and a drawn sword presented to his breast, while the voice of fawkes thundered in his ear, "who goes there? speak, or i strike." while the fugitive, not daring to answer, lest his accents should betray him, endeavoured vainly to break away, viviana, hearing the struggle, threw open the door, and exclaimed, "it is tresham. i set him free." "you!" cried fawkes, in astonishment. "wherefore?" "in the hope that his escape would induce you to abandon your design, and seek safety in flight," she rejoined. "but you have thwarted my purpose." fawkes made no reply, but thrust tresham forcibly into the house, and called to catesby, who by this time had been roused with the others, to close and bar the door. the command was instantly obeyed, and as catesby turned, a strange and fearful group met his view. in the midst stood tresham, his haggard features and palsied frame bespeaking the extremity of his terror. his sword having been beaten from his grasp by fawkes, and his dagger wrested from him by keyes, he was utterly defenceless. viviana had placed herself between him and his assailants, and screening him from their attack, cried-- "despatch me. the fault is mine--mine only--and i am ready to pay the penalty. had i not released him, he would not have attempted to escape. i am the rightful victim." "she speaks the truth," gasped tresham. "if she had not offered to liberate me, i should never have thought of flying. would to heaven i had never yielded to her solicitations!" "peace, craven hound!" exclaimed fawkes, furiously; "you deserve to die for your meanness and ingratitude, if not for your treachery. and it is for this miserable wretch, viviana," he added, turning to her, "that you would have placed your friends in such fearful jeopardy,--it is for him, who would sacrifice you without scruple to save himself, that you now offer your own life?" "i deserve your reproaches," she rejoined, in confusion. "had i not fortunately intercepted him," pursued fawkes, "an hour would not have elapsed ere he would have returned with the officers; and we should have changed this dwelling for a dungeon in the tower,--these benches for the rack." "in pity stab me!" cried viviana, falling at his feet. "but oh! do not wound me with your words. i have committed a grievous wrong; but i was ignorant of the consequences; and, as i hope for mercy hereafter, my sole motive, beyond compassion for this wretched man, was to terrify you into relinquishing your dreadful project." "you have acted wrongfully,--very wrongfully, viviana," interposed garnet: "but since you are fully convinced of your error, no more need be said. there are seasons when the heart must be closed against compassion, and when mercy becomes injustice. go to your chamber, and leave us to deal with this unhappy man." "to-morrow you must quit us," observed fawkes, as she passed him. "quit you!" she exclaimed. "i will never offend again." "i will not trust you," replied fawkes, "unless--but it is useless to impose restrictions upon you, which you will not--perhaps, cannot observe." "impose any restrictions you please," replied viviana. "but do not bid me leave you." "the time is come when we _must_ separate," rejoined fawkes. "see you not that the course we are taking is slippery with blood, and beset with perils which the firmest of your sex could not encounter?" "i will encounter them nevertheless," replied viviana. "be merciful," she added, pointing to tresham, "and mercy shall be shown you in your hour of need." and she slowly withdrew. while this was passing, catesby addressed a few words aside to keyes and oldcorne, and now stepping forward, and fixing his eye steadily upon the prisoner, to note the effect of his speech upon him, said-- "i have devised a plan by which the full extent of tresham's treachery can be ascertained." "you do not mean to torture him, i trust?" exclaimed garnet, uneasily. "no, father," replied catesby. "if torture is inflicted at all, it will be upon the mind, not the body." "then it will be no torture," observed garnet. "state your plan, my son." "it is this," returned catesby. "he shall write a letter to lord mounteagle, stating that he has important revelations to make to him, and entreating him to come hither unattended." "here!" exclaimed fawkes. "here," repeated catesby; "and alone. we will conceal ourselves in such manner that we may overhear what passes between them, and if any attempt is made by the villain to betray our presence, he shall be immediately shot. by this means we cannot fail to elicit the truth." "i approve your plan, my son," replied garnet; "but who will convey the letter to lord mounteagle?" "i will," replied fawkes. "let it be prepared at once, and the case will be thought the more urgent. i will watch him, and see that he comes unattended, or give you timely warning." "enough," rejoined garnet. "let writing materials be procured, and i will dictate the letter." tresham, meanwhile, exhibited no misgiving; but, on the contrary, his countenance brightened up as the plan was approved. "my life will be spared if you find i have not deceived you, will it not?" he asked, in a supplicating voice. "assuredly," replied garnet. "give me pen and ink, then," he cried, "and i will write whatever you desire." "our secret is safe," whispered catesby to garnet. "it is useless to test him further." "i think so," replied garnet. "would we had made this experiment sooner!" "do not delay, i entreat you," implored tresham. "i am eager to prove my innocence." "we are satisfied with the proof we have already obtained," returned garnet. tresham dropped on his knees in speechless gratitude. "we are spared the necessity of being your executioners, my son," pursued garnet, "and i rejoice at it. but i cannot acquit you of the design to betray us; and till you have unburthened your whole soul to me, and proved by severe and self-inflicted penance that you are really penitent, you must remain a captive within these walls." "i will disguise nothing from you, father," replied tresham, "and will strive to expiate my offence by the severest penance you choose to inflict." "do this, my son," rejoined garnet; "leave no doubt of your sincerity, and you may be yet restored to the place you have forfeited, and become a sharer in our great enterprise." "i will never trust him more," observed fawkes. "nor i," added keyes. "_i_ will," rejoined catesby: "not that i have more faith in him than either of you; but i will so watch him that he shall not dare to betray us. nay, more," he added, in an under tone, to garnet, "i will turn his treachery to account. he will be a useful spy upon our enemies." "if he can be relied on," observed garnet. "after this, you need have no fears," rejoined catesby, with a significant smile. "the first part of your penance, my son," said garnet, addressing tresham, "shall be to pass the night in solitary vigil and prayer within the vault. number your transgressions, and reflect upon their enormity. consider not only the injury your conduct might have done us, but the holy church of which you are so sinful a member. weigh over all this, and to-morrow i will hear your confession; when, if i find you in a state of grace, absolution shall not be refused." tresham humbly bowed his head in token of acquiescence. he was then led to the vault, and the flag closed over him, as before. this done, after a brief conversation, the others again stretched themselves on the floor, and sought repose. chapter iv. the mine. some days elapsed before the conspirators ventured forth from their present abode. they had intended to remove the rest of the powder without loss of time, but were induced to defer their purpose on the representations of tresham, who stated to garnet, that in his opinion they would run a great and needless risk. before the expiration of a week, tresham's apparent remorse for his perfidy, added to his seeming zeal, had so far reinstated him in the confidence of his associates, that he was fully absolved of his offence by garnet; and, after taking fresh oaths of even greater solemnity than the former, was again admitted to the league. catesby, however, who placed little faith in his protestations, never lost sight of him for an instant, and, even if he meditated an escape, he had no opportunity of effecting it. a coldness, stronger on his side than hers, seemed to have arisen between viviana and guy fawkes. whenever she descended to the lower room, he withdrew on some excuse; and though he never urged her departure by words, his looks plainly bespoke that he desired it. upon one occasion, she found him alone,--the others being at the time within the vault. he was whetting the point of his dagger, and did not hear her approach, until she stood beside him. he was slightly confused, and a deep ruddy stain flushed his swarthy cheeks and brow; but he averted his gaze, and continued his occupation in silence. "why do you shun me?" asked viviana, laying her hand gently upon his shoulder. and, as he did not answer, she repeated the question in a broken voice. guy fawkes then looked up, and perceived that her eyes were filled with tears. "i shun you, viviana, for two reasons," he replied gravely, but kindly; "first, because i would have no ties of sympathy to make me cling to the world, or care for it; and i feel that if i suffer myself to be interested about you, this will not long be the case: secondly, and chiefly, because you are constantly striving to turn me from my fixed purpose; and, though your efforts have been, and will be unavailing, yet i would not be exposed to them further." "you fear me, because you think i shall shake your resolution," she rejoined, with a forced smile. "but i will trouble you no more. nay, if you wish it, i will go." "it were better," replied fawkes, in accents of deep emotion, and taking her hand. "painful as will be the parting with you, i shall feel more easy when it is over. it grieves me to the soul to see you--the daughter of the proud, the wealthy sir william radcliffe--an inmate of this wretched abode, surrounded by desperate men, whose actions you disapprove, and whose danger you are compelled to share. think how it would add to my suffering if our plot--which heaven avert--should be discovered, and you be involved in it." "do not think of it," replied viviana. "i cannot banish it from my thoughts," continued fawkes. "i cannot reconcile it to my feelings that one so young, so beautiful, should be thus treated. dwelling on this idea unmans me--unfits me for sterner duties. the great crisis is at hand, and i must live only for it." "live for it, then," rejoined viviana; "but, oh! let me remain with you till the blow is struck. something tells me i may yet be useful to you--may save you." "no more of this, if you would indeed remain," rejoined guy fawkes, sternly. "regard me as a sword in the hand of fate, which cannot be turned aside,--as a bolt launched from the cloud, and shattering all in its course, which may not be stopped,--as something terrible, exterminating, immovable. regard me as this, and say whether i am not to be shunned." "no," replied viviana; "i am as steadfast as yourself. i will remain." guy fawkes gazed at her in surprise mixed with admiration, and pressing her hand affectionately, said, "i applaud your resolution. if i had a daughter, i should wish her to be like you." "you promised to be a father to me," she rejoined. "how can you be so if i leave you?" "how _can_ i be so if you stay?" returned fawkes, mournfully. "no, you must indulge no filial tenderness for one so utterly unable to requite it as myself. fix your thoughts wholly on heaven. pray for the restoration of our holy religion--for the success of the great enterprise--and haply your prayers may prevail." "i cannot pray for that," she replied; "for i do not wish it success. but i will pray--and fervently--that all danger may be averted from your head." at this moment, catesby and keyes emerged from the vault, and viviana hurried to her chamber. as soon as it grew dark, the remaining barrels of powder were brought out of the cellar, and carefully placed in the boat. straw was then heaped upon them, and the whole covered with a piece of tarpaulin, as upon the former occasion. it being necessary to cross the river more than once, the conduct of the first and most hazardous passage was intrusted to fawkes, and accompanied by keyes and bates, both of whom were well armed, he set out a little before midnight. it was a clear starlight night; but as the moon had not yet risen, they were under no apprehension of discovery. the few craft they encountered, bent probably on some suspicious errand like themselves, paid no attention to them; and plying their oars swiftly, they shot under the low parapet edging the gardens of the parliament house, just as the deep bell of the abbey tolled forth the hour of twelve. keeping in the shade, they silently approached the stairs. no one was there, not even a waterman to attend to the numerous wherries moored to the steps; and, without losing a moment, they sprang ashore, and concealing the barrels beneath their cloaks, glided like phantoms summoned by the witching hour along the passage formed by two high walls, leading to old palace yard, and speedily reached the gate of the habitation. in this way, and with the utmost rapidity, the whole of the fearful cargo was safely deposited in the garden; and leaving the others to carry it into the house, guy fawkes returned to the boat. as he was about to push off, two persons rushed to the stair-head, and the foremost, evidently mistaking him for a waterman, called to him to take them across the river. "i am no waterman, friend," replied fawkes; "and am engaged on business of my own. seek a wherry elsewhere." "by heaven!" exclaimed the new-comer, in accents of surprise, "it is guy fawkes. do you not know me?" "can it be humphrey chetham?" cried fawkes, equally astonished. "it is," replied the other. "this meeting is most fortunate. i was in search of you, having somewhat of importance to communicate to viviana." "state it quickly, then," returned fawkes; "i cannot tarry here much longer." "i will go with you," rejoined chetham, springing into the boat, and followed by his companion. "you must take me to her." "impossible," cried fawkes, rising angrily; "neither can i permit you to accompany me. i am busied about my own concerns, and will not be interrupted." "at least, tell me where i can find viviana," persisted chetham. "not now--not now," rejoined fawkes, impatiently. "meet me to-morrow night, at this hour, in the great sanctuary, at the farther side of the abbey, and you shall learn all you desire to know." "why not now?" rejoined chetham, earnestly. "you need not fear me. i am no spy, and will reveal nothing." "but your companion?" hesitated fawkes. "it is only martin heydocke," answered chetham. "he can keep a close tongue as well as his master." "well, sit down, then," returned fawkes, sullenly. "there will be less risk in taking them to lambeth," he muttered, "than in loitering here." and rowing with great swiftness, he soon gained the centre of the stream. "and so," he observed, resting for a moment on his oars, "you still cherish your attachment to viviana, i see. nay, never start, man. i am no enemy to your suit, though others may be. and if she would place herself at my disposal, i would give her to you,--certain that it would be to one upon whom her affections are fixed." "do you think any change likely to take place in her sentiments towards me?" faltered chetham. "may i indulge a hope?" "i would not have you despair," replied fawkes. "because, as far as i have noticed, women are not apt to adhere to their resolutions in matters of the heart; and because, as i have just said, she loves you, and i see no reasonable bar to your union." "you give me new life," cried chetham, transported with joy. "oh! that you, who have so much influence with her, would speak in my behalf." "nay, you must plead your own cause," replied fawkes. "i cannot hold out much hope at present; for recent events have cast a deep gloom over her spirit, and she appears to be a prey to melancholy. let this wear off,--and with one so young and so firm-minded it is sure to do so,--and then your suit may be renewed. urge it when you may, you have my best wishes for success, and shall have my warmest efforts to second you." humphrey chetham murmured his thanks in accents almost unintelligible from emotion, and guy fawkes continued, "it would be dangerous for you to disembark with me; but when i put you ashore, i will point out the dwelling at present occupied by viviana. you can visit it as early as you please to-morrow. you will find no one with her but father oldcorne, and i need scarcely add, it will gladden me to the heart to find on my return that she has yielded to your entreaties." "i cannot thank you," cried chetham, warmly grasping his hand; "but i hope to find some means of evincing my gratitude." "prove it by maintaining the strictest secresy as to all you may see or hear,--or even suspect,--within the dwelling you are about to visit," returned guy fawkes. "knowing that i am dealing with a man of honour, i require no stronger obligation than your word." "you have it," replied chetham, solemnly. "your worship shall have my oath, if you desire it," remarked martin heydocke. "no," rejoined fawkes; "your master will answer for your fidelity." shortly after this, guy fawkes pulled ashore, and his companions landed. after pointing out the solitary habitation, which possessed greater interest in humphrey chetham's eyes than the proud structures he had just quitted, and extracting a promise that the young merchant would not approach it till the morrow, he rowed off, and while the others proceeded to lambeth in search of lodging for the night, made the best of his way to the little creek, and entered the house. he found the other conspirators anxiously awaiting his arrival, and the certainty afforded by his presence that the powder had been landed in safety gave general satisfaction. preparations were immediately made for another voyage. a large supply of provisions, consisting of baked meat of various kinds, hard-boiled eggs, pasties, bread, and other viands, calculated to serve for a week's consumption, without the necessity of having recourse to any culinary process, and which had been previously procured with that view, together with a few flasks of wine, occupied the place in the boat lately assigned to the powder. at the risk of overloading the vessel, they likewise increased its burthen by a quantity of mining implements--spades, pickaxes, augers, and wrenching irons. to these were added as many swords, calivers, pikes, and petronels, as the space left would accommodate. garnet and catesby then embarked,--the former having taken an affectionate farewell of viviana, whom he committed, with the strictest injunction to watch over her, to the care of father oldcorne. guy fawkes lingered for a moment, doubting whether he should mention his rencounter with humphrey chetham. he was the more undecided from the deep affliction in which she was plunged. at last, he determined upon slightly hinting at the subject, and to be guided as to what he said further by the manner in which the allusion was received. "and you decide upon remaining here till we return, viviana?" he said. she made a sign in the affirmative. "and you will see no one?" "no one," she answered. "but, should any old friend find his way hither--humphrey chetham, for instance--will you not receive him?" "why do you single out _him_?" demanded viviana, inquiringly. "is he in london? have you seen him?" "i have," replied guy fawkes; "i accidentally met him to-night, and have shown him this dwelling. he will come hither to-morrow." "i wanted only this to make me thoroughly wretched," cried viviana, clasping her hands with anguish. "oh! what unhappy chance threw him across your path? why did you tell him i was here? why give him a hope that i would see him? but i will _not_ see him. i will quit this house rather than be exposed to the meeting." "what means this sudden excitement, viviana?" cried guy fawkes, greatly surprised by her agitation. "why should a visit from humphrey chetham occasion you uneasiness?" "i know not," she answered, blushing deeply; "but i will not hazard it." "i thought you superior to your sex," rejoined fawkes, "and should never have suspected you of waywardness or caprice." "you charge me with failings that do not belong to me," she answered. "i am neither wayward nor capricious; but i would be willingly spared the pain of an interview with one whom i thought i loved." "thought you loved!" echoed fawkes, in increased astonishment. "ay, _thought_," repeated viviana, "for i have since examined my heart, and find he has no place in it." "you might be happy with him, viviana," rejoined fawkes, reproachfully. "i _might_ have been," she replied, "had circumstances favoured our union. but i should not be so now. recent events have wrought an entire change in my feelings. were i to abandon my resolution of retiring to a cloister,--were i to return to the world,--and were such an event possible as that humphrey chetham should conform to the faith of rome,--still, i would not--could not wed him." "i grieve to hear it," replied fawkes. "would _you_ have me wed him?" she cried, in a slightly mortified tone. "in good sooth would i," replied fawkes; "and i repeat my firm conviction you would be happier with him than with one more highly born, and of less real worth." viviana made no reply, and her head declined upon her bosom. "you will see him," pursued fawkes, taking her hand, "if only to tell him what you have just told me." "since you desire it, i will," she replied, fixing a look of melancholy tenderness upon him; "but it will cost me a bitter pang." "i would not tax you with it, if i did not think it needful," returned fawkes. "and now, farewell." "farewell,--it may be, for ever," replied viviana, sadly. "the boat is ready, and the tide ebbing," cried catesby, impatiently, at the door. "we shall be aground if you tarry longer." "i come," replied fawkes. and, waving an adieu to viviana, he departed. "strange!" he muttered to himself, as he took his way to the creek. "i could have sworn she was in love with humphrey chetham. who can have superseded him in her regard? not catesby, of a surety. 'tis a perplexing sex. the best are fickle. heaven be praised! i have long been proof against their wiles." thus musing, he sprang into the skiff, and assisting catesby to push it into deep water, seized an oar, and exerted himself stoutly to make up for lost time. the second voyage was as prosperous as the first. a thick veil of cloud had curtained the stars; the steps were deserted as before; and the provisions, arms, and implements were securely conveyed to their destination. thus far fortune seemed to favour their undertaking, and garnet, falling on his knees, offered up the most fervent thanksgivings. prayers over, they descended to the cellar, and their first care was to seek out a place as free from damp as possible, where the powder could be deposited till the excavation, which it was foreseen would be a work of time and great labour, was completed. a dry corner being found, the barrels were placed in it, and carefully concealed with billets of wood and coals, so as to avert suspicion in case of search. this, with other arrangements, occupied the greater part of the night, and the commencement of the important undertaking was deferred till the morrow, when an increase of their party was anticipated. throughout the whole of the day no one stirred forth. the windows were kept closed; the doors locked; and, as no fires were lighted, the house had the appearance of being uninhabited. in the course of the morning they underwent considerable alarm. some mischievous urchins having scaled the garden wall, one of them fell within it, and his cries so terrified his playmates that they dropped on the other side, and left him. the conspirators reconnoitred the unhappy urchin, who continued his vociferations in a loud key, through the holes in the shutters, uncertain what to do, and fearing that this trifling mischance might lead to serious consequences, when the subject of their uneasiness relieved them by scrambling up the wall near the door, and so effecting a retreat. with this exception, nothing material occurred till evening, when their expected associates arrived. the utmost caution was observed in admitting them. the new-comers were provided with a key of the garden-gate, but a signal was given and repeated before the house-door was opened by bates, to whom the office of porter was intrusted. as soon as the latter had satisfied himself that all was right, by unmasking a dark lantern, and throwing its radiance upon the faces of the elder wright, rookwood, and percy, he stamped his foot thrice, and the conspirators emerged from their hiding-places. a warm greeting passed between the confederates, and they adjourned to a lower chamber, adjoining the vault, where the sound of their voices could not be overheard, and where, while partaking of a frugal meal--for they desired to eke out their store of provisions as long as possible--they discoursed upon their plans, and all that had occurred since their last meeting. nothing was said of the treachery of tresham--his recent conduct, as already observed, having been such as to restore him in a great degree to the confidence of his companions. percy, whose office as a gentleman-pensioner gave him the best opportunities of hearing court-whispers and secrets, informed them it was rumoured that the earl of salisbury had obtained a clue to some catholic plot, whether their own he could not say; but it would seem from all that could be gathered, that his endeavours to trace it out had been frustrated. "where is lord mounteagle?" demanded catesby. "at his mansion near hoxton," replied percy. "have you observed him much about the court of late, or with the earl of salisbury?" pursued catesby. "no," replied percy. "yet now, i bethink me, i did observe them together, and in earnest conversation about a week ago. but lord mounteagle knows nothing of _our_ plot." "hum!" exclaimed catesby, shrugging his shoulders, while significant looks were exchanged by the others, and tresham hung his head. "lord mounteagle may not know that you or i, or fawkes, or rookwood, are conspiring against the state; but he knows that a plot is hatching amongst our party. it is from him that the earl of salisbury derived his information." "amazement!" exclaimed percy. "a good catholic, and betray his fellows!" cried rookwood; "this passes my comprehension. are you sure of it?" "unhappily we are so, my son," replied garnet, gravely. "we will speak of this hereafter," interposed catesby. "i have a plan to get his lordship into our power, and make him serve our purposes in spite of himself. we will outwit the crafty salisbury. can any one tell if tresham's sudden disappearance has been noticed." "his household report that he is on a visit to sir everard digby, at gothurst," replied rookwood. "i called at his residence yesterday, and was informed that a letter had just been received from him dated from that place. his departure, they said, was sudden, but his letter fully accounted for it." "the messenger who bore that letter had only to travel from lambeth," observed catesby, smiling. "so i conclude," returned rookwood. "and, now that our meal is ended, let us to work," cried fawkes, who had taken no part in the foregoing conversation. "i will strike the first blow," he added, rising and seizing a mattock. "hold, my son!" exclaimed garnet, arresting him. "the work upon which the redemption of our holy church hangs must be commenced with due solemnity." "you are right, father," replied fawkes, humbly. headed by garnet, bearing a crucifix, they then repaired to the vault. a silver chalice, filled with holy water, was carried by fawkes, and two lighted tapers by catesby. kneeling down before that part of the wall against which operations were about to be directed, and holding the crucifix towards it, garnet commenced praying in a low but earnest tone, gradually raising his voice, and increasing in fervour as he proceeded. the others knelt around him, and the whole formed a strange and deeply-interesting group. the vault itself harmonized with its occupants. it was of great antiquity; and its solid stone masonry had acquired a time-worn hoary tint. in width it was about nine feet, and of corresponding height, supported by a semi-circular arch, and its length was more than twenty feet. the countenances of the conspirators showed that they were powerfully moved by what was passing; but next to garnet, guy fawkes exhibited the greatest enthusiasm. his ecstatic looks and gestures evinced the strong effect produced upon his superstitious character by the scene. garnet concluded his prayer as follows:-- "thus far, o lord, we have toiled in darkness and in difficulty; but we have now arrived at a point where all thy support is needed. do not desert us, we beseech thee, but let thy light guide us through these gloomy paths. nerve our arms,--sharpen our weapons,--and crumble these hard and flinty stones, so that they may yield to our efforts. aid our enterprise, if thou approvest it, and it be really, as in our ignorance we believe it to be, for the welfare of thy holy church, and the confusion of its enemies. bear witness, o lord, that we devote ourselves wholly and entirely to this one end,--and that we implore success only for thy glory and honour." with this he arose, and the following strains were chanted by the whole assemblage:-- hymn of the conspirators. the heretic and heathen, lord, consume with fire, cut down with sword; the spoilers from thy temples thrust, their altars trample in the dust. false princes and false priests lay low, their habitations fill with woe. scatter them, lord, with sword and flame, and bring them utterly to shame. thy vengeful arm no longer stay, arise! exterminate, and slay. so shall thy fallen worship be restored to its prosperity. this hymn raised the enthusiasm of the conspirators to the highest pitch, and such was the effect produced by it, as it rolled in sullen echoes along the arched roof of the vault, that several of them drew their swords, and crossed the blades, with looks of the most determined devotion to their cause. when it was ended, garnet recited other prayers, and sprinkled holy water upon the wall, and upon every implement about to be used, bestowing a separate benediction on each. as he delivered the pick-axe to guy fawkes, he cried in a solemn voice-- "strike, my son, in the name of the most high, and in behalf of our holy religion,--strike!" guy fawkes raised the weapon, and stimulated by excitement, threw the whole strength of his arm into the blow. a large piece of the granite was chipped off, but the mattock snapped in twain. guy fawkes looked deeply disconcerted, and garnet, though he concealed his emotion, was filled with dismay. "let me take your place," cried keyes, advancing, as guy fawkes retired. keyes was a powerful man, and exerting his energies, he buried the point of the pick-axe so deeply in the mortar, that he could not remove it unassisted. these untoward circumstances cast a slight damp upon their ardour; but catesby, who perceived it, went more cautiously to work, and in a short time succeeded with great labour in getting out the large stone upon which the others had expended so much useless exertion. the sight restored their confidence, and as many as could work in the narrow space joined him. but they found that their task was much more arduous than they had anticipated. more than an hour elapsed before they could loosen another stone, and though they laboured with the utmost perseverance, relieving each other by turns, they had made but a small breach when morning arrived. the stones were as hard and unyielding as iron, and the mortar in some places harder than the stones. after a few hours' rest, they resumed their task. still, they made but small progress; and it was not until the third day that they had excavated a hole sufficiently wide and deep to admit one man within it. they were now arrived at a compost of gravel and flint stones; and if they had found their previous task difficult, what they had now to encounter was infinitely more so. their implements made little or no impression on this unyielding substance, and though they toiled incessantly, the work proceeded with disheartening slowness. the stones and rubbish were conveyed at dead of night in hampers into the garden, and buried. one night, when they were labouring as usual, guy fawkes, who was foremost in the excavation, thought he heard the tolling of a bell within the wall. he instantly suspended his task, and being convinced that he was not deceived, crept out of the hole, and made a sign to the others to listen. each had heard the awful sound before; but as it was partially drowned by the noise of the pick-axe, it had not produced much impression upon them, as they attributed it to some vibration in the wall, caused by the echo of the blows. but it was now distinctly audible--deep, clear, slow,--like a passing bell,--but so solemn, so unearthly, that its tones froze the blood in their veins. [illustration: _guy fawkes and the other conspirators alarmed while digging the mine_] they listened for a while in speechless astonishment, scarcely daring to look at each other, and expecting each moment that the building would fall upon them, and bury them alive. the light of a single lantern placed upon an upturned basket fell upon figures rigid as statues, and countenances charged with awe. "my arm is paralysed," said guy fawkes, breaking silence; "i can work no more." "try holy water, father," cried catesby. "if it proceeds from aught of evil, that will quell it." the chalice containing the sacred lymph was brought, and pronouncing a solemn exorcism, garnet sprinkled the wall. the sound immediately ceased. "it is as i thought, father," observed catesby; "it is the delusion of an evil spirit." as he spoke, the tolling of the mysterious bell was again heard, and more solemnly,--more slowly than before. "sprinkle the wall again, in heaven's name, father," cried fawkes, crossing himself devoutly. "avoid thee, sathanas!" garnet complied, and throwing holy water upon the stones, the same result followed. chapter v. the capture of viviana. on the morning after his encounter with guy fawkes, humphrey chetham, accompanied by martin heydocke, took his way to lambeth marsh. with a throbbing heart he approached the miserable dwelling he knew to be inhabited by viviana, and could scarcely summon courage to knock at the door. his first summons not being answered, he repeated it more loudly, and he then perceived the face of father oldcorne at the window, who, having satisfied himself that it was a friend, admitted him and his attendant. "you were expected, my son," said the priest, after a friendly greeting. "guy fawkes has prepared viviana for your coming." "will she not see me?" demanded the young merchant, uneasily. "i believe so," replied oldcorne. "but i will apprise her of your arrival. be seated, my son." he then carefully fastened the door, and repaired to viviana's chamber, leaving chetham in that state of tremor and anxiety which a lover, hoping to behold his mistress, only knows. it was some time before viviana appeared, and the young merchant, whose heart beat violently at the sound of her footstep, was startled by the alteration in her looks, and the extreme coldness of her manner. oldcorne was with her, and motioning martin heydocke to follow him, the youthful pair were left alone. "you desire to see me, i am given to understand, sir," observed viviana, in a freezing tone. "i have journeyed to london for that express purpose," replied humphrey chetham, tremulously. "i am much beholden to you, sir," returned viviana, in the same repelling tone as before; "but i regret you should have taken so much trouble on my account." "to serve you is happiness, not trouble, viviana," replied humphrey chetham, ardently; "and i am overjoyed at finding an opportunity of proving my devotion." "i have yet to learn what service i must thank you for," she returned. "i can scarcely say that i am warranted in thus intruding upon you," replied chetham, greatly abashed; "but, having learnt from my servant, martin heydocke, that doctor dee had set out for london, with the view of seeking you out, and withdrawing you from your present associates, i was determined to be beforehand with him, and to acquaint you, if possible, with his intentions." "what you say surprises me," replied viviana. "doctor dee has no right to interfere with my actions. nor should i obey him were he to counsel me, as is scarcely probable, to quit my companions." "i know not what connexion there may be between you to justify the interposition of his authority," replied chetham; "neither did i tarry to inquire. but presuming from what i heard, that he _would_ attempt to exercise some control over you, i set out at once, and, without guide to your retreat, or the slightest knowledge of it, was fortunate enough, on the very night of my arrival in london, to chance upon guy fawkes, who directed me to you." "i am aware of it," was the chilling answer. "i will not avouch," pursued chetham, passionately, "that i have not been actuated as much by an irrepressible desire to see you again, as by anxiety to apprise you of doctor dee's coming. i wanted only a slight excuse to myself to induce me to yield to my inclinations. your departure made me wretched. i thought i had more control over myself. but i find i cannot live without you." "alas! alas!" cried viviana, in a troubled tone, and losing all her self-command. "i expected this. why--why did you come?" "i have told you my motive," replied chetham; "but, oh! do not reproach me!" "i do not desire to do so," returned viviana, with a look of agony. "i bitterly reproach myself that i cannot meet you as of old. but i would rather--far rather have encountered doctor dee, had he come hither resolved to exert all his magical power to force me away, than have met you." "have i unwittingly offended you, viviana?" asked chetham, in astonishment. "oh! no--no--no!" she replied, "you have not offended me; but----" "but what?" he cried, anxiously. "i would rather have died than see you," she answered. "i will not inquire wherefore," rejoined chetham, "because i too well divine the cause. i am no longer what i was to you." "press this matter no further, i pray of you," returned viviana, in much confusion, and blushing deeply. "i shall ever esteem you,--ever feel the warmest gratitude to you. and what matters it whether my heart is estranged from you or not, since i can never wed you?" "what matters it?" repeated the young merchant, in accents of despair,--"it matters much. drowning love will cling to straws. the thought that i was beloved by you, though i could never hope to possess your hand, reconciled me in some degree to my fate. but now," he added, covering his face with his hands,--"now, my heart is crushed." "nay, say not so," cried viviana, in a voice of the deepest emotion. "i _do_ love you,--as a sister." "that is small comfort," rejoined chetham, bitterly. "i echo your own wish. would we had never met again! i might, at least, have deluded myself into the belief that you loved me." "it would have been better so," she returned. "i would inflict pain on no one--far less on you, whom i regard so much, and to whom i owe so much." "you owe me nothing, viviana," rejoined chetham. "all i desired was to serve you. in the midst of the dangers we have shared together, i felt no alarm except for your sake. i have done nothing--nothing. would i had died for you!" "calm yourself, sir, i entreat you," she returned. "you did love me _once_?" demanded chetham, suddenly. "i thought so," she answered. the young merchant uttered an exclamation of anguish, and a mournful pause ensued, broken only by his groans. "answer me, viviana," he said, turning abruptly upon her,--"answer me, and, in mercy, answer truly,--do you love another?" "it is a question i cannot answer," she replied, becoming ashy pale. "your looks speak for you!" he vociferated, in a terrible tone,--"you do! his name?--his name?--that i may wreak my vengeance upon him." "your violence terrifies me," returned viviana, withdrawing the hand he had seized. "i must put an end to this interview." "pardon me, viviana!" cried chetham, falling on his knees before her--"in pity pardon me! i am not myself. i shall be calmer presently. but if you knew the anguish of the wound you have inflicted, you would not add to it." "heaven knows i would not!" she returned, motioning him to rise. "and, if it will lighten your suffering, know that the love i feel for another--if love, indeed, it be,--is as hopeless as your own. but it is not a love of which even _you_ could be jealous. it is a higher and a holier passion. it is affection mixed with admiration, and purified from all its grossness. it is more, perhaps, than the love of a daughter for her father--but it is nothing more. i shall never wed him i love--could not if i would. nay, i would shun him, if i did not feel that the hour will soon come when the extent of my affection must be proved." "this is strange sophistry," returned chetham; "and you may deceive yourself by it, but you cannot deceive me. you love as all ardent natures do love. but in what way do you mean to prove your affection?" "perhaps, by the sacrifice of my life," she answered. "i can tell you who is the object of your affections!" said chetham. "it is guy fawkes." "i will not deny it," replied viviana; "he is." "hear me, then," exclaimed chetham, who appeared inexpressibly relieved by the discovery he had made; "in my passage across the river with him last night, our conversation turned on the one subject ever nearest my heart, yourself,--and guy fawkes not only bade me not despair, but promised to aid my suit." "and he kept his word," replied viviana, "for, while announcing your proposed visit, he urged me strongly in your behalf." "then he knows not of your love for him?" demanded chetham. "he not only knows it not, but never shall know it from me,--nor must he know it from you, sir," rejoined viviana, energetically. "fear it not," said chetham, sighing. "it is a secret i shall carefully preserve." "and now that you are in possession of it," she answered, "i no longer feel your presence as a restraint. let me still regard you as a friend." "be it so," replied humphrey chetham, mournfully; "and _as_ a friend let me entreat you to quit this place, and abandon your present associates. i will not seek to turn your heart from fawkes--nor will i try to regain the love i have lost. but let me implore you to pause ere you irretrievably mix yourself up with the fortunes of one so desperate. i am too well aware that he is engaged in a fearful plot against the state,--though i know not its precise nature." "you will not betray him?" she cried. "i will not, though he is my rival," returned chetham. "but others may--nay, perhaps have done so already." "whom do you suspect?" demanded viviana, in the greatest alarm. "i fear doctor dee," replied the young merchant; "but i know nothing certainly. my servant, martin heydocke, who is in the doctor's confidence, intimated as much to me, and i have reason to think that his journey to town, under the pretext of searching for you, is undertaken for the purpose of tracing out the conspirators, and delivering them to the government." "is he arrived in london?" inquired viviana, eagerly. "i should think not," returned chetham. "i passed him, four days ago, on this side leicester, in company with kelley and topcliffe." "if the wretch topcliffe was with him, your conjectures are too well founded," she replied. "i must warn guy fawkes instantly of his danger." "command my services in any way," said chetham. "i know not what to do," cried viviana, after a pause, during which she betrayed the greatest agitation. "i dare not seek him out;--and yet, if i do not, he may fall into the hands of the enemy. i must see him at all hazards." "suffer me to go with you," implored chetham. "you may rely upon my secrecy. and now i have a double motive for desiring to preserve fawkes." "you are, indeed, truly noble-hearted and generous," replied viviana; "and i would fully confide in you. but, if you were to be seen by the others, you would be certainly put to death. not even fawkes could save you." "i will risk it, if you desire it, and it will save _him_," replied the young merchant, devotedly. "nay, i will go alone." "that were to insure your destruction," she answered. "no--no--it must not be. i will consult with father oldcorne." with this, she hurried out of the room, and returned in a short time with the priest. "father oldcorne is of opinion that our friends must be apprised of their danger," she said. "and he thinks it needful we should both go to their retreat, that no hindrance may be offered to our flight, in case such a measure should be resolved upon." "you cannot accompany us, my son," added oldcorne; "for though i am as fully assured of your fidelity as viviana, and would confide my life to you, there are those who will not so trust you, and who might rejoice in the opportunity of removing you." "viviana!" exclaimed chetham, looking entreatingly at her. "for my sake,--if not for your own,--do not urge this further," she returned. "there are already dangers and difficulties enow without adding to them. you would be safer amid a horde of robbers than amidst these men." "and it is to such persons you commit yourself?" cried chetham, reproachfully. "oh! be warned by me, ere it is too late! abandon them!" "it is too late, already," replied viviana. "the die is cast." "then i can only lament it," returned chetham, sadly. "suffer me, at least, to accompany you to some place near their retreat, that you may summon me in case of need." "there can be no objection to that, viviana," observed oldcorne; "provided humphrey chetham will promise not to follow us." "readily," replied the young merchant. "i am unwilling to expose him to further risk on my account," said viviana. "but be it as you will." it was then agreed, that they should not set out till nightfall, but proceed, as soon as it grew dark, to lambeth, where humphrey chetham undertook to procure a boat for their conveyance across the river. the hour of departure at length arrived. viviana, who had withdrawn to her own room, appeared in her travelling habit, and was about to set forth with her companions, when they were all startled by a sudden and loud knocking at the door. "we are discovered," she cried. "doctor dee has found out our retreat." "fear nothing," rejoined chetham, drawing his sword, while his example was imitated by martin heydocke; "they shall not capture you while i live." as he spoke, the knocking was repeated, and the door shaken so violently as to threaten to burst its fastenings. "extinguish the light," whispered chetham, "and let father oldcorne conceal himself. we have nothing to fear." "where shall i fly?" cried oldcorne despairingly. "it will be impossible to raise the flag, and seek refuge in the vault." "fly to my room," cried viviana. and finding he stood irresolute, as if paralysed with terror, she took his arm, and dragged him away. the next moment the door was burst open with a loud crash, and several armed men, with their swords drawn, followed by topcliffe, and another middle-aged man, of slight stature, and rather under-sized, but richly dressed, and bearing all the marks of exalted rank, rushed into the room. "you are my prisoner!" cried topcliffe, rushing up to chetham, who had planted himself, with martin heydocke, at the foot of the stairs. "i arrest you in the king's name!" "you are mistaken in your man, sir," cried chetham, fiercely. "i have committed no offence. lay a hand upon me, at your peril!" "how is this?" cried topcliffe. "humphrey chetham here!" "ay," returned the young merchant; "you have fallen upon the wrong house." "not so, sir," replied topcliffe. "i am satisfied from your presence that i am right. where _you_ are, viviana radcliffe is not far off. throw down your arms. you can offer no resistance to my force, and your zeal will not benefit your friends, while it will place your own safety in jeopardy." but chetham fiercely refused compliance, and after a few minutes' further parley, the soldiers were about to attack him, when viviana opened a door above, and slowly descended the stairs. at her appearance the young merchant, seeing that further resistance would be useless, sheathed his sword, and she passed between him and heydocke, and advanced towards the leaders of the band. "what means this intrusion?" she asked. "we are come in search of two jesuit priests, whom we have obtained information are hidden here," replied topcliffe;--"as well as of certain other papists, disaffected against the state, for whose apprehension i hold a warrant." "you are welcome to search the house," replied viviana. "but there is no one within it except those you see." as she said this, chetham, who gazed earnestly at her, caught her eye, and from a scarcely-perceptible glance, felt certain that the priest, through her agency, had effected his escape. but the soldiers had not waited for her permission to make the search. rushing up-stairs they examined the different chambers,--there were two small rooms besides that occupied by viviana,--and found several of the priests' habiliments; but though they examined every corner with the minutest attention, sounded the walls, peered up the chimneys, underneath the bed, and into every place, likely and unlikely, they could find no other traces of those they sought, and were compelled to return to their leader with tidings of their ill success. topcliffe, with another party, continued his scrutiny below, and discovering the moveable flag in the hearth, descended into the vault, where he made certain of discovering his prey. but no one was there; and, the powder and arms having been removed, he gained nothing by his investigations. meanwhile, his companion,--and evidently from his garb, and the deference paid him, though he was addressed by no title which could lead to the absolute knowledge of his rank, his superior,--seated himself, and put many questions in a courteous but authoritative tone to viviana respecting her residence in this solitary abode,--the names of her companions,--where they were,--and upon what scheme they were engaged. to none of these questions would she return an answer, and her interrogator, at last, losing patience, said, "i hold it my duty, to inform you that you will be carried before the council, and if you continue thus obstinate, means will be taken--and those none of the gentlest--to extort the truth from you." "you may apply the torture to me," replied viviana, firmly; "but it will wrest nothing from me." "that remains to be seen," replied the other; "i only trust you will not compel me to put my threat into execution." at this moment topcliffe emerged from the vault, and the soldiers returned from their unsuccessful search above. "they have escaped us now," remarked topcliffe to his superior. "but i will conceal a party of men on the premises, who will be certain to capture them on their return." viviana uttered an exclamation of irrepressible uneasiness, which did not escape her auditors. "i am right, you see," observed topcliffe, significantly, to his companion. "you are so," replied the other. as this was said, viviana hazarded a look at humphrey chetham, the meaning of which he was not slow to comprehend. he saw that she wished him to make an effort to escape, that he might warn her companions, and regardless of the consequence, be prepared to obey her. while those around were engaged in a last fruitless search, he whispered his intentions to martin heydocke, and only awaited a favourable opportunity to put them in execution. it occurred sooner than he expected. before quitting the premises, topcliffe determined to visit the upper rooms himself, and he took several of the men with him. chetham would have made an attempt to liberate viviana, but, feeling certain it would be unsuccessful, he preferred obeying her wishes to his own inclinations. topcliffe gone, he suddenly drew his sword,--for neither he nor heydocke had been disarmed,--and rushing towards the door, struck down the man next it, and followed by his servant, passed through it before he could be intercepted. they both then flew at a swift pace towards the marshy fields, and, owing to the darkness and unstable nature of the ground, speedily distanced their pursuers. hearing the disturbance below, and guessing its cause, topcliffe immediately descended. but he was too late; and though he joined in the pursuit, he was baffled like his attendants. half an hour afterwards, he returned to the house with an angry and disappointed look. "he has given us the slip," he observed to his superior, who appeared exceedingly provoked by the young merchant's flight; "but we will soon have him again." after giving directions to his men how to conceal themselves, topcliffe informed his companions that he was ready to attend him. viviana, who had remained motionless and silent during the foregoing scene, was taken out of the house, and conducted towards the creek, in which lay a large wherry manned by four rowers. she was placed within it, and as soon as his superior was seated, topcliffe inquired-- "where will your lordship go first?" "to the star-chamber," was the answer. at this reply, in spite of herself, viviana could not repress a shudder. "all is lost!" she mentally ejaculated. chapter vi. the cellar. it was long before the conspirators gained sufficient courage to recommence digging the mine. whenever holy water was thrown upon the stones, the mysterious bell ceased tolling, but it presently began anew, and such was the appalling effect of the sound that it completely paralysed the listeners. prayers were said by garnet; hymns sung by the others; but all was of no avail. it continued to toll on with increased solemnity, unless checked by the same potent application as before. the effect became speedily manifest in the altered looks and demeanour of the conspirators, and it was evident that if something was not done to arouse them, the enterprise would be abandoned. catesby, equally superstitious with his confederates, but having nerves more firmly strung, was the first to conquer his terror. crossing himself, he muttered a secret prayer, and, snatching up a pick-axe, entered the cavity, and resumed his labour. the noise of the heavy blows dealt by him against the wall drowned the tolling of the bell. the charm was broken. and stimulated by his conduct, the others followed his example, and though the awful tolling continued at intervals during the whole of their operations, it offered no further interruption to them. another and more serious cause of anxiety, however, arose. as the work advanced, without being aware of it, they approached the bank of the river, and the water began to ooze through the sides of the excavation,--at first, slightly, but by degrees to such an extent as to convince them that their labour would be entirely thrown away. large portions of the clay, loosened by the damp, fell in upon them, nearly burying those nearest the tumbling mass; and the floor was now in some places more than a foot deep in water, clearly proving it would be utterly impossible to keep the powder fit for use in such a spot. catesby bore these untoward circumstances with ill-concealed mortification. for a time, he struggled against them; and though he felt that it was hopeless, worked on like a desperate military leader conducting a forlorn hope to certain destruction. at length, however, the water began to make such incursions that he could no longer disguise from himself or his companions that they were contending against insurmountable difficulties, and that to proceed further would be madness. he, therefore, with a heavy heart, desisted, and throwing down his pick-axe, said it was clear that heaven did not approve their design, and that it must be relinquished. "we ought to have been warned by that doleful bell," he observed in conclusion. "i now perceive its meaning. and as i was the first to act in direct opposition to the declared will of the supreme being, so now i am the first to admit my error." "i cannot account for that dread and mysterious sound, my son," replied garnet, "and can only attribute it, as you do, to divine interference. but whether it was intended as a warning or a guidance, i confess i am unable to say." "can you longer doubt, father," returned catesby, bitterly, "when you look at yon excavation? it took us more than a week's incessant labour to get through the first wall; and our toil was no sooner lightened than these fatal consequences ensued. if we proceed, we shall drown ourselves, instead of blowing up our foes. and even if we should escape, were the powder stowed for one day in that damp place, it would never explode. we have failed, and must take measures accordingly." "i entirely concur with you, my son," replied garnet; "we must abandon our present plan. but do not let us be disheartened. perhaps at this very moment heaven is preparing for us a victory by some unlooked-for means." "it may be so," replied catesby, with a look of incredulity. as he spoke, an extraordinary noise, like a shower of falling stones, was heard overhead. and coupling the sound with their fears of the encroachment of the damp, the conspirators glanced at each other in dismay, thinking the building was falling in upon them. "all blessed saints protect us!" cried garnet, as the sound ceased. "what was that?" but no one was able to account for it, and each regarded his neighbour with apprehension. after a short interval of silence, the sound was heard again. there was then another pause--and again the same rushing and inexplicable noise. "what can it be?" cried catesby. "i am so enfeebled by this underground life, that trifles alarm me. are our enemies pulling down the structure over our heads?--or are they earthing us up like vermin?" he added to fawkes. "what is it?" "i will go and see," replied the other. "do not expose yourself, my son," cried garnet. "let us abide the result here." "no, father," replied fawkes. "having failed in our scheme, what befals me is of little consequence. i will go. if i return not, you will understand what has happened." pausing for a moment to receive garnet's benediction, he then strode away. half an hour elapsed before fawkes returned, and the interval appeared thrice its duration in the eyes of the conspirators. when he re-appeared, a smile sat upon his countenance, and his looks instantly dispelled the alarm that had been previously felt. "you bring us good news, my son?" cried garnet. "excellent, father," replied fawkes: "and you were right in saying that at the very moment we were indulging in misgiving, heaven was preparing for us a victory by unforeseen and mysterious means." garnet raised his hands gratefully and reverentially upwards. and the other conspirators crowded round fawkes to listen to his relation. "the noise we heard," he said, "arose from a very simple circumstance,--and when you hear it, you will smile at your fears. but you will not smile at the result to which it has led. exactly overhead, it appears, a cellar is situated, belonging to a person named bright, and the sound was occasioned by the removal of his coals, which he had been selling off." "is that all?" cried catesby. "we are indeed grown childish, to be alarmed by such a cause." "it appears slight now it is explained," observed keyes, gravely; "but how were we to know whence it arose?" "true," returned fawkes; "and i will now show you how the hand of heaven has been manifested in the matter. the noise which led me to this investigation, and which i regard as a signal from on high, brought me to a cellar i had never seen before, and knew not existed. _that cellar lies immediately beneath the house of lords._" "ah! i see!" exclaimed catesby. "you think it would form a good depository for the powder." "if it had been built for the express purpose, it could not be better," returned fawkes. "it is commodious and dry, and in an out-of-the-way place, as you may judge, when we ourselves have never hitherto noticed it." "but what is all this to us, if we cannot use it?" returned catesby. "we _can_ use it," replied fawkes. "it is ours." there was a general exclamation of surprise. "finding, on inquiry, that bright was about to quit the neighbourhood," continued fawkes, "and did not require the place longer, i instantly proposed to take it from him, and to create no suspicion, engaged it in percy's name, stating that he wanted it for his own fuel." "you have done admirably," cried catesby, in a tone of exultation. "the success of the enterprise will now be entirely owing to you." "not to me, but to the providence that directed me," replied fawkes, solemnly. "right, my son," returned garnet. "and let this teach us never to despair again." the next day, percy having taken possession of the cellar, it was carefully examined, and proved, as fawkes had stated, admirably adapted to their purpose. their fears were now at an end, and they looked on the success of their project as certain. the mysterious bell no longer tolled, and their sole remaining task was to fill up the excavation so far as to prevent any damage from the wet. this was soon done, and their next step was to transport the powder during the night to the cellar. concealing the barrels as before with faggots and coals, they gave the place the appearance of a mere receptacle for lumber, by filling it with old hampers, boxes without lids, broken bottles, stone jars, and other rubbish. they now began to think of separating, and fawkes expressed his intention of returning that night to the house at lambeth. no intelligence had reached them of viviana's captivity, and they supposed her still an inmate of the miserable dwelling with father oldcorne. fawkes had often thought of her, and with uneasiness, during his toilsome labours; but they had so much engrossed him that her image was banished almost as soon as it arose. now that grand obstacle was surmounted, and nothing was wanting, however, except a favourable moment to strike the blow, he began to feel the greatest anxiety respecting her. still, he thought it prudent to postpone his return to a late hour, and it was not until near midnight that he and catesby ventured to their boat. as he was about to descend the steps, he heard his name pronounced by some one at a little distance; and the next moment, a man, whom he immediately recognised as humphrey chetham, rushed up to him. "you here again!" cried fawkes, angrily, and not unsuspiciously. "do you play the spy upon me?" "i have watched for you for the last ten nights," replied chetham hastily. "i knew not where you were. but i found your boat here, and i hoped you would not cross the water in any other." "why all this care?" demanded fawkes. "has aught happened?--is viviana safe?--speak, man! do not keep me longer in suspense!" "alas!" rejoined chetham, "she is a prisoner." [illustration: _guy fawkes laying the train_] "a prisoner!" ejaculated fawkes, in a hollow voice. "then my forebodings were not without cause." "how has this happened?" cried catesby, who had listened to what was said in silent wonder. chetham then hastily related all that had taken place. "i know not what has become of her," he said, in conclusion; "but i have heard that she was taken to the star-chamber by the earl of salisbury,--for he, it appears, was the companion of topcliffe,--and, refusing to answer the interrogations of the council, was conveyed to the tower, and, i fear, subjected to the torture." "tortured!" exclaimed fawkes, horror-stricken; "viviana tortured! and i have brought her to this! oh, god! oh, god!" "it is indeed an agonizing reflection," replied humphrey chetham, in a sombre tone, "and enough to drive you to despair. her last wishes, expressed only in looks, for she did not dare to give utterance to them, were that i should warn you not to approach the house at lambeth, your enemies being concealed within it. i have now fulfilled them. farewell!" and he turned to depart. "stay!" cried catesby, arresting him. "where is father oldcorne?" "i know not," replied humphrey chetham. "as i have told you, viviana by some means contrived his escape. i have seen nothing of him." and, hurrying away, he was lost beneath the shadow of the wall. "is this a troubled dream, or dread reality?" cried fawkes to catesby. "i fear it is too true," returned the other, in a voice of much emotion. "poor viviana!" "something must be done to set her free," cried fawkes. "i will purchase her liberty by delivering up myself." "your oath--remember your oath!" rejoined catesby. "you may destroy yourself, but not your associates." "true--true," replied fawkes, distractedly,--"i _do_ remember it. i am sold to perdition." "anger not heaven by these idle lamentations,--and at a time, too, when all is so prosperous," rejoined catesby. "what!" cried fawkes, fiercely, "would you have me calm, when she who called me father, and was dear to me as a child, is taken from me by these remorseless butchers,--subjected to their terrible examinations,--plunged in a dismal dungeon,--and stretched upon the rack,--and all for me--for me! i shall go mad if i think upon it!" "you must _not_ think upon it," returned catesby,--"at least, not here. we shall be observed. let us return to the house; and perhaps--though i scarcely dare indulge the hope--some plan may be devised for her liberation." with this, he dragged fawkes, who was almost frenzied with anguish, forcibly along, and they returned to the house. nothing more was said that night. catesby judged it prudent to let the first violence of his friend's emotion expend itself before he attempted to soothe him; and when he communicated the sad event to garnet, the latter strongly approved the plan. garnet was greatly distressed at the intelligence, and his affliction was shared by the other conspirators. no fears were entertained by any of them that viviana would reveal aught of the plot, but this circumstance only added to their regrets. "i will stake my life for her constancy," said catesby. "and so will i," returned garnet. "she will die a martyr for us." he then proposed that they should pray for her deliverance. and all instantly assenting, they knelt down, while garnet poured forth the most earnest supplications to the virgin in her behalf. the next morning, guy fawkes set forth, and ascertained that humphrey chetham's statement was correct, and that viviana was indeed a prisoner in the tower. he repaired thither, and tried to ascertain in what part of the fortress she was confined, in the hope of gaining admittance to her. but as he could obtain no information and his inquiries excited suspicion, he was compelled to return without accomplishing his object. crossing tower hill on his way back, he turned to glance at the stern pile he had just quitted, and which was fraught with the most fearful interest to him, when he perceived chetham issue from the bulwark gate. he would have made up to him; but the young merchant, who had evidently seen him, though he looked sedulously another way, set off in the direction of the river, and was quickly lost to view. filled with the gloomiest thoughts, guy fawkes proceeded to westminster, where he arrived without further adventure of any kind. in the latter part of the same day, as the conspirators were conferring together, they were alarmed by a knocking at the outer gate; and sending bates to reconnoitre, he instantly returned with the intelligence that it was lord mounteagle. at the mention of this name, tresham, who was one of the party, turned pale as death, and trembled so violently that he could scarcely support himself. having been allowed to go forth on that day, the visit of lord mounteagle at this juncture, coupled with the agitation it occasioned him, seemed to proclaim him guilty of treachery for the second time. "you have betrayed us, villain!" cried catesby, drawing his dagger; "but you shall not escape. i will poniard you on the spot." "as you hope for mercy, do not strike!" cried tresham. "on my soul, i have not seen lord mounteagle, and know not, any more than yourselves, what brings him hither. put it to the proof. let him come in. conceal yourselves, and you will hear what passes between us." "let it be so," interposed fawkes. "i will step within this closet, the door of which shall remain ajar. from it i can watch him without being observed, and if aught occurs to confirm our suspicions, he dies." "bates shall station himself in the passage, and stab him if he attempts to fly," added catesby. "your sword, sir." "it is here," replied tresham, delivering it to catesby, who handed it to bates. "are you satisfied?" "is lord mounteagle alone?" inquired catesby, without noticing the question. "he appears to be so," replied bates. "admit him, then," rejoined catesby. entering the closet with keyes, he was followed by fawkes, who drew his dagger, and kept the door slightly ajar, while garnet and the rest retired to other hiding-places. a few moments afterwards, bates returned with lord mounteagle, and, having ushered him into the room, took his station in the passage, as directed by catesby. the room was very dark, the shutters being closed, and light only finding its way through the chinks in them; and it appeared totally so to lord mounteagle, who, groping his way, stumbled forward, and exclaimed in accents of some alarm, "where am i? where is mr. tresham?" "i am here," replied tresham, advancing towards him. "how did your lordship find me out?" he added, after the customary salutations were exchanged. "my servant saw you enter this house," replied mounteagle, "and, knowing i was anxious to see you, waited for some hours without, in the expectation of your coming forth. but as this did not occur, he mentioned the circumstance to me on his return, and i immediately came in quest of you. when i knocked at the gate, i scarcely knew what to think of the place, and began to fear you must have fallen into the hands of cut-throats; and, now that i have gained admittance, my wonder--and i may add my uneasiness--is not diminished. why do you hide yourself in this wretched place?" "be seated," replied tresham, placing a chair for lord mounteagle, with his back to the closet, while he took one opposite him, and near a table, on which some papers were laid. "your lordship may remember," he continued, scarcely knowing what answer to make to the question, "that i wrote to you some time ago, to say that a conspiracy was hatching among certain of our party against the state." "i have reason to remember it," replied mounteagle. "the letter was laid before the earl of salisbury, and inquiries instituted in consequence. but, owing to your disappearance, nothing could be elicited. what plot had you discovered?" at this moment, tresham, who kept his eye fixed on the closet, perceived the door noiselessly open, and behind it the figure of guy fawkes, with the dagger in his hand. "i was misinformed as to the nature of the plot," he stammered. "was it against the king's life?" demanded mounteagle. "no," rejoined tresham; "as far as i could learn, it was an insurrection." "indeed!" exclaimed mounteagle, sceptically. "my information, then, differed from yours. who were the parties you suspected?" "as i _wrongfully_ suspected them," replied tresham, evasively, "your lordship must excuse my naming them." "was catesby--or winter--or wright--or rookwood--or sir everard digby concerned in it?" demanded mounteagle. "not one of them," asseverated tresham. "they are the persons _i_ suspect," replied mounteagle; "and they are suspected by the earl of salisbury. but you have not told me what you are doing in this strange habitation. are you ferreting out a plot, or contriving one?" "both," replied tresham. "how?" cried mounteagle. "i am plotting for myself, and counterplotting the designs of others," replied tresham, mysteriously. "is this place, then, the rendezvous of a band of conspirators?" asked mounteagle, uneasily. tresham nodded in the affirmative. "who are they?" continued mounteagle. "there is no need of concealment with me." as this was said, tresham raised his eyes, and saw that guy fawkes had stepped silently forward, and placed himself behind mounteagle's chair. his hand grasped his dagger, and his gaze never moved from the object of his suspicion. "who are they?" repeated mounteagle. "is guy fawkes one of them?" "assuredly not," replied tresham. "why should you name him? i never mentioned him to your lordship." "i think you did," replied mounteagle. "but i am certain you spoke of catesby." and tresham's regards involuntarily wandered to the closet, when he beheld the stern glance of the person alluded to fixed upon him. "you have heard of viviana radcliffe's imprisonment, i suppose?" pursued mounteagle, unconscious of what was passing. [illustration: _guy fawkes keeping watch upon tresham and lord mounteagle._] [illustration: _viviana examined by the earl of salisbury, and the privy council in the star chamber_] "i have," replied tresham. "the earl of salisbury expected he would be able to wring all from her, but he has failed," observed mounteagle. "i am glad of it," observed tresham. "i thought you were disposed to serve him?" remarked mounteagle. "so i am," replied tresham. "but, if secrets are to be revealed, i had rather be the bearer of them than any one else. i am sorry for viviana." "i could procure her liberation, if i chose," observed mounteagle. "say you so?" cried fawkes, clapping him on the shoulder; "then you stir not hence till you have procured it!" chapter vii. the star-chamber. viviana, as has already been intimated, after her capture at the house at lambeth, was conveyed to the star-chamber. here she was detained until a late hour on the following day, when she underwent a long and rigorous examination by certain members of the privy council, who were summoned for that purpose by the earl of salisbury. throughout this arduous trial she maintained the utmost composure, and never for a single moment lost her firmness. on all occasions, her matchless beauty and dignity produced the strongest impression on the beholders; but on no occasion had they ever produced so strong an effect as the present. her features were totally destitute of bloom, but their very paleness, contrasted as it was with her large dark eyes, which blazed with unwonted brilliancy, as well as with her jet-black hair, so far from detracting from her loveliness, appeared to add to it. as she was brought before the council, who were seated round a table, and remained standing at a short distance from them, guarded by topcliffe and two halberdiers, a murmur of admiration pervaded the group,--nor was this feeling lessened as the examination proceeded. once, when the earl of salisbury adverted to the unworthy position in which she, the daughter of the proud and loyal sir william radcliffe, had placed herself, a shade passed over her brow, and a slight convulsion agitated her frame. but the next moment she recovered herself, and said, "however circumstances may appear against me, and whatever opinion your lordships may entertain of my conduct, the king has not a more loyal subject than myself, nor have any of you made greater efforts to avert the danger by which he is threatened." "then you admit that his majesty is in danger?" cried the earl of salisbury, eagerly. "i admit nothing," replied viviana. "but i affirm that i am his true and loyal subject." "you cannot expect us to believe your assertion," replied the earl; "unless you approve it by declaring all you know touching this conspiracy." "i have already told you, my lord," she returned, "that my lips are sealed on that subject." "you disclaim, then, all knowledge of a plot against the king's life, and against his government?" pursued salisbury. viviana shook her head. "you refuse to give up the names of your companions, or to reveal their intentions?" continued the earl. "i do," she answered, firmly. "your obstinacy will not save them," rejoined the earl, in a severe tone, and after a brief pause. "their names and their atrocious designs are known to us." "if such be the case," replied viviana, "why interrogate me on the subject?" "because--but it is needless to give a reason for the course which justice requires me to pursue," returned the earl. "you are implicated in this plot, and nothing can save you from condign punishment but a frank and full confession. "nothing _can_ save me then, my lord," replied viviana; "but heaven knows i shall perish unjustly." a consultation was then held by the lords of the council, who whispered together for a few minutes. viviana regarded them anxiously, but suffered no expression of uneasiness to escape her. as they again turned towards her, she saw from their looks, some of which exhibited great commiseration for her, that they had come to a decision (she could not doubt what) respecting her fate. her heart stopped beating, and she could scarcely support herself. such, however, was the control she exercised over herself that, though filled with terror, her demeanour remained unaltered. she was not long kept in suspense. fixing his searching gaze upon her, the earl of salisbury observed in a severe tone, "viviana radcliffe, i ask you for the last time whether you will avow the truth?" no answer was returned. "i will not disguise from you," continued the earl, "that your youth, your beauty, your constancy, and, above all, your apparent innocence, have deeply interested me, as well as the other noble persons here assembled to interrogate you, and who would willingly save you from the sufferings you will necessarily undergo, from a mistaken fidelity to the heinous traitors with whom you are so unhappily leagued. i would give you time to reflect did i think the delay would answer any good purpose. i would remind you that no oath of secresy, however solemn, can be binding in an unrighteous cause. i would tell you that your first duty is to your prince and governor, and that it is as great a crime, as unpardonable in the eyes of god as of man, to withhold the revelation of a conspiracy against the state, should it come to your knowledge, as to conspire against it yourself. i would lay all this before you. i would show you the magnitude of your offence, the danger in which you stand, and the utter impossibility of screening your companions, who, ere long, will be confronted with you,--did i think it would avail. but, as you continue obstinate, justice must take its course." "i am prepared for the worst, my lord," replied viviana, humbly. "i thank your lordship for your consideration: but i take you all to witness that i profess the utmost loyalty and devotion for my sovereign, and that, whatever may be my fate, those feelings will remain unchanged to the last." "your manner and your words are so sincere, that, were not your conduct at variance with them, they might convince us," returned the earl. "as it is, even if we could credit your innocence, we are bound to act as if you were guilty. you will be committed to the tower till his majesty's pleasure is known. and i grieve to add, if you still continue obstinate, the severest measures will be resorted to, to extract the truth from you." as he concluded, he attached his signature to a warrant which was lying on the table before him, and traced a few lines to sir william waad, lieutenant of the tower. this done, he handed the papers to topcliffe, and waving his hand, viviana was removed to the chamber in which she had been previously confined, and where she was detained under a strict guard, until topcliffe, who had left her, returned to say that all was in readiness, and bidding her follow him, led the way to the river-side, where a wherry, manned by six rowers, was waiting for them. the night was profoundly dark, and, as none of the guard carried torches, their course was steered in perfect obscurity. but the rowers were too familiar with the river to require the guidance of light. shooting the bridge in safety, and pausing only for a moment to give the signal of their approach to the sentinels on the ramparts, they passed swiftly under the low-browed arch of traitor's gate. chapter viii. the jailer's daughter. as viviana set foot on those fatal stairs, which so many have trod, and none without feeling that they took their first step towards the scaffold, she involuntarily shrank backward. but it was now too late to retreat; and she surrendered her hand to topcliffe, who assisted her up the steps. half-a-dozen men-at-arms, with a like number of warders bearing torches, were present; and as it was necessary that topcliffe should deliver his warrant into sir william waad's own hands, he committed his prisoner to the warders, with instructions to them to take her to the guard-room near the by-ward tower, while he proceeded to the lieutenant's lodgings. it was the first time viviana had beheld the terrible pile in which she was immured, though she was well acquainted with its history, and with the persecutions which many of the professors of her faith had endured within it during the recent reign of elizabeth; and as the light of the torches flashed upon the grey walls of the bloody tower, and upon the adjoining ramparts, all the dreadful tales she had heard rushed to her recollection. but having recovered the first shock, the succeeding impressions were powerless in comparison, and she accompanied the warders to the guard-room without expressing any outward emotion. here a seat was offered her, and as the men considerately withdrew, she was able to pursue her reflections unmolested. they were sad enough, and it required all her firmness to support her. when considering what was likely to befal her in consequence of her adherence to the fortunes of fawkes and his companions, she had often pictured some dreadful situation like the present, but the reality far exceeded her worst anticipations. she had deemed herself equal to any emergency, but as she thought upon the dark menaces of the earl of salisbury, she felt it would require greater fortitude than she had hitherto displayed to bear her through her trial. nor were her meditations entirely confined to herself. while trembling for the perilous situation of guy fawkes, she reproached herself that she could not requite even in thought the passionate devotion of humphrey chetham. "what matters it now," she thought, "that i cannot love him? i shall soon be nothing to him, or to any one. and yet i feel i have done him wrong, and that i should be happier if i _could_ requite his attachment. but the die is cast. it is too late to repent, or to retreat. my heart acquits me of having been influenced by any unworthy motive, and i will strive to endure the keenest pang without a murmur." shortly after this, topcliffe returned with sir william waad. on their entrance, viviana arose, and the lieutenant eyed her with some curiosity. he was a middle-aged man, tall, stoutly-built, and having harsh features, stamped with an expression of mingled cunning and ferocity. his eyes had a fierce and bloodthirsty look, and were overshadowed by thick and scowling brows. saluting the captive with affected courtesy, he observed, "so you refuse to answer the interrogations of the privy council, madam, i understand. i am not sorry for it, because i would have the merit of wringing the truth from you. those who have been most stubborn outside these walls, have been the most yielding within them." "that will not be my case," replied viviana, coldly. "we shall see," returned the lieutenant, with a significant glance at topcliffe. ordering her to follow him, he then proceeded along the ward in the direction of the bloody tower, and passing beneath its arched gateway, ascended the steps on the left, and led her to his lodgings. entering the habitation, he mounted to the upper story, and tracking a long gallery, brought her to a small circular chamber in the bell tower. its sole furniture were a chair, a table, and a couch. "here you will remain for the present," observed the lieutenant, smiling grimly, and placing a lamp on the table. "it will depend upon yourself whether your accommodations are better hereafter." with this, he quitted the cell with his attendants, and barred the door outside. left alone, viviana, who had hitherto restrained her anguish, suffered it to find vent in tears. never had she felt so utterly forlorn and desolate. all before her was threatening and terrible, full of dangers, real and imaginary; nor could she look back upon her past career without something like remorse. "oh, that heaven would take me to itself!" she murmured, clasping her hands in an agony of distress, "for i feel unequal to my trials. oh, that i had perished with my dear father! for what dreadful fate am i reserved?--torture,--i will bear it, if i _can_. but death by the hands of the public executioner,--it is too horrible to think of! is there no way to escape _that_?" as this hideous thought occurred to her, she uttered a loud and prolonged scream, and fell senseless on the floor. when she recovered it was daylight; and, weak and exhausted, she crept to the couch, and throwing herself upon it, endeavoured to forget her misery in sleep. but, as is usually the case with the afflicted, it fled her eyelids, and she passed several hours in the severest mental torture, unrelieved by a single cheering thought. about the middle of the day, the door of the cell was opened by an old woman with a morose and forbidding countenance, attended by a younger female, who resembled her in all but the expression of her features (her look was gentle and compassionate), and who appeared to be her daughter. without paying any attention to viviana, the old woman took a small loaf of bread and other provisions from a basket she had brought with her, and placed them on the table. this done, she was about to depart, when her daughter, who had glanced uneasily at the couch, observed in a kindly tone, "shall we not inquire whether we can be of service to the poor young lady, mother?" "why should we concern ourselves about her, ruth?" returned the old woman, sharply. "if she wants anything, she has a tongue, and can speak. if she desires further comforts," she added, in a significant tone, "they must be _paid_ for." "i desire nothing but death," groaned viviana. "the poor soul is dying, i believe," cried ruth, rushing to the couch. "have you no cordial-water about you, mother?" "truly have i," returned the old woman; "and i have other things besides. but i must be paid for them." as she spoke she drew from her pocket a small, square, dutch-shaped bottle. "give it me," cried ruth, snatching it from her. "i am sure the young lady will pay for it." "you are very kind," said viviana, faintly. "but i have no means of doing so." "i knew it," cried the old woman, fiercely. "i knew it. give me back the flask, ruth. she shall not taste a drop. do you not hear, she has no money, wench? give it me, i say." "nay, mother, for pity's sake," implored ruth. "pity, forsooth!" exclaimed the old woman, derisively. "if i, and thy father, jasper ipgreve, had any such feeling, it would be high time for him to give up his post of jailer in the tower of london. pity for a _poor_ prisoner! thou a jailer's daughter, and talk so. i am ashamed of thee, wench. but i thought this was a rich catholic heiress, and had powerful and wealthy friends." "so she is," replied ruth; "and though she may have no money with her now, she can command any amount she pleases. i heard master topcliffe tell young nicholas hardesty, the warder, so. she is the daughter of the late sir william radcliffe, of ordsall hall, in lancashire, and sole heiress of his vast estates." "is this so, sweet lady?" inquired the old woman, stepping towards the couch. "are you truly sir william radcliffe's daughter?" "i am," replied viviana. "but i have said i require nothing from you. leave me." "no--no, dear young lady," rejoined dame ipgreve, in a whining tone, which was infinitely more disagreeable to viviana than her previous harshness, "i cannot leave you in this state. raise her head, ruth, while i pour a few drops of the cordial down her throat." "i will not taste it," replied viviana, putting the flask aside. "you would find it a sovereign restorative," replied dame ipgreve, with a mortified look; "but as you please. i will not urge you against your inclination. the provisions i have been obliged to bring you are too coarse for a daintily-nurtured maiden like you,--but you shall have others presently." "it is needless," rejoined viviana. "pray leave me." "well, well, i am going," rejoined dame ipgreve, hesitating. "do you want to write to any one? i can find means of conveying a letter secretly out of the tower." "ah!" exclaimed viviana, raising herself. "and yet no--no--i dare not trust you." "you may," replied the avaricious old woman,--"provided you pay me well." "i will think of it," returned viviana. "but i have not strength to write now." "you must not give way thus,--indeed, you must not, dear lady," said ruth, in a voice of great kindness. "it will not be safe to leave you. suffer me to remain with you." "willingly," replied viviana; "most willingly." "stay with her, then, child," said dame ipgreve. "i will go and prepare a nourishing broth for her. take heed and make a shrewd bargain with her for thy attendance," she added in a hasty whisper, as she retired. greatly relieved by the old woman's departure, viviana turned to ruth, and thanked her in the warmest terms for her kindness. a few minutes sufficed to convert the sympathy which these two young persons evidently felt towards each other into affectionate regard, and the jailer's daughter assured viviana, that so long as she should be detained, she would devote herself to her. by this time the old woman had returned with a mess of hot broth, which she carried with an air of great mystery beneath her cloak. viviana was prevailed upon by the solicitations of ruth to taste it, and found herself much revived in consequence. her slight meal ended, dame ipgreve departed, with a promise to return in the evening with such viands as she could manage to introduce unobserved, and with a flask of wine. "you will need it, sweet lady, i fear," she said; "for my husband tells me you are in peril of the torture. oh! it is a sad thing, that such as you should be so cruelly dealt with! but we will take all the care of you we can. you will not forget to requite us. you must give me an order on your steward, or on some rich catholic friend. i am half a papist myself,--that is, i like one religion as well as the other,--and i like those best, whatever their creed may be, who pay best. that is my maxim: and it is the same with my husband. we do all we can to scrape together a penny for our child." "no more of this, good mother," interrupted ruth. "it distresses the lady! i will take care she wants nothing." "right, child, right," returned dame ipgreve;--"do not forget what i told you," she added in a whisper. and she quitted the cell. ruth remained with viviana during the rest of the day, and it was a great consolation to the latter to find that her companion was of the same faith as herself,--having been converted by father poole, a romish priest who was confined in the tower during the latter part of elizabeth's reign, and whose sufferings and constancy for his religion had made a powerful impression on the jailer's daughter. as soon as viviana ascertained this, she made ruth, so far as she thought prudent, a confidante in her misfortunes, and after beguiling some hours in conversation, they both knelt down and offered up fervent prayers to the virgin. ruth then departed, promising to return in the evening with her mother. soon after it became dark, dame ipgreve and her daughter reappeared, the former carrying a lamp, and the latter a basket of provisions. ruth's countenance was so troubled, that viviana was certain that some fresh calamity was at hand. "what is the matter?" she hastily demanded. "make your meal first, dear young lady," replied dame ipgreve. "our news might take away your appetite, and you will have to pay for your supper, whether you eat it or not." "you alarm me greatly," cried viviana, anxiously. "what ill news do you bring?" "i will not keep you longer in suspense, madam," said ruth. "you are to be examined to-night by the lieutenant and certain members of the privy council, and if you refuse to answer their questions, i lament to say you will be put to the torture." "heaven give me strength to endure it!" ejaculated viviana, in a despairing tone. "eat, madam, eat," cried dame ipgreve, pressing the viands upon her. "you will never be able to go through with the examination, if you starve yourself in this way." "are you sure," inquired viviana, appealing to ruth, "that it will take place so soon?" "quite sure," replied ruth. "my father has orders to attend the lieutenant at midnight." "let me advise you to conceal nothing," insinuated the old woman. "they are determined to wring the truth from you,--and they _will_ do so." "you are mistaken, good woman," replied viviana, firmly. "i will die before i utter a word." "you think so now," returned dame ipgreve, maliciously. "but the sight of the rack and the thumbscrews will alter your tone. at all events, support nature." "no," replied viviana; "as i do not desire to live, i will use no effort to sustain myself. they may kill me if they please." "misfortune has turned her brain," muttered the old woman. "i must take care and secure my dues. well, madam, if you will not eat the supper i have provided, it cannot be helped. i must find some one who will. you must pay for it all the same. my husband, jasper ipgreve, will be present at your interrogation, and i am sure, for my sake, he will use you as lightly as he can. come, ruth, you must not remain here longer." "oh, let her stay with me," implored viviana. "i will make it well worth your while to grant me the indulgence." "what will you give?" cried the old woman, eagerly. "but no--no--i dare not leave her. the lieutenant may visit you, and find her, and then i should lose my place. come along, ruth. she shall attend you after the interrogation, madam. i shall be there myself." "farewell, madam," sobbed ruth, who was almost drowned in tears. "heaven grant you constancy to endure your trial!" "be ruled by me," said the old woman. "speak out, and secure your own safety." she would have continued in the same strain, but ruth dragged her away. and casting a commiserating glance at viviana, she closed the door. the dreadful interval between their departure and midnight was passed by viviana in fervent prayer. as she heard through the barred embrasure of her dungeon the deep strokes of the clock toll out the hour of twelve, the door opened, and a tall, gaunt personage, habited in a suit of rusty black, and with a large bunch of keys at his girdle, entered the cell. "you are jasper ipgreve?" said viviana, rising. "right," replied the jailer. "i am come to take you before the lieutenant and the council. are you ready?" viviana replied in the affirmative, and ipgreve quitting the cell, outside which two other officials in sable habiliments were stationed, led the way down a short spiral staircase, which brought them to a narrow vaulted passage. pursuing it for some time, the jailer halted before a strong door, cased with iron, and opening it, admitted the captive into a square chamber, the roof of which was supported by a heavy stone pillar, while its walls were garnished with implements of torture. at a table on the left sat the lieutenant and three other grave-looking personages. across the lower end of the chamber a thick black curtain was stretched, hiding a deep recess; and behind it, as was evident from the glimmer that escaped from its folds, there was a light. certain indistinct, but ominous sounds, issuing from the recess, proved that there were persons within it, and viviana's quaking heart told her what was the nature of their proceedings. she had ample time to survey this dismal apartment and its occupants, for several minutes elapsed before a word was addressed to her by her interrogators, who continued to confer together in an under tone, as if unconscious of her presence. during this pause, broken only by the ominous sounds before mentioned, viviana scanned the countenances of the group at the table, in the hope of discerning in them some glimpses of compassion; but they were inscrutable and inexorable, and scarcely less dreadful to look upon than the hideous implements on the walls. viviana wished the earth would open and swallow her, that she might escape from them. anything was better than to be left at the mercy of such men. at certain times, and not unfrequently at the most awful moments, a double current of thought will flow through the brain, and at this frightful juncture it was so with viviana. while shuddering at all she saw around her, nay, dwelling upon it, another and distinct train of thought led her back to former scenes of happiness, when she was undisturbed by any but remote apprehensions of danger. she thought of her tranquil residence at ordsall,--of the flowers she had tended in the garden,--of her father, and of his affection for her,--of humphrey chetham, and of her early and scarce-acknowledged attachment to him,--and of his generosity and devotion, and how she had requited it. and then, like a sullen cloud darkening the fair prospect, arose the figure of guy fawkes--the sombre enthusiast--who had unwittingly exercised such a baneful influence upon her fortunes. "had he not crossed my path," she mentally ejaculated, "i might have been happy--might have loved humphrey chetham--might, perhaps, have wedded him!" these reflections were suddenly dispersed by the lieutenant, who, in a stern tone, commenced his interrogations. as upon her previous examination, viviana observed the utmost caution, and either refused to speak, or answered such questions only as affected herself. at first, in spite of all her efforts, she trembled violently, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. but after a while, she recovered her courage, and regarded the lieutenant with a look as determined as his own. "it is useless to urge me farther," she concluded. "i have said all i will say." "is it your pleasure, my lords," observed sir william waad to the others, "to prolong the examination?" his companions replied in the negative, and the one nearest him remarked, "is she aware what will follow?" "i am," replied viviana, resolutely, "and i am not to be intimidated." sir william waad then made a sign to ipgreve, who immediately stepped forward and seized her arm. "you will be taken to that recess," said the lieutenant, "where the question will be put to you. but, as we shall remain here, you have only to utter a cry if you are willing to avow the truth, and the torture shall be stayed. and it is our merciful hope that this may be the case." summoning up all her resolution, and walking with a firm footstep, viviana passed with ipgreve behind the curtain. she there beheld two men and a woman--the latter was the jailer's wife, who instantly advanced to her, and besought her to confess. "there is no help for it, if you refuse," she urged; "not all your wealth can save you." "mind your own business, dame," interposed ipgreve, angrily, "and assist her to unrobe." saying this, he stepped aside with the two men, one of whom was the chirurgeon, and the other the tormentor, while dame ipgreve helped to take off viviana's gown. she then tied a scarf over her shoulders, and informed her husband she was ready. the recess was about twelve feet high, and ten wide. it was crossed near the roof, which was arched and vaulted, by a heavy beam, with pulleys and ropes at either extremity. but what chiefly attracted the unfortunate captive's attention was a couple of iron gauntlets attached to it, about a yard apart. upon the ground under the beam, and immediately beneath that part of it where the gauntlets were fixed, were laid three pieces of wood, of a few inches in thickness, and piled one upon another. "what must i do?" inquired viviana, in a hollow voice, but with unaltered resolution, of the old woman. "step upon those pieces of wood," replied dame ipgreve, leading her towards them. viviana obeyed, and as soon as she had set foot upon the pile, the tormentor placed a joint-stool beside her, and mounting it, desired her to place her right hand in one of the gauntlets. she did so, and the tormentor then turned a screw, which compressed the iron glove so tightly as to give her excruciating pain. he then got down, and ipgreve demanded if he should proceed. a short pause ensued; but, notwithstanding her agony, viviana made no answer. the tormentor then placed the stool on the left side, and fastened the hand which was still at liberty within the other gauntlet. the torture was dreadful--and the fingers appeared crushed by the pressure. still viviana uttered no cry. after another short pause, ipgreve said, "you had better let us stop here. this is mere child's play compared with what is to come." no answer being returned, the tormentor took a mallet and struck one of the pieces of wood from under viviana's feet. the shock was dreadful, and seemed to dislocate her wrists, while the pressure on the hands was increased in a tenfold degree. the poor sufferer, who was resting on the points of her feet, felt that the removal of the next piece of wood would occasion almost intolerable torture. her constancy, however, did not desert her, and, after the question had been repeated by ipgreve, the second block was struck away. she was now suspended by her hands, and the pain was so exquisite, that nature gave way, and uttering a piercing scream, she fainted. on recovering, she found herself stretched upon a miserable pallet, with ruth watching beside her. a glance round the chamber, which was of solid stone masonry, with a deep embrasure on one side, convinced her that she had been removed to some other prison. "where am i?" she asked, in a faint voice. "in the well tower, madam," replied ruth: "one of the fortifications near the moat, and now used as a prison-lodging. my father dwells within it, and you are under his custody." "your father," cried viviana, shuddering as she recalled the sufferings she had recently undergone. "will he torture me again?" "not if i can prevent it, dear lady," replied ruth. "but hush! here comes my mother. not a word before her." as ruth spoke, dame ipgreve, who had been lingering at the door, entered the room. she affected the greatest solicitude for viviana--felt her pulse--looked at the bandages fastened round her swollen and crippled fingers, and concluded by counselling her not to persist in refusing to speak. "i dare not tell you what tortures are in store for you," she said, "if you continue thus obstinate. but they will be a thousand times worse than what you endured last night." "when will my next interrogation take place?" inquired viviana. "a week hence, it may be,--or it may be sooner," returned the old woman. "it depends upon the state you are in--and somewhat upon the fees you give my husband, for he has a voice with the lieutenant." "i would give him all i possess, if he could save me from further torture," cried viviana. "alas! alas!" replied dame ipgreve, "you ask more than can be done. he would save you if he could. but you will not let him. however, we will do all we can to mitigate your sufferings--all we can--provided you pay us. stay with her, child," she added, with a significant gesture to her daughter, as she quitted the room, "stay with her." "my heart bleeds for you, madam," said ruth, in accents of the deepest commiseration, as soon as they were alone. "you may depend upon my fidelity. if i can contrive your escape, i will,--at any risk to myself." "on no account," replied viviana. "do not concern yourself about me more. my earthly sufferings, i feel, will have terminated before further cruelty can be practised upon me." "oh! say not so, madam," returned ruth. "i hope--nay, i am sure you will live long and happily." viviana shook her head, and ruth, finding her very feeble, thought it better not to continue the conversation. she accordingly applied such restoratives as were at hand, and observing that the eyes of the sufferer closed as if in slumber, glided noiselessly out of the chamber, and left her. in this way a week passed. at the expiration of that time, the chirurgeon pronounced her in so precarious a state, that if the torture were repeated he would not answer for her life. the interrogation, therefore, was postponed for a few days, during which the chirurgeon constantly visited her, and by his care, and the restoratives she was compelled to take, she rapidly regained her strength. one day, after the chirurgeon had departed, ruth cautiously closed the door, and observed to her, "you are now so far recovered, madam, as to be able to make an attempt to escape. i have devised a plan, which i will communicate to you to-morrow. it must not be delayed, or you will have to encounter a second and more dreadful examination." "i will not attempt it if you are exposed to risk," replied viviana. "heed me not," returned ruth. "one of your friends has found out your place of confinement, and has spoken to me about you." "what friend?" exclaimed viviana, starting. "guy fawkes?--i mean----" and she hesitated, while her pale cheeks were suffused with blushes. "he is named humphrey chetham," returned ruth. "like myself, he would risk his life to preserve you." "tell him he must not do so," cried viviana, eagerly. "he has done enough--too much for me already. i will not expose him to further hazard. tell him so, and entreat him to abandon the attempt." "but i shall not see him, dear lady," replied ruth. "besides, if i read him rightly, he is not likely to be turned aside by any selfish consideration." "you are right, he is not," groaned viviana. "but this only adds to my affliction. oh! if you _should_ see him, dear ruth, try to dissuade him from his purpose." "i will obey you, madam," replied the jailer's daughter. "but i am well assured it will be of no avail." after some further conversation, ruth retired, and viviana was left alone for the night. except the slumber procured by soporific potions, she had known no repose since she had been confined within the tower; and this night she felt more than usually restless. after ineffectually endeavouring to compose herself, she arose, and hastily robing herself--a task she performed with no little difficulty, her fingers being almost useless--continued to pace her narrow chamber. it has been mentioned that on one side of the cell there was a deep embrasure. it was terminated by a narrow and strongly-grated loophole, looking upon the moat. pausing before it, viviana gazed forth. the night was pitchy dark, and not even a solitary star could be discerned; but as she had no light in her chamber, the gloom outside was less profound than that within. while standing thus, buried in thought, and longing for daybreak, viviana fancied she heard a slight sound as of some one swimming across the moat. thinking she might be deceived, she listened more intently, and as the sound continued, she felt sure she was right in her conjecture. all at once the thought of humphrey chetham flashed upon her, and she had no doubt it must be him. nor was she wrong. the next moment, a noise was heard as of some one clambering up the wall; a hand grasped the bars of the loophole, which was only two or three feet above the level of the water; and a low voice, which she instantly recognised, pronounced her name. "is it humphrey chetham?" she asked, advancing as near as she could to the loophole. "it is," was the reply. "do not despair. i will accomplish your liberation. i have passed three days within the tower, and only ascertained your place of confinement a few hours ago. i have contrived a plan for your escape, with the jailer's daughter, which she will make known to you to-morrow." "i cannot thank you sufficiently for your devotion," replied viviana, in accents of the deepest gratitude. "but i implore you to leave me to my fate. i am wretched enough now, heaven knows, but if aught should happen to you, i shall be infinitely more so. if i possess any power over you,--and that i do so, i well know,--i entreat, nay, i command, you to desist from this attempt." "i have never yet disobeyed you, viviana," replied the young merchant, passionately--"nor will i do so now. but if you bid me abandon you, i will plunge into this moat, never to rise again." his manner, notwithstanding the low tone in which he spoke, was so determined, that viviana felt certain he would carry his threat into execution; she therefore rejoined in a mournful tone, "well, be it as you will. it is in vain to resist our fate, i am destined to bring misfortune to you." "not so," replied chetham. "if i _can_ save you, i would rather die than live. the jailer's daughter will explain her plan to you to-morrow. promise me to accede to it." viviana reluctantly assented. "i shall quit the tower at daybreak," pursued chetham; "and when you are once out of it, hasten to the stairs beyond the wharf at petty wales. i will be there with a boat. farewell!" as he spoke, he let himself drop into the water, but his foot slipping, the plunge was louder than he intended, and attracted the attention of a sentinel on the ramparts, who immediately called out to know what was the matter, and not receiving any answer, discharged his caliver in the direction of the sound. viviana, who heard the challenge and the shot, uttered a loud scream, and the next moment ipgreve and his wife appeared. the jailer glanced suspiciously round the room; but after satisfying himself that all was right, and putting some questions to the captive, which she refused to answer, he departed with his wife, and carefully barred the door. it is impossible to imagine greater misery than viviana endured the whole of the night. the uncertainty in which she was kept as to chetham's fate was almost insupportable, and the bodily pain she had recently endured appeared light when compared with her present mental torture. day at length dawned; but it brought with it no ruth. instead of this faithful friend, dame ipgreve entered the chamber with the morning meal, and her looks were so morose and distrustful, that viviana feared she must have discovered her daughter's design. she did not, however, venture to make a remark, but suffered the old woman to depart in silence. giving up all for lost, and concluding that humphrey chetham had either perished, or was, like herself, a prisoner, viviana bitterly bewailed his fate, and reproached herself with being unintentionally the cause of it. later in the day, ruth entered the cell. to viviana's eager inquiries she replied, that humphrey chetham had escaped. owing to the darkness, the sentinel had missed his aim, and although the most rigorous search was instituted throughout the fortress, he had contrived to elude observation. "our attempt," pursued ruth, "must be made this evening. the lieutenant has informed my father that you are to be interrogated at midnight, the chirurgeon having declared that you are sufficiently recovered to undergo the torture (if needful) a second time. now listen to me. the occurrence of last night has made my mother suspicious, and she watches my proceedings with a jealous eye. she is at this moment with a female prisoner in the beauchamp tower, or i should not be able to visit you. she has consented, however, to let me bring in your supper. you must then change dresses with me. being about my height, you may easily pass for me, and i will take care there is no light below, so that your features will not be distinguished." viviana would have checked her, but the other would not be interrupted. "as soon as you are ready," she continued, "you must lock the door upon me. you must then descend the short flight of steps before you, and pass as quickly as you can through the room where you will see my father and mother. as soon as you are out of the door, turn to the left, and go straight forward to the by-ward tower. show this pass to the warders. it is made out in my name, and they will suffer you to go forth. do the same with the warders at the next gate,--the middle tower,--and again at the bulwark gate. that passed, you are free." "and what will become of you?" asked viviana, with a bewildered look. "never mind me," rejoined ruth: "i shall be sufficiently rewarded if i save you. and now, farewell. be ready at the time appointed." "i cannot consent," returned viviana. "you have no choice," replied ruth, breaking from her, and hurrying out of the room. time, as it ever does, when expectation is on the rack, appeared to pass with unusual slowness. but as the hour at length drew near, viviana wished it farther off. it was with the utmost trepidation that she heard the key turn in the lock, and beheld ruth enter the cell with the evening meal. closing the door, and setting down the provisions, the jailer's daughter hastily divested herself of her dress, which was of brown serge, as well as of her coif and kerchief, while viviana imitated her example. without pausing to attire herself in the other's garments, ruth then assisted viviana to put on the dress she had just laid aside, and arranged her hair and the head-gear so skilfully, that the disguise was complete. hastily whispering some further instructions to her, and explaining certain peculiarities in her gait and deportment, she then pressed her to her bosom, and led her to the door. viviana would have remonstrated, but ruth pushed her through it, and closed it. there was now no help, so viviana, though with great pain to herself, contrived to turn the key in the lock. descending the steps, she found herself in a small circular chamber, in which ipgreve and his wife were seated at a table, discussing their evening meal. the sole light was afforded by a few dying embers on the hearth. "what! has she done, already?" demanded the old woman, as viviana appeared. "why hast thou not brought the jelly with thee, if she has not eaten it all, and those cates, which master pilchard, the chirurgeon, ordered her? go and fetch them directly. they will finish our repast daintily; and there are other matters too, which i dare say she has not touched. she will pay for them, and that will make them the sweeter. go back, i say. what dost thou stand there for, as if thou wert thunderstruck? dost hear me, or not?" "let the wench alone, dame," growled ipgreve. "you frighten her." "so i mean to do," replied the old woman; "she deserves to be frightened. hark thee, girl, we must get an order from her on some wealthy catholic family without delay--for i don't think she will stand the trial to-night." "nor i," added ipgreve, "especially as she is to be placed on the rack." "she has a chain of gold round her throat, i have observed," said the old woman; "we must get that." "i have it," said viviana, in a low tone, and imitating as well as she could the accents of ruth. "here it is." "did she give it thee?" cried the old woman, getting up, and grasping viviana's lacerated fingers with such force, that she had difficulty in repressing a scream. "did she give it thee, i say?" "she gave it me for you," gasped viviana. "take it." while the old woman held the chain to the fire, and called to her husband to light a lamp, that she might feast her greedy eyes upon it, viviana flew to the door. just as she reached it, the shrill voice of dame ipgreve arrested her. "come back!" cried the dame. "whither art thou going at this time of night? i will not have thee stir forth. come back, i say." "pshaw! let her go," interposed ipgreve. "i dare say she hath an appointment on the green with young nicholas hardesty, the warder. go, wench. be careful of thyself, and return within the hour." "if she does not, she will rue it," added the dame. "go, then, and i will see the prisoner." viviana required no further permission. starting off as she had been directed on the left, she ran as fast as her feet could carry her; and, passing between two arched gateways, soon reached the by-ward tower. showing the pass to the warder, he chucked her under the chin, and, drawing an immense bolt, opened the wicket, and gallantly helped her to pass through it. the like good success attended her at the middle tower, and at the bulwark gate. scarcely able to credit her senses, and doubting whether she was indeed free, she hurried on till she came to the opening leading to the stairs at petty wales. as she hesitated, uncertain what to do, a man advanced towards and addressed her by name. it was humphrey chetham. overcome by emotion, viviana sank into his arms, and in another moment she was placed in a wherry, which was ordered to be rowed towards westminster. chapter ix. the counterplot. startled, but not dismayed--for he was a man of great courage--by the sudden address and appearance of guy fawkes, lord mounteagle instantly sprang to his feet, and drawing his sword, put himself into a posture of defence. "you have betrayed me," he cried, seizing tresham with his left hand; "but if i fall, you shall fall with me." "you have betrayed yourself, my lord," rejoined guy fawkes; "or rather, heaven has placed you in our hands as an instrument for the liberation of viviana radcliffe. you must take an oath of secrecy--a binding oath,--such as, being a good catholic, you cannot break,--not to divulge what has come to your knowledge. nay, you must join me and my confederates, or you quit not this spot with life." "i refuse your terms," replied mounteagle, resolutely; "i will never conspire against the monarch to whom i have sworn allegiance. i will not join you. i will not aid you in procuring viviana radcliffe's release. nor will i take the oath you propose. on the contrary, i arrest you as a traitor, and i command you, tresham, in the king's name, to assist me in his capture." but suddenly extricating himself from the grasp imposed upon him, and placing guy fawkes between him and the earl, tresham rejoined,-- "it is time to throw off the mask, my good lord and brother. i can render you no assistance. i am sworn to this league, and must support it. unless you assent to the conditions proposed,--and which for your own sake i would counsel you to do,--i must, despite our near relationship, take part against you,--even," he added, significantly, "if your destruction should be resolved upon." "i will sell my life dearly, as you shall find," replied mounteagle. "and, but for the sake of my dear lady, your sister, i would stab you where you stand." "your lordship will find resistance in vain," replied guy fawkes, keeping his eye steadily fixed upon him. "we seek not your life, but your co-operation. you are a prisoner." "a prisoner!" echoed mounteagle, derisively. "you have not secured me yet." and as he spoke, he rushed towards the door, but his departure was checked by bates, who presented himself at the entrance of the passage with a drawn sword in his hand. at the same moment, catesby and keyes issued from the closet, while garnet and the other conspirators likewise emerged from their hiding-places. hearing the noise behind him, lord mounteagle turned, and beholding the group, uttered an exclamation of surprise and rage. "i am fairly entrapped," he said, sheathing his sword, and advancing towards them. "fool that i was, to venture hither!" "these regrets are too late, my lord," replied catesby. "you came hither of your own accord. but being here, nothing, except compliance with our demands, can ensure your departure." "yes, one thing else," thought mounteagle,--"cunning. it shall go hard if i cannot outwit you. tresham will act with me. i know his treacherous nature too well to doubt which way he will incline. interest, as well as relationship, binds him to me. he will acquaint me with their plans. i need not, therefore, compromise myself by joining them. if i take the oath of secrecy, it will suffice--and i will find means of eluding the obligation. i may thus make my own bargain with salisbury. but i must proceed cautiously. too sudden a compliance might awaken their suspicions." "my lord," said catesby, who had watched his countenance narrowly, and distrusted its expression, "we must have no double-dealing. any attempt to play us false will prove fatal to you." "i have not yet consented to your terms, mr. catesby," replied mounteagle, "and i demand a few moments' reflection before i do so." "what say you, gentlemen?" said catesby. "do you agree to his lordship's request?" there was a general answer in the affirmative. "i would also confer for a moment alone with my brother tresham," said mounteagle. "that cannot be, my lord," rejoined garnet, peremptorily. "and take heed you meditate no treachery towards us, or you will destroy yourself here and hereafter." "i have no desire to speak with him, father," observed tresham. "let him declare what he has to say before you all." mounteagle looked hard at him, but he made no remark. "in my opinion, we ought not to trust him," observed keyes. "it is plain he is decidedly opposed to us. and if the oath is proposed to him, he may take it with some mental reservation." "_i_ will guard against that," replied garnet. "if i take the oath, i will keep it, father," rejoined mounteagle. "but i have not yet decided." "you must do so, then, quickly, my lord," returned catesby. "you shall have five minutes for reflection. but first, you must deliver up your sword." the earl started. "we mean _you_ no treachery, my lord," observed keyes, "and expect to be dealt with with equal fairness." surrendering his sword to catesby, mounteagle then walked to the farther end of the room, and leaning against the wall, with his back to the conspirators, appeared buried in thought. "take tresham aside," whispered catesby to wright. "i do not wish him to overhear our conference. watch him narrowly, and see that no signal passes between him and lord mounteagle." wright obeyed; and the others gathering closely together, began to converse in a low tone. "it will not do to put him to death," observed garnet. "from what he stated to tresham, it appears that his servant was aware of his coming hither. if he disappears, therefore, search will be immediately made, and all will be discovered. we must either instantly secure ourselves by flight, and give up the enterprise, or trust him." "you are right, father," replied rookwood. "the danger is imminent." "we are safe at present," observed percy, "and may escape to france or flanders before information can be given against us. nay, we may carry off mounteagle with us, for that matter. but i am loth to trust him." "so am i," rejoined catesby. "i do not like his looks." "there is no help," said fawkes. "we _must_ trust him, or give up the enterprise. he may materially aid us, and has himself asserted that he can procure viviana's liberation from the tower." "pshaw!" exclaimed catesby, impatiently. "what has that to do with the all-important question we are now considering?" "much," returned fawkes. "and i will not move further in the matter unless that point is insisted on." "you have become strangely interested in viviana of late," observed catesby, sarcastically. "could i suspect you of so light a passion, i should say you loved her." a deep flush dyed fawkes's swarthy cheeks, but he answered in a voice of constrained calmness, "i _do_ love her,--as a daughter." "humph!" exclaimed the other, drily. "catesby," rejoined fawkes, sternly, "you know me well--too well, to suppose i would resort to any paltry subterfuge. i am willing to let what you have said pass. but i counsel you not to jest thus in future." "jest!" exclaimed catesby. "i was never more serious in my life." "then you do me wrong," retorted fawkes, fiercely; "and you will repeat the insinuation at your peril." "my sons--my sons," interposed garnet, "what means this sudden--this needless quarrel, at a moment when we require the utmost calmness to meet the danger that assails us? guy fawkes is right. viviana _must_ be saved. if we desert her, our cause will never prosper. but let us proceed step by step, and first decide upon what is to be done with lord mounteagle." "i am filled with perplexity," replied catesby. "then i will decide for you," replied percy. "our project must be abandoned." "never," replied fawkes, energetically. "fly, and secure your own safety. i will stay and accomplish it alone." "a brave resolution!" exclaimed catesby, tendering him his hand, which the other cordially grasped. "i will stand by you to the last. no--we have advanced too far to retreat." "additional caution will be needful," observed keyes. "can we not make it a condition with lord mounteagle to retire, till the blow is struck, to his mansion at hoxton?" "that would be of no avail," replied garnet. "we must trust him wholly, or not at all." "there i agree with you, father," said percy. "let us propose the oath of secrecy to him, and detain him here until we have found some secure retreat, utterly unknown to him, or to tresham, whence we can correspond with our friends. a few days will show whether he has betrayed us or not. we need not visit this place again till the moment for action arrives." "you need not visit it again at all," rejoined fawkes. "everything is prepared, and i will undertake to fire the train. prepare for what is to follow the explosion, and leave the management of that to me." "i cannot consent to such a course, my son," said garnet. "the whole risk will thus be yours." "the whole glory will be mine, also, father," rejoined fawkes, enthusiastically. "i pray you, let me have my own way." "well, be it as you will, my son," returned garnet, with affected reluctance. "i will not oppose the hand of heaven, which clearly points you out as the chief agent in this mighty enterprise. in reference to what percy has said about a retreat till lord mounteagle's trust-worthiness can be ascertained," he added to catesby, "i have just bethought me of a large retired house on the borders of enfield chase, called white webbs. it has been recently taken by mrs. brooksby, and her sister, anne vaux, and will afford us a safe asylum." "an excellent plan, father," cried catesby. "since guy fawkes is willing to undertake the risk, we will leave lord mounteagle in his charge, and go there at once." "what must be done with tresham?" asked percy. "we cannot take him with us, nor must he know of our retreat." "leave him with me," said fawkes. "you will be at a disadvantage," observed catesby, "should he take part, as there is reason to fear he may do, with lord mounteagle." "they are both unarmed," returned fawkes; "but were it otherwise, i would answer with my head for their detention." "all good saints guard you, my son!" exclaimed garnet. "henceforth, we resign the custody of the powder to you." "it will be in safe keeping," replied fawkes. the party then advanced towards lord mounteagle, who, hearing their approach, instantly faced them. "your decision, my lord?" demanded catesby. "you shall have it in a word, sir," replied mounteagle, firmly. "i will _not_ join you, but i will take the required oath of secrecy." "is this your final resolve, my lord?" rejoined catesby. "it is," replied the earl. "it must content us," observed garnet; "though we hoped you would have lent your active services to further a cause, having for its sole object the restoration of the church to which you belong." "i know not the means whereby you propose to restore it, father," replied mounteagle, "and i do not desire to know them. but i guess that they are dark and bloody, and as such i can take no part in them." "and you refuse to give us any counsel or assistance?" pursued garnet. "i will not betray you," replied mounteagle. "i can say nothing further." "i would rather he promised too little, than too much," whispered catesby to garnet. "i begin to think him sincere." "i am of the same opinion, my son," returned garnet. "one thing you _shall_ do, before _i_ consent to set you free, on any terms, my lord," observed guy fawkes. "you shall engage to procure the liberation of viviana radcliffe from the tower. you told tresham you could easily accomplish it." "i scarcely knew what i said," replied mounteagle, with a look of embarrassment. "you spoke confidently, my lord," rejoined fawkes. "because i had no idea i should be compelled to make good my words," returned the earl. "but as a catholic, and related by marriage to tresham, who is a suspected person, any active exertions in her behalf on my part might place me in jeopardy." "this excuse shall not avail you, my lord," replied fawkes. "you must weigh your own safety against hers. you stir not hence till you have sworn to free her." "i must perforce assent, since you will have no refusal," replied mounteagle. "but i almost despair of success. if i can effect her deliverance, i swear to do so." "enough," replied fawkes. "and now, gentlemen," said catesby, appealing to the others, "are you willing to let lord mounteagle depart upon the proposed terms?" "we are," they replied. "i will administer the oath at once," said garnet; "and you will bear in mind, my son," he added, in a stern tone to the earl, "that it will be one which cannot be violated without perdition to your soul." "i am willing to take it," replied mounteagle. producing a primer, and motioning the earl to kneel before him, garnet then proposed an oath of the most solemn and binding description. the other repeated it after him, and at its conclusion placed the book to his lips. "are you satisfied?" he asked, rising. "i am," replied garnet. "and so am i," thought tresham, who stood in the rear, "--that he will perjure himself." "am i now at liberty to depart?" inquired the earl. "not yet, my lord," replied catesby. "you must remain here till midnight." lord mounteagle looked uneasy, but seeing remonstrance would be useless, he preserved a sullen silence. "you need have no fear, my lord," said catesby. "but we must take such precautions as will ensure our safety, in case you intend us any treachery." "you cannot doubt me, sir, after the oath i have taken," replied mounteagle, haughtily. "but since you constitute yourself my jailer, i must abide your pleasure." "if i _am_ your jailer, my lord," rejoined catesby, "i will prove to you that i am not neglectful of my office. will it please you to follow me?" the earl bowed in acquiescence; and catesby, marching before him to a small room, the windows of which were carefully barred, pointed to a chair, and instantly retiring, locked the door upon him. he then returned to the others, and taking guy fawkes aside, observed in a low tone, "we shall set out instantly for white webbs. you will remain on guard with tresham, whom you will, of course, keep in ignorance of our proceedings. after you have set the earl at liberty, you can follow us if you choose. but take heed you are not observed." "fear nothing," replied fawkes. soon after this, catesby, and the rest of the conspirators, with the exception of guy fawkes and tresham, quitted the room, and the former concluded they were about to leave the house. he made no remark, however, to his companion; but getting between him and the door, folded his arms upon his breast, and continued to pace backwards and forwards before it. "am i a prisoner, as well as lord mounteagle?" asked tresham, after a pause. "you must remain with me here till midnight," replied fawkes. "we shall not be disturbed." "what! are the others gone?" cried tresham. "they are," was the reply. tresham's countenance fell, and he appeared to be meditating some project, which he could not muster courage to execute. "be warned by the past, tresham," said fawkes, who had regarded him fixedly for some minutes. "if i find reason to doubt you, i will put it out of your power to betray us a second time." "you have no reason to doubt me," replied tresham, with apparent candour. "i only wondered that our friends should leave me without any intimation of their purpose. it is for me, not you, to apprehend some ill design. am i not to act with you further?" "that depends upon yourself, and on the proofs you give of your sincerity," replied fawkes. "answer me frankly. do you think lord mounteagle will keep his oath?" "i will stake my life upon it," replied tresham. the conversation then dropped, and no attempt was made on either side to renew it. in this way several hours passed, when at length the silence was broken by tresham, who requested permission to go in search of some refreshment; and guy fawkes assenting, they descended to the lower room, and partook of a slight repast. nothing further worthy of note occurred. on the arrival of the appointed hour, guy fawkes signified to his companion that he might liberate lord mounteagle; and immediately availing himself of the permission, tresham repaired to the chamber, and threw open the door. the earl immediately came forth, and they returned together to the room in which guy fawkes remained on guard. "you are now at liberty to depart, my lord," said the latter; "and tresham can accompany you, if he thinks proper. remember that you have sworn to procure viviana's liberation." "i do," replied the earl. and he then quitted the house with tresham. "you have had a narrow escape, my lord," remarked the latter as they approached whitehall, and paused for a moment under the postern of the great western gate. "true," replied the earl; "but i do not regret the risk i have run. they are now wholly in my power." "you forget your oath, my lord," said tresham. "if i do," replied the earl, "i but follow your example. you have broken one equally solemn, equally binding, and would break a thousand more were they imposed upon you. but i will overthrow this conspiracy, and yet not violate mine." "i see not how that can be, my lord," replied tresham. "you shall learn in due season," replied the earl. "i have had plenty of leisure for reflection in that dark hole, and have hit upon a plan which, i think, cannot fail." "i hope i am no party to it, my lord," rejoined tresham. "i dare not hazard myself among them further." "i cannot do without you," replied mounteagle; "but i will ensure you against all danger. it will be necessary for you, however, to act with the utmost discretion, and keep a constant guard upon every look and movement, as well as upon your words. you must fully regain the confidence of these men, and lull them into security." "i see your lordship's drift," replied tresham. "you wish them to proceed to the last point, to enhance the value of the discovery." "right," replied the earl. "the plot must not be discovered till just before its outbreak, when its magnitude and danger will be the more apparent. the reward will then be proportionate. now, you understand me, tresham." "fully," replied the other. "return to your own house," rejoined mounteagle. "we need hold no further communication together till the time for action arrives." "and that will not be before the meeting of parliament," replied tresham; "for they intend to whelm the king and all his nobles in one common destruction." "by heaven! a brave design!" cried mounteagle. "it is a pity to mar it. i knew it was a desperate and daring project, but should never have conceived aught like this. its discovery will indeed occasion universal consternation." "it may benefit you and me to divulge it, my lord," said tresham; "but the disclosure will deeply and lastingly injure the church of rome." "it would injure it more deeply if the plot succeeded," replied mounteagle, "because all loyal catholics must disapprove so horrible and sanguinary a design. but we will not discuss the question further, though what you have said confirms my purpose, and removes any misgiving i might have felt as to the betrayal. farewell, tresham. keep a watchful eye upon the conspirators, and communicate with me should any change take place in their plans. we may not meet for some time. parliament, though summoned for the third of october, will, in all probability, be prorogued till november." "in that case," replied tresham, "you will postpone your disclosure likewise till november?" "assuredly," replied mounteagle. "the king must be convinced of his danger. if it were found out now, he would think lightly of it. but if he has actually set foot upon the mine which a single spark might kindle to his destruction, he will duly appreciate the service rendered him. farewell! and do not neglect my counsel." chapter x. white webbs. tarrying for a short time within the house after the departure of the others, guy fawkes lighted a lantern, and concealing it beneath his cloak, proceeded to the cellar, to ascertain that the magazine of powder was safe. satisfied of this, he made all secure, and was about to return to the house, when he perceived a figure approaching him. standing aside, but keeping on his guard for fear of a surprise, he would have allowed the person to pass, but the other halted, and after a moment's scrutiny addressed him by name in the tones of humphrey chetham. "you seem to haunt this spot, young sir," said fawkes, in answer to the address. "this is the third time we have met hereabouts." "on the last occasion," replied chetham, "i told you viviana was a prisoner in the tower. i have now better news for you. she is free." "free!" exclaimed fawkes, joyfully. "by lord mounteagle's instrumentality?--but i forget. he has only just left me." "she has been freed by _my_ instrumentality," replied the young merchant. "she escaped from the tower a few hours ago." "where is she?" demanded guy fawkes, eagerly. "in a boat at the stairs near the parliament house," replied chetham. "heaven and our lady be praised!" exclaimed fawkes. "this is more than i hoped for. your news is so good, young sir, that i can scarce credit it." "come with me to the boat, and you shall soon be satisfied of the truth of my statement," rejoined chetham. and followed by guy fawkes, he hurried to the river side, where a wherry was moored. within it sat viviana, covered by the tilt. assisting her to land, and finding she was too much exhausted to walk, guy fawkes took her in his arms, and carried her to the house he had just quitted. humphrey chetham followed as soon as he had dismissed the waterman. placing his lovely burthen in a seat, guy fawkes instantly went in search of such restoratives as the place afforded. viviana was extremely faint, but after she had swallowed a glass of wine, she revived, and, looking around her, inquired where she was. "do not ask," replied fawkes; "let it suffice you are in safety. and now," he added, "perhaps, humphrey chetham will inform me in what manner he contrived your escape. i am impatient to know." the young merchant then gave the required information, and viviana added such particulars as were necessary to the full understanding of the story. guy fawkes could scarcely control himself when she related the tortures she had endured, nor was chetham less indignant. "you rescued me just in time," said viviana. "i should have sunk under the next application." "thank heaven! you have escaped it," exclaimed fawkes. "you owe much to humphrey chetham, viviana." "i do, indeed," she replied. "and can you not requite it?" he returned. "can you not make him happy?--can you not make _me_ happy?" viviana's pale cheek was instantly suffused with blushes, but she made no answer. "oh, viviana!" cried humphrey chetham, "you hear what is said. if you could doubt my love before, you must be convinced of it now. a hope will make me happy. have i that?" "alas! no," she answered. "it would be the height of cruelty, after your kindness, to deceive you. you have not." the young merchant turned aside to hide his emotion. "not even a hope!" exclaimed guy fawkes, "after what he has done. viviana, i cannot understand you. does gratitude form no part of your nature?" "i hope so," she replied, "nay, i am sure so,--for i feel the deepest gratitude towards humphrey chetham. but gratitude is not love, and must not be mistaken for it." "i understand the distinction too well," returned the young merchant, sadly. "it is more than i do," rejoined guy fawkes; "and i will frankly confess that i think the important services humphrey chetham has rendered you entitle him to your hand. it is seldom--whatever poets may feign,--that love is so strongly proved as his has been; and it ought to be adequately requited." "say no more about it, i entreat," interposed chetham. "but i will deliver my opinion," rejoined guy fawkes, "because i am sure what i advise is for viviana's happiness. no one can love her better than you. no one is more worthy of her. nor is there any one to whom i so much desire to see her united." "oh, heaven!" exclaimed viviana. "this is worse than the torture." "what mean you?" exclaimed fawkes, in astonishment. "she means," interposed chetham, "that this is not the fitting season to urge the subject--that she will never marry." "true--true," replied viviana. "if i ever did marry--i _ought_ to select you." "you ought," replied fawkes. "and i know nothing of the female heart, if it can be insensible to youth, devotion, and manly appearance like that of humphrey chetham." "you _do_ know nothing of it," rejoined chetham, bitterly. "women's fancies are unaccountable." "such is the received opinion," replied fawkes; "but as i am ignorant of the sex, i can only judge from report. you are the person i should imagine she would love--nay, to be frank, whom i thought she _did_ love." "no more," said humphrey chetham. "it is painful both to viviana and to me." "this is not a time for delicacy," rejoined guy fawkes. "viviana has given me the privilege of a father with her. and where her happiness is so much concerned as in the present case, i should imperfectly discharge my duty if i did not speak out. it would sincerely rejoice me, and i am sure contribute materially to her own happiness, if she would unite herself to you." "i cannot--i cannot," she rejoined. "i will never marry." "you hear what she says," remarked chetham. "do not urge the matter further." "i admire maiden delicacy and reserve," replied fawkes; "but when a man has acted as you have done, he deserves to be treated with frankness. i am sure viviana loves you. let her tell you so." "you are mistaken," replied chetham; "and it is time you should be undeceived. she loves another." "is this so?" cried fawkes, in astonishment. she made no answer. "whom do you love?" he asked. still, no answer. "i will tell you whom she loves--and let her contradict me if i am wrong," said chetham. "oh, no!--no!--in pity spare me!" cried viviana. "speak!"--thundered fawkes. "who is it?" "yourself," replied chetham. "what!" exclaimed fawkes, recoiling,--"love _me_! i will not believe it. she loves me as a father--but nothing more--nothing more. but you were right. let us change the subject. a more fitting season may arrive for its discussion." after some further conversation, it was agreed that viviana should be taken to white webbs; and leaving her in charge of humphrey chetham, guy fawkes went in search of a conveyance to enfield. traversing the strand,--every hostel in which was closed,--he turned up wych-street, immediately on the right of which there was a large inn (still in existence), and entering the yard, discovered a knot of carriers moving about with lanterns in their hands. to his inquiries respecting a conveyance to enfield, one of them answered, that he was about to return thither with his waggon at four o'clock,--it was then two,--and should be glad to take him and his friends. overjoyed at the intelligence, and at once agreeing to the man's terms, guy fawkes hurried back to his companions, and, with the assistance of humphrey chetham, contrived to carry viviana (for she was utterly unable to support herself) to the inn-yard, where she was immediately placed in the waggon, on a heap of fresh straw. about an hour after this, but long before daybreak, the carrier attached his horses to the waggon, and set out. guy fawkes and humphrey chetham were seated near viviana, but little was said during the journey, which occupied about three hours. by this time it was broad daylight; and as the carrier stopped at the door of a small inn, guy fawkes alighted, and inquired the distance to white webbs. "it is about a mile and a half off," replied the man. "if you pursue that lane, it will bring you to a small village about half a mile from this, where you are sure to find some one who will gladly guide you to the house, which is a little out of the road, on the borders of the forest." he then assisted viviana to alight, and humphrey chetham descending at the same time, the party took the road indicated--a winding country lane with high hedges, broken by beautiful timber--and proceeding at a slow pace, they arrived in about half an hour at a little cluster of cottages, which guy fawkes guessed to be the village alluded to by the carrier. as they approached it, a rustic leaped a hedge, and was about to cross to another field, when guy fawkes calling to him, inquired the way to white webbs. "i am going in that direction," replied the man. "if you desire it, i will show you the road." "i shall feel much indebted to you, friend," returned fawkes, "and will reward you for your trouble." "i want no reward," returned the countryman, trudging forward. following their guide, after a few minutes' brisk walking they reached the borders of the forest, and took their way along a patch of greensward that skirted it. in some places their track was impeded by gigantic thorns and brushwood, while at others avenues opened upon them, affording them peeps into the heart of the wood. it was a beautiful sylvan scene. and as at length they arrived at the head of a long glade, at the farther end of which a herd of deer were seen, with their branching antlers mingling with the overhanging boughs, viviana could not help pausing to admire it. "king james often hunts within the forest," observed the countryman. "indeed, i heard one of the rangers say it was not unlikely he might be here to-day. he is at theobald's palace now." "indeed!" exclaimed fawkes. "let us proceed. we lose time. are we far from the house?" "not above a quarter of a mile," was the answer. "you will see it at the next turn of the road." as the countryman had intimated, they speedily perceived the roof and tall chimneys of an ancient house above the trees, and as it was now impossible to mistake the road, guy fawkes thanked their guide for his trouble, and would have rewarded him, but he refused the gratuity, and leaping a hedge, disappeared. pursuing the road, they shortly afterwards arrived at a gate leading to the house--a large building, erected probably at the beginning of elizabeth's reign--and entering it, they passed under an avenue of trees. on approaching the mansion, they observed that many of the windows were closed, and the whole appearance of the place was melancholy and deserted. the garden was overgrown with weeds, and the door looked as if it was rarely opened. not discouraged by these appearances, but rather satisfied by them of the security of the asylum, guy fawkes proceeded to the back of the house, and entering a court, the flags and stones of which were covered with moss, while the interstices were filled with long grass, guy fawkes knocked against a small door, and, after repeating the summons, it was answered by an old woman-servant, who popped her head out of an upper window, and demanded his business. guy fawkes was about to inquire for mrs. brooksby, when another head, which proved to be that of catesby, appeared at the window. on seeing fawkes and his companions, catesby instantly descended, and unfastened the door. the house proved far more comfortable within than its exterior promised; and the old female domestic having taken word to anne vaux that viviana was below, the former lady, who had not yet risen, sent for her to her chamber, and provided everything for her comfort. guy fawkes and humphrey chetham, neither of whom had rested during the night, were glad to obtain a few hours' repose on the floor of the first room into which they were shown, and they were not disturbed until the day had considerably advanced, when catesby thought fit to rouse them from their slumbers. explanations were then given on both sides. chetham detailed the manner of viviana's escape from the tower, and catesby in his turn acquainted them that father oldcorne was in the house, having found his way thither after his escape from the dwelling at lambeth. guy fawkes was greatly rejoiced at the intelligence, and shortly afterwards had the satisfaction of meeting with the priest. at noon, the whole party assembled, with the exception of viviana, who, by the advice of anne vaux, kept her chamber, to recruit herself after the sufferings she had undergone. humphrey chetham, of whom no suspicions were now entertained, and of whom catesby no longer felt any jealousy, was invited to stay in the house; and he was easily induced to pass his time near viviana, although he might not be able to see her. long and frequent consultations were held by the conspirators, and letters were despatched by catesby to the elder winter at his seat, huddington, in worcestershire, entreating him to make every preparation for the crisis, as well as to sir everard digby, to desire him to assemble as many friends as he could muster against the meeting of parliament, at dunchurch, in warwickshire, under the plea of a grand hunting-party. arrangements were next made as to the steps to be taken by the different parties after the explosion. catesby undertook, with a sufficient force, to seize the princess elizabeth, the eldest daughter of james the first, who was then at the residence of the earl of harrington, near coventry, and to proclaim her queen, in case the others should fail in securing the princes. it was supposed that henry, prince of wales, (who, it need scarcely be mentioned, died in his youth,) would be present with the king, his father, in the parliament house, and would perish with him; and in this case, as charles, duke of york, (afterwards charles the first,) would become successor to the throne, it was resolved that he should be seized by percy, and instantly proclaimed. other resolutions were decided upon, and the whole time of the conspirators was spent in maturing their projects. and thus weeks, and even months, stole on. viviana had completely regained her strength, and passed a life of perfect seclusion, seldom, if ever, mixing with the others. she, however, took a kindly farewell of humphrey chetham, before his departure for manchester (for which place he set out about a fortnight after his arrival at white webbs, having first sought out his servant, martin heydocke); but though strongly urged by guy fawkes, she would hold out no hopes of a change in her sentiments towards the young merchant. meetings were occasionally held by the conspirators elsewhere, and catesby and fawkes had more than one interview with tresham--but never, except in places where they were secure from a surprise. the latter end of september had now arrived, and the meeting of parliament was still fixed for the third of october. on the last day of the month, guy fawkes prepared to start for town; but before doing so he desired to see viviana. they had not met for some weeks; nor, indeed, since fawkes had discovered the secret of her heart, (and perhaps of his own,) had they ever met with the same freedom as heretofore. as she entered the room, in which he awaited her coming, a tremor agitated his frame, but he had nerved himself for the interview, and speedily subdued the feeling. "i am starting for london, viviana," he said, in a voice of forced calmness. "you may guess for what purpose. but as i may never behold you again, i would not part with you without a confession of my weakness. i will not deny that what humphrey chetham stated, and which you have never contradicted--namely, that you loved me, for i must speak out--has produced a strong effect upon me. i have endeavoured to conquer it, but it will return. till i knew you i never loved, viviana." "indeed!" she exclaimed. "never," he replied. "the fairest had not power to move me. but i grieve to say--notwithstanding my struggles--i do not continue equally insensible." "ah!" she ejaculated, becoming as pale as death. "why should i hesitate to declare my feelings? why should i not tell you that--though blinded to it so long--i have discovered that i do love you? why should i hesitate to tell you that i regret this, and lament that we ever met?" "what mean you?" cried viviana, with a terrified look. "i will tell you," replied fawkes. "till i saw you, my thoughts were removed from earth, and fixed on one object. till i saw you, i asked not to live, but to die the death of a martyr." "die so still," rejoined viviana. "forget me--oh! forget me." "i cannot," replied fawkes. "i have striven against it. but your image is perpetually before me. nay, at this very moment, when i am about to set out on the enterprise, you alone detain me." "i am glad of it," exclaimed viviana, fervently. "oh that i could prevent you--could save you!" "save me!" echoed fawkes, bitterly. "you destroy me." "how?" she asked. "because i am sworn to this project," he rejoined; "and if i were turned from it, i would perish by my own hand." "oh! say not so," replied viviana, "but listen to me. abandon it, and i will devote myself to you." guy fawkes gazed at her for a moment passionately, and then, covering his face with his hands, appeared torn by conflicting emotions. viviana approached him, and pressing his arm, asked in an entreating voice, "are you still determined to pursue your dreadful project?" "i am," replied fawkes, uncovering his face, and gazing at her; "but, if i remain here a moment longer, i shall not be able to do so." "i will detain you, then," she rejoined, "and exercise the power i possess over you for your benefit." "no!" he replied, vehemently. "it must not be. farewell, for ever!" and breaking from her, he rushed out of the room. as he gained the passage, he encountered catesby, who looked abashed at seeing him. "i have overheard what has passed," said the latter, "and applaud your resolution. few men, similarly circumstanced, would have acted as you have done." "_you_ would not," said fawkes, coldly. "perhaps not," rejoined catesby. "but that does not lessen my admiration of your conduct." "i am devoted to one object," replied fawkes, "and nothing shall turn me from it." "remove yourself instantly from temptation, then," replied catesby. "i will meet you at the cellar beneath the parliament house to-morrow night." with this, he accompanied guy fawkes to the door; and the latter, without hazarding a look behind him, set out for london, where he arrived at nightfall. on the following night, fawkes examined the cellar, and found it in all respects as he had left it; and, apprehensive lest some difficulty might arise, he resolved to make every preparation. he, accordingly, pierced the sides of several of the barrels piled against the walls with a gimlet, and inserted in the holes small pieces of slow-burning match. not content with this, he staved in the tops of the uppermost tier, and scattered powder among them to secure their instantaneous ignition. this done, he took a powder-horn, with which he was provided, and kneeling down, and holding his lantern so as to throw a light upon the floor, laid a train to one of the lower barrels, and brought it within a few inches of the door, intending to fire it from that point. his arrangements completed, he arose, and muttered, "a vessel is provided for my escape in the river, and my companions advise me to use a slow match, which will allow me to get out of harm's way. but i will see the deed done, and if the train fails, will hold a torch to the barrels myself." at this juncture, a slight tap was heard without. guy fawkes instantly masked his lantern, and cautiously opening the door, beheld catesby. "i am come to tell you that parliament is prorogued," said the latter. "the house does not meet till the fifth of november. we have another month to wait." "i am sorry for it," rejoined fawkes. "i have just laid the train. the lucky moment will pass." and, locking the door, he proceeded with catesby to the adjoining house. they had scarcely been gone more than a second, when two figures muffled in cloaks emerged from behind a wall. "the train is laid," observed the foremost, "and they are gone to the house. you might seize them now without danger." "that will not answer my purpose," replied the other. "i will give them another month." "another month!" replied the first speaker. "who knows what may happen in that time? they may abandon their project." "there is no fear of that," replied the other. "but you had better go and join them." chapter xi. the marriage in the forest. tresham, for it will have been conjectured that he was one of the speakers mentioned in the preceding chapter, on separating from lord mounteagle, took the same direction as the conspirators. he hesitated for some time before venturing to knock at the garden-gate; and when he had done so, felt half-disposed to take to his heels. but shame restrained him; and hearing footsteps approach, he gave the customary signal, and was instantly admitted by guy fawkes. "what brings you here?" demanded the latter, as they entered the house, and made fast the door behind them. "i have just heard that parliament is prorogued to the fifth of november," replied tresham, "and came to tell you so." "i already know it," returned fawkes, gloomily; "and for the first time feel some misgiving as to the issue of our enterprise." "why so?" inquired tresham. "november is unlucky to me," rejoined fawkes, "and i cannot recollect a year in my life in which some ill has not befallen me during that month, especially on the fifth day. on the last fifth of november, i nearly died of a fever at madrid. it is a strange and unfortunate coincidence that the meeting of the parliament should be appointed for that particular day." "shall i tell you what i think it portends?" hesitated tresham. "do so," replied fawkes, "and speak boldly. i am no child to be frightened at shadows." "you have more than once declared your intention of perishing with our foes," rejoined tresham. "the design, though prosperous in itself, may be fatal to you." "you are right," replied fawkes. "i have little doubt i shall perish on that day. you are both aware of my superstitious nature, and are not ignorant that many mysterious occurrences have combined to strengthen the feeling,--such as the dying words of the prophetess, elizabeth orton,--her warning speech when she was raised from the dead by doctor dee,--and lastly, the vision at st. winifred's well. what if i tell you the saint has again appeared to me?" "in a dream?" inquired catesby, in a slightly sceptical tone. "ay, in a dream," returned fawkes. "but i saw her as plainly as if i had been awake. it was the same vapoury figure--the same transparent robes, the same benign countenance, only far more pitying than before--that i beheld at holywell. i heard no sound issue from her lips, but i _felt_ that she warned me to desist." "do you accept the warning?" asked tresham, eagerly. "it is needless to answer," replied fawkes. "i have laid the train to-night." "you have infected me with your misgivings," observed tresham. "would the enterprise had never been undertaken!" "but being undertaken, it must be gone through with," rejoined catesby, sternly. "hark'e, tresham. you promised us two thousand pounds in aid of the project, but have constantly deferred payment of the sum on some plea or other." "because i have not been able to raise it," replied tresham, sullenly. "i have tried in vain to sell part of my estates at rushton, in northamptonshire. i cannot effect impossibilities." "tush!" cried catesby, fiercely. "you well know i ask no impossibility. i will no longer be trifled with. the money must be forthcoming by the tenth of october, or you shall pay the penalty with your life." "this is the language of a cut-throat, mr. catesby," replied tresham. "it is the only language i will hold towards you," rejoined catesby, contemptuously. "look you disappoint me not, or take the consequences." "i must leave for northamptonshire at once, then," said tresham. "do as you please," returned catesby. "play the cut-throat yourself, and ease some rich miser of his store, if you think fit. bring us the money, and we will not ask how you came by it." "before we separate," said tresham, disregarding these sneers, "i wish to be resolved on one point. who are to be saved from destruction?" "why do you ask?" inquired fawkes. "because i must stipulate for the lives of my brothers-in-law, the lords mounteagle and stourton." "if anything detains them from the meeting, well and good," replied catesby. "but no warning must be given them. that would infallibly lead to a discovery of the plot." "some means might surely be adopted to put them on their guard without danger to ourselves?" urged tresham. "i know of none," replied catesby. "nor i," added fawkes. "if i did, i would warn lord montague, and some others whom i shall grieve to destroy." "we are all similarly circumstanced," replied catesby. "keyes is anxious for the preservation of his patron and friend, lord mordaunt,--percy, for the earl of northumberland. i, myself, would gladly save the young earl of arundel. but we must sacrifice our private feeling for the general good." "we must," acquiesced fawkes. "we shall not meet again till the night of the tenth of october," said catesby, "when take care you are in readiness with the money." upon this, the conversation dropped, and soon afterwards tresham departed. when he found himself alone, he suffered his rage to find vent in words. "perdition seize them!" he cried, "i shall now lose two thousand pounds, in addition to what i have already advanced; and, as mounteagle will not have the disclosure made till the beginning of november, there is no way of avoiding payment. they would not fall into the snare i laid to throw the blame of the discovery, when it takes place, upon their own indiscretion. but i must devise some other plan. the warning shall proceed from an unknown quarter. a letter, written in a feigned hand, and giving some obscure intimation of danger, shall be delivered with an air of mystery to mounteagle. this will serve as a plea for its divulgement to the earl of salisbury. well, well, they shall have the money; but they shall pay me back in other coin." early on the following day, catesby and fawkes proceeded to white webbs. garnet was greatly surprised to see them, and could not conceal his disappointment at the cause of their return. "this delay bodes no good," he observed. "parliament has been so often prorogued, that i begin to think some suspicion is entertained of our design." "make your mind easy, then," replied catesby. "i have made due inquiries, and find the meeting is postponed to suit the king's convenience, who wishes to prolong his stay at royston. he may probably have some secret motive for the delay, but i am sure it in no way concerns us." everything being now fully arranged, the conspirators had only to wait patiently for the arrival of the expected fifth of november. most of them decided upon passing the interval in the country. ambrose rookwood departed for clopton, near stratford-upon-avon,--a seat belonging to lord carew, where his family were staying. keyes went to visit lord mordaunt at turvey, in bedfordshire; and percy and the two wrights set out for gothurst, in buckinghamshire, to desire sir everard digby to postpone the grand hunting-party which he was to hold at dunsmore heath, as an excuse for mustering a strong party of catholics, to the beginning of november. the two winters repaired to their family mansion, huddington, in worcestershire; while fawkes and catesby, together with the two priests, remained at white webbs. the three latter held daily conferences together, but were seldom joined by fawkes, who passed his time in the adjoining forest, selecting its densest and most intricate parts for his rambles. it was now the beginning of october, and, as is generally the case in the early part of this month, the weather was fine, and the air pure and bracing. the forest could scarcely have been seen to greater advantage. the leaves had assumed their gorgeous autumnal tints, and the masses of timber, variegated in colour, presented an inexpressibly beautiful appearance. guy fawkes spent hours in the depths of the wood. his sole companions were the lordly stag and the timid hare, that occasionally started across his path. since his return, he had sedulously avoided viviana, and they had met only twice, and then no speech had passed between them. one day, when he had plunged even deeper than usual into the forest, and had seated himself on the stump of a decayed tree, with his eyes fixed on a small clear rivulet welling at his feet, he saw the reflection of a female figure in the water; and, filled with the idea of the vision of saint winifred, at first imagined he was about to receive another warning. but a voice that thrilled to his heart's core, soon undeceived him, and, turning, he beheld viviana. she was habited in a riding-dress, and appeared prepared to set out upon a journey. "so you have tracked me to my solitude," he observed, in a tone of forced coldness. "i thought i was secure from interruption here." "you will forgive me, i am sure, when you know my errand," she replied. "it is to take an eternal farewell of you." "indeed!" he exclaimed. "are you about to quit white webbs?" "i am," she mournfully rejoined. "i am about to set out with father oldcorne for gothurst, where i shall remain till all is over." "i entirely approve your determination," returned fawkes, after a short pause. "i knew you would do so, or i should have consulted you upon it," she rejoined. "and as you appear to avoid me, i would fain have departed without taking leave of you, but found it impossible to do so." "you well know my motive for avoiding you, viviana," rejoined fawkes. "we are no longer what we were to each other. a fearful struggle has taken place within me, though i have preserved an unmoved exterior, between passion and the sense of my high calling. i have told you i never loved before, and fancied my heart immoveable as adamant. but i now find out my error. it is a prey to a raging and constant flame. i have shunned you," he continued, with increased excitement, "because the sight of you shakes my firmness,--because i feel it sinful to think of you in preference to holier objects,--and because, after i have quitted you, your image alone engrosses my thoughts. here, in the depths of this wood, by the side of this brook, i can commune with my soul,--can abstract myself from the world and the thoughts of the world--from you--yes, you, who are all the world to me now,--and prepare to meet my end." "then you are resolved to die?" she cried. "i shall abide the explosion, and nothing but a miracle can save me," returned fawkes. "and think not it will be exerted in your behalf," she replied. "heaven does not approve your design, and you will assuredly incur its vengeance by your criminal conduct." "viviana," replied guy fawkes, rising, "man cannot read my heart, but heaven can; and the sincerity of my purpose will be recognised above. what i am about to do is for the regeneration of our holy religion; and if the welfare of that religion is dear to the supreme being, our cause must prosper. if the contrary, it deserves to fail, and will fail. i have ever told you that i care not what becomes of myself. i am now more than ever indifferent to life,--or rather," he added, in a sombre tone, "i am anxious to die." "your dreadful wish, i fear, will be accomplished," replied viviana, sadly. "i have been constantly haunted by frightful apprehensions respecting you, and my dead father has appeared to me in my dreams. his spirit, if such it were, seemed to gaze upon me with a mournful look, and, as i thought, pronounced your name in piteous accents." "these forebodings chime with my own," muttered fawkes, repressing a shudder; "but nothing shall shake me. it will inflict a bitter pang upon me to part with you, viviana,--the bitterest i can ever feel,--and i shall be glad when it is over." "i echo your own wish," she returned, "and deeply lament that we ever met. but the fate that brought us together must for ever unite us." "what mean you?" he inquired, gazing fixedly at her. "there is one sad consolation which you can afford me, and which you owe me for the deep and lasting misery i shall endure on your account," replied viviana;--"a consolation that will enable me to bear your loss with fortitude, and to devote myself wholly to heaven." "whatever i can do that will not interfere with my purpose, you may command," he rejoined. "what i have to propose will not interfere with it," she answered. "now, hear me, and put the sole construction i deserve on my conduct. father garnet is at a short distance from us, behind those trees, waiting my summons. i have informed him of my design, and he approves of it. it is to unite us in marriage--solemnly unite us--that though i may never live with you as a wife, i may mourn you as a widow. do you consent?" guy fawkes returned an affirmative, in a voice broken by emotion. "the moment the ceremony is over," pursued viviana, "i shall start with father oldcorne for gothurst. we shall never meet again in this world." "unless i succeed," said fawkes. "you will _not_ succeed," replied viviana. "if i thought so, i should not take this step. i look upon it as an espousal with the dead." so saying, she hurried away, and disappearing beneath the covert, returned in a few seconds with garnet. "i have a strange duty to perform for you, my son," said garnet to fawkes, who remained motionless and stupified; "but i am right willing to perform it, because i think it will lead to your future happiness with the fair creature who has bestowed her affections on you." "do not speculate on the future, father," cried viviana. "you know _why_ i asked you to perform this ceremony. you know, also, that i have made preparations for instant departure; and that i indulge no hope of seeing guy fawkes again." "all this i know, dear daughter," returned garnet; "but, in spite of your anticipations of ill, i still hope that your union may prove auspicious." "i take you to witness, father," said viviana, "that in bestowing my hand upon guy fawkes, i bestow at the same time all my possessions upon him. he is free to use them as he thinks proper,--even in the furtherance of his design against the state, which, though i cannot approve it, seems good to him." "this must not be," cried fawkes. "it _shall be_," rejoined viviana. "proceed with the ceremony, father." "let her have her own way, my son," observed garnet, in a low tone. "under any circumstances, her estates must now be necessarily yours." he then took a breviary from his vest, and placing them near each other, began to read aloud the marriage-service appointed by the romish church. and there, in that secluded spot, and under such extraordinary circumstances, with no other witnesses than the ancient trees around them, and the brook rippling at their feet, were guy fawkes and viviana united. the ceremony over, guy fawkes pressed his bride to his breast, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips. "i have broken my faith to heaven, to which i was first espoused," he cried. "no," she returned; "you will now return to your first and holiest choice. think of me only as i shall think of you,--as of the dead." with this, the party slowly and silently returned to the house, where they found a couple of steeds, with luggage strapped to the saddles, at the door. father oldcorne was already mounted, and in a few minutes viviana was by his side. before her departure, she bade guy fawkes a tender farewell; and at this trying juncture her firmness nearly deserted her. but rousing herself, she sprang upon her horse, and urging the animal into a quick pace, and followed by oldcorne, she speedily disappeared from view. guy fawkes watched her out of sight, and shunning the regards of catesby, who formed one of the group, struck into the forest, and was not seen again till the following day. the tenth of october having arrived, guy fawkes and catesby repaired to the place of rendezvous. but the night passed, and tresham did not appear. catesby was angry and disappointed, and could not conceal his apprehensions of treachery. fawkes took a different view of the matter, and thought it not improbable that their confederate's absence might be occasioned by the difficulty he found in complying with their demands; and this opinion was confirmed the next morning by the arrival of a letter from tresham, stating that he had been utterly unable to effect the sales he contemplated, and could not, therefore, procure the money till the end of the month. "i will immediately go down to rushton," said catesby, "and if i find him disposed to palter with us, i will call him to instant account. but garnet informs me that viviana has bestowed all her wealth upon you. are you willing to devote it to the good cause?" "no!" replied fawkes, in a tone so decisive that his companion felt it would be useless to urge the matter further. "i give my life to the cause,--that must suffice." the subject was never renewed. at night, catesby, having procured a powerful steed, set out upon his journey to northamptonshire, while fawkes returned to white webbs. about a fortnight passed unmarked by any event of importance. despatches were received from catesby, stating that he had received the money from tresham, and had expended it in procuring horses and arms. he also added that he had raised numerous recruits on various pretences. this letter was dated from ashby st. leger's, the seat of his mother, lady catesby, but he expressed his intention of proceeding to coughton hall, near alcester, in warwickshire, the residence of mr. thomas throckmorton (a wealthy catholic gentleman), whither sir everard digby had removed with his family, to be in readiness for the grand hunting-party to be held on the fifth of november on dunsmore heath. here he expected to be joined by the two wrights, the winters, rookwood, keyes, and the rest of the conspirators, and undertook to bring them all up to white webbs on saturday the twenty-sixth of october. by this time, guy fawkes had in a great degree recovered his equanimity, and left alone with garnet, held long and frequent religious conferences with him; it being evidently his desire to prepare himself for his expected fate. he spent the greater part of the nights in solitary vigils--fasted even more rigorously than he was enjoined to do--and prayed with such fervour and frequency, that, fearing an ill effect upon his health, and almost upon his mind, which had become exalted to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, garnet thought it necessary to check him. the priest did not fail to note that viviana's name never passed his lips, and that in all their walks in the forest he carefully shunned the scene of his espousals. and thus time flew by. on the evening of the twenty-sixth of october, in accordance with catesby's intimation, the conspirators arrived. they were all assembled at supper, and were relating the different arrangements which had been made in anticipation of the important event, when garnet observed with a look of sudden uneasiness to catesby, "you said in one of your letters that you would bring tresham with you, my son. why do i not see him?" "he sent a message to coughton to state, that having been attacked by a sudden illness, he was unable to join us," replied catesby, "but as soon as he could leave his bed, he would hasten to london. this may be a subterfuge, but i shall speedily ascertain the truth, for i have sent my servant bates to rushton, to investigate the matter. i ought to tell you," he added, "that he has given substantial proof of his devotion to the cause by sending another thousand pounds, to be expended in the purchase of arms and horses." "i hope it is not dust thrown into our eyes," returned garnet. "i have always feared tresham would deceive us at the last." "this sudden illness looks suspicious, i must own," said catesby. "has aught been heard of lord mounteagle?" "guy fawkes heard that he was at his residence at southwark yesterday," returned garnet. "so far, good," replied catesby. "did you visit the cellar where the powder is deposited?" he added, turning to fawkes. "i did," replied the other, "and found all secure. the powder is in excellent preservation. before quitting the spot, i placed certain private marks against the door, by which i can tell whether it is opened during our absence." "a wise precaution," returned catesby. "and now, gentlemen," he added, filling a goblet with wine, "success to our enterprise! everything is prepared," he continued, as the pledge was enthusiastically drunk; "i have got together a company of above two hundred men, all well armed and appointed, who will follow me wherever i choose to lead them. they will be stationed near dunsmore heath on the fifth of next month, and as soon as the event of the explosion is known, i shall ride thither as fast as i can, and, hurrying with my troops to coventry, seize the princess elizabeth. percy and keyes will secure the person of the duke of york, and proclaim him king; while upon the rest will devolve the arduous duty of rousing our catholic brethren in london to rise to arms." "trust to us to rouse them," shouted several voices. "let each man swear not to swerve from the fulfilment of his task," cried catesby; "swear it upon this cup of wine, in which we will all mix our blood." and as he spoke, he pricked his arm with the point of his sword, and suffered a few drops of blood to fall into the goblet, while the others, roused to a state of frenzied enthusiasm, imitated his example, and afterwards raised the horrible mixture to their lips, pronouncing at the same time the oath. guy fawkes was the last to take the pledge, and crying in a loud voice, "i swear not to quit my post till the explosion is over," he drained the cup. after this, they adjourned to a room in another wing of the house, fitted up as a chapel, where mass was performed by garnet, and the sacrament administered to the whole assemblage. they were about to retire for the night, when a sudden knocking was heard at the door. reconnoitring the intruder through an upper window, overlooking the court, catesby perceived it was bates, who was holding a smoking and mud-bespattered steed by the bridle. "well, what news do you bring?" cried catesby, as he admitted him. "have you seen tresham?" "no," replied bates. "his illness was a mere pretence. he has left rushton secretly for london." "i knew it," cried garnet. "he has again betrayed us." "he shall die," said catesby. and the determination was echoed by all the other conspirators. instead of retiring to rest, they passed the night in anxious deliberation, and it was at last proposed that guy fawkes should proceed without loss of time to southwark, to keep watch near the house of lord mounteagle, and if possible ascertain whether tresham had visited it. to this he readily agreed. but before setting out, he took catesby aside for a moment, and asked, "did you see viviana at coughton?" "only for a moment, and that just before i left the place," was the answer. "she desired to be remembered to you, and said you were never absent from her thoughts or prayers." guy fawkes turned away to hide his emotion, and mounting one of the horses brought by the conspirators, rode off towards london. chapter xii. the fifth of november. on the same day as the occurrences last related, lord mounteagle, who was then staying at southwark, suddenly intimated his intention of passing the night at his country mansion at hoxton; a change of place which, trivial as it seemed at the moment, afterwards assumed an importance, from the circumstances that arose out of it. at the latter part of the day, he accordingly proceeded to hoxton, accompanied by his customary attendants, and all appeared to pass on as usual, until, just as supper was over, one of his pages arrived from town, and desired to see his lordship immediately. affecting to treat the matter with indifference, lord mounteagle carelessly ordered the youth to be ushered into his presence; and when he appeared, he demanded his business. the page replied, that he brought a letter for his lordship, which had been delivered under circumstances of great mystery. "i had left the house just as it grew dusk," he said, "on an errand of little importance, when a man, muffled in a cloak, suddenly issued from behind a corner, and demanded whether i was one of your lordship's servants? on my replying in the affirmative, he produced this letter, and enjoined me, as i valued my life and your lordship's safety, to deliver it into your own hands without delay." so saying, he delivered the letter to his lord, who, gazing at its address, which was, "to the right honourable the lord mounteagle," observed, "there is nothing very formidable in its appearance. what can it mean?" without even breaking the seal, which was secured with a silken thread, he gave it to one of his gentlemen, named ward, who was standing near him. "read it aloud, sir," said the earl, with a slight smile. "i have no doubt it is some vapouring effusion, which will afford us occasion for laughter. before i hear what the writer has to say, i can promise him he shall not intimidate me." thus exhorted, ward broken open the letter, and read as follows:-- "my lord, out of the love i bear to some of your friends, i have a care of your preservation. therefore i would advise you, as you tender your life, to devise some excuse to shift from your attendance at this parliament, for god and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time. think not slightingly of this advice, but retire into the country, where you may expect the event in safety; for, though there be no appearance of any stir, yet i say they shall receive a terrible blow this parliament, and yet they shall not know who hurts them. this counsel is not to be contemned. it may do you good, and can do you no harm, for the danger is passed as soon as you have burned the letter. god, i hope, will give you grace to make good use of it, to whose holy protection i commend you." "a singular letter!" exclaimed mounteagle, as soon as ward had finished. "what is your opinion of it?" "i think it hints at some dangerous plot, my lord," replied ward, who had received his instructions, "some treason against the state. with submission, i would advise your lordship instantly to take it to the earl of salisbury." "i see nothing in it," replied the earl. "what is your opinion, mervyn?" he added, turning to another of his gentlemen, to whom he had likewise given his lesson. "i am of the same mind as ward," replied the attendant. "your lordship will hardly hold yourself excused, if you neglect to give due warning, should aught occur hereafter." "say you so, sirs?" cried lord mounteagle. "let me hear it once more." the letter was accordingly read again by ward, and the earl feigned to weigh over each passage. "i am advised not to attend the parliament," he said, "'for god and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time.' that is too vague to be regarded. then i am urged to retire into the country. the recommendation must proceed from some discontented catholic, who does not wish me to be present at the opening of the house. this is not the first time i have been so adjured. 'they shall receive a terrible blow this parliament, and yet shall not know who hurts them.' that is mysterious enough, but it may mean nothing,--any more than what follows, namely, 'the danger is passed as soon as you have burnt the letter.'" "i do not think so, my lord," replied ward; "and though i cannot explain the riddle, i am sure it means mischief." "well," said lord mounteagle, "since you are of this mind, i must lose no time in communicating the letter to the secretary of state. it is better to err on the safe side." accordingly, after some further consultation, he set out at that late hour for whitehall, where he roused the earl of salisbury, and showed him the letter. it is almost needless to state that the whole was a preconcerted scheme between these two crafty statesmen; but as the interview took place in the presence of their attendants, the utmost caution was observed. salisbury pretended to be greatly alarmed at the communication, and coupling it, he said, with previous intelligence which he had received, he could not help fearing, to adopt the words of the writer of the mysterious letter, that the parliament was indeed threatened with some "terrible blow." acting, apparently, upon this supposition, he caused such of the lords of the privy council as lodged at whitehall to be summoned, and submitting the letter to them, they all concurred in the opinion that it referred to some dangerous plot, though none could give a guess at its precise nature. "it is clearly some popish project," said salisbury, "or lord mounteagle would not have been the party warned. we must keep a look-out upon the disaffected of his faith." "as i have been the means of revealing the plot to your lordship--if plot it be--i must pray you to deal gently with them," rejoined mounteagle. "i will be as lenient as i can," returned salisbury; "but in a matter of this kind little favour can be shown. if your lordship will enable me to discover the principal actors in this affair, i will take care that no innocent party suffers." "you ask an impossibility," replied mounteagle. "i know nothing beyond what can be gathered from that letter. but i pray your lordship not to make it a means of exercising unnecessary severity towards the members of my religion." "on that you may rely," returned the earl. "his majesty will not return from the hunting expedition on which he is engaged at royston till thursday next, the th. i think it scarcely worth while (considering his naturally timid nature, with which your lordships are well acquainted) to inform him of the threatened danger, until his arrival at the palace. it will then be time enough to take any needful steps, as parliament will not meet for four or five days afterwards." in the policy of this course the privy councillors agreed, and it was arranged that the matter should be kept perfectly secret until the king's opinion had been taken upon the letter. the assemblage then broke up, it being previously arranged that, for fear of some attempt upon his life, lord mounteagle should remain within the palace till full inquiries had been instituted into the affair. when the two confederate nobles were left alone, salisbury observed, with a slight laugh, to his companion, "thus far we have proceeded well, and without suspicion, and, rely upon it, none shall fall on you. as soon as all is over, the most important post the king has to bestow shall be yours." "but what of tresham?" asked mounteagle. "he was the deliverer of this letter, and i have little faith in him." "hum!" said salisbury, after a moment's reflection, "if you think it desirable, we can remove him to the tower, where he can be easily silenced." "it will be better so," replied mounteagle. "he may else babble hereafter. i gave him a thousand pounds to send in his own name to the conspirators the other day to lure them into our nets." "it shall be repaid you a hundred-fold," replied salisbury. "but we are observed, and must therefore separate." so saying, he withdrew to his own chamber, while lord mounteagle was ushered to the apartments allotted to him. to return to guy fawkes. arriving at southwark, he stationed himself near lord mounteagle's residence. but he observed nothing to awaken his suspicions, until early in the morning he perceived a page approaching the mansion, whom, from his livery, he knew to be one of lord mounteagle's household, (it was, in fact, the very youth who had delivered the mysterious letter,) and from him he ascertained all that had occurred. filled with alarm, and scarcely knowing what to do, he crossed the river, and proceeding to the cellar, examined the marks at the door, and finding all precisely as he had left it, felt certain, that whatever discovery had been made, the magazine had not been visited. he next repaired to the house, of which he possessed the key, and was satisfied that no one had been there. somewhat relieved by this, he yet determined to keep watch during the day, and concealing himself near the cellar, remained on the look-out till night. but no one came; nor did anything occur to excite his suspicions. he would not, however, quit his post till about six o'clock on the following evening, when, thinking further delay might be attended with danger, he set out to white webbs, to give his companions intelligence of the letter. his news was received by all with the greatest alarm, and not one, except catesby, who strove to put a bold face upon the matter, though he was full of inward misgiving, but confessed that he thought all chance of success was at an end. while deliberating upon what should be done in this fearful emergency, they were greatly alarmed by a sudden knocking without. all the conspirators concealed themselves, except guy fawkes, who opening the door, found, to his infinite surprise, that the summons proceeded from tresham. he said nothing till the other had entered the house, and then suddenly drawing his dagger, held it to his throat. "make your shrift quickly, traitor," he cried in a furious tone, "for your last hour is arrived. what ho!" he shouted to the others, who instantly issued from their hiding-places, "the fox has ventured into the lion's den." "you distrust me wrongfully," rejoined tresham, with more confidence than he usually exhibited in time of danger; "i am come to warn you, not betray you. is this the return you make me for the service?" "villain!" cried catesby, rushing up to him, and holding his drawn sword to his breast. "you have conveyed the letter to lord mounteagle." "it is false," replied tresham; "i have only just heard of it; and, in spite of the risk i knew i should run from your suspicions, i came to tell you what had happened." "why did you feign illness, and depart secretly for town, instead of joining us at coughton?" demanded catesby. "i will instantly explain my motive, which, though it may not be satisfactory to you on one point, will be so on another," replied tresham unhesitatingly, and with apparent frankness. "i was fearful you would make a further tool of me, and resolved not to join you again till a few days before the outbreak of the plot. to this determination i should have adhered, had i not learnt to-night that a letter had been transmitted by some one to lord mounteagle, which he had conveyed to the earl of salisbury. it may not convey any notion of the plot, but it is certain to occasion alarm, and i thought it my duty, in spite of every personal consideration, to give you warning. if you design to escape, there is yet time. a vessel lies in the river, in which we can all embark for flanders." "can he be innocent?" said catesby in a whisper to garnet. "if i had betrayed you," continued tresham, "i should not have come hither. and i have no motive for such baseness, for i am in equal danger with yourselves. but though the alarm has been given, i do not think any discovery will be made. they are evidently on the wrong scent." "i hope so," replied catesby; "but i fear the contrary." "shall i put him to death?" demanded fawkes of garnet. "do not sully your hands with his blood, my son," returned garnet. "if he has betrayed us, he will reap the traitor's reward here and hereafter. if he has not, it would be to take away a life unjustly. let him depart. we shall feel more secure without him." "will it be safe to set him free, father?" cried fawkes. "i think so," replied garnet. "we will not admit him to our further conferences; but let us act mercifully." the major part of the conspirators concurring in this opinion, though fawkes and catesby were opposed to it, tresham was suffered to depart. as soon as he was gone, garnet avowed that the further prosecution of the design appeared so hazardous, that it ought to be abandoned, and that, in his opinion, each of the conspirators had better consult his own safety by flight. he added, that at some future period the design might be resumed, or another planned, which might be more securely carried out. after much discussion, all seemed disposed to acquiesce in the proposal, except fawkes, who adhered doggedly to his purpose, and treated the danger so slightingly, that he gradually brought the others round to his views. at length, it was resolved that garnet should set out immediately for coughton hall, and place himself under the protection of sir everard digby, and there await the result of the attempt, while the other conspirators decided upon remaining in town, in some secure places of concealment, until the event was known. unmoved as ever, guy fawkes declared his intention of watching over the magazine of powder. "if anything happens to me," he said, "you will take care of yourselves. you well know nothing will be wrung from me." catesby and the others, aware of his resolute nature, affected to remonstrate with him, but they willingly suffered him to take his own course. attended by bates, garnet then set out for warwickshire, and the rest of the conspirators proceeded to london, where they dispersed, after appointing lincoln's inn walks as their place of midnight rendezvous. each then made preparations for sudden flight, in case it should be necessary, and rookwood provided relays of horses all the way to dunchurch. guy fawkes alone remained at his post. he took up his abode in the cellar, resolved to blow up himself together with his foes, in case of a surprise. on thursday, the st of october, the king returned to whitehall, and the mysterious letter was laid before him in the presence of the privy council by the earl of salisbury. james perused it carefully, but could scarcely hide his perplexity. "your majesty will not fail to remark the expressions, 'a terrible blow' to the parliament, and 'that the danger will be past as soon as you have burnt the letter,' evidently referring to combustion," observed the earl. "you are right, salisbury," said james, snatching at the suggestion. "i should not wonder if these mischievous papists mean to blow us all up with gunpowder." "your majesty has received a divine illumination," returned the earl. "such an idea never occurred to me; but it must be as you intimate." "undoubtedly--undoubtedly," replied the monarch, pleased with the compliment to his sagacity, though alarmed by the danger; "but what desperate traitors they must be to imagine such a deed! blow us up! god's mercy, that were a dreadful death! and yet that must evidently be the meaning of the passage. how else can it be construed, except by reference to the suddenness of the act, which might be as quickly performed as that paper would take to be consumed in the fire?" "your majesty's penetration has discovered the truth," replied salisbury, "and by the help of your wisdom, i will fully develop this dark design. where, think you, the powder may lie hidden?" "are there any vaults beneath the parliament house?" demanded james, trembling. "heaven save us! we have often walked there--perhaps, over a secret mine." "there are," replied salisbury; "and i am again indebted to your majesty for a most important suggestion. not a corner in the vaults shall be left unsearched. but, perhaps you will think with me, that, in order to catch these traitors in their own trap, it will be well to defer the search till the very night before the meeting of parliament." "i was about to recommend such a course myself, salisbury," replied james. "i was sure you would think so," returned the earl; "and now i must entreat you to dismiss the subject from your thoughts, and to sleep securely; for you may rely upon it (after your majesty's discovery) that the plot shall be fully unravelled." the significant tone in which the earl uttered the latter part of this speech, convinced the king that he knew more of the matter than he cared to confess; and he contented himself with saying, "well, let it be so. i trust all to you. but i at once divined their purpose,--i at once divined it." the council then broke up, and james laughed and chuckled to himself at the discernment he had displayed. nor was he less pleased with his minister for the credit given him in the affair. but he took care not to enter the parliament house. on the afternoon of monday, the th of november, the lord chamberlain, accompanied by the lords salisbury and mounteagle, visited the cellars and vaults beneath the parliament house. for some time, they discovered nothing to excite suspicion. at length, probably at the suggestion of lord mounteagle, who, as will be recollected, was acquainted with the situation of the magazine, they proceeded to the cellar, where they found the store of powder; but not meeting with any of the conspirators, as they expected, they disturbed nothing, and went away, reporting the result of their search to the king. by the recommendation of the earl of salisbury, james advised that a guard should be placed near the cellar during the whole of the night, consisting of topcliffe and a certain number of attendants, and headed by sir thomas knevet, a magistrate of westminster, upon whose courage and discretion full reliance could be placed. lord mounteagle also requested permission to keep guard with them to witness the result of the affair. to this the king assented, and as soon as it grew dark, the party secretly took up their position at a point commanding the entrance of the magazine. fawkes, who chanced to be absent at the time the search was made, returned a few minutes afterwards, and remained within the cellar, seated upon a barrel of gunpowder, the head of which he had staved in, with a lantern in one hand, and petronel in the other, till past midnight. the fifth of november was now at hand, and the clock of the adjoining abbey had scarcely ceased tolling the hour that proclaimed its arrival, when fawkes, somewhat wearied with his solitary watching, determined to repair, for a short space, to the adjoining house. he accordingly quitted the cellar, leaving his lantern lighted within it in one corner. opening the door, he gazed cautiously around, but perceiving nothing, after waiting a few seconds, he proceeded to lock the door. while thus employed, he thought he heard a noise behind him, and turning suddenly, he beheld through the gloom several persons rushing towards him, evidently with hostile intent. his first impulse was to draw a petronel, and grasp his sword: but before he could effect his purpose, his arms were pinioned by a powerful grasp from behind, while the light of a lantern thrown full in his face revealed the barrel of a petronel levelled at his head, and an authoritative voice commanded him in the king's name to surrender. [illustration: _guy fawkes arrested by sir thomas knevet and topcliffe_] chapter xiii. the flight of the conspirators. on the same night, and at the same hour that guy fawkes was captured, the other conspirators held their rendezvous in lincoln's inn walks. a presentiment of the fate awaiting them filled the breasts of all, and even catesby shared in the general depression. plan after plan was proposed, and, as soon as proposed, rejected; and they seemed influenced only by alarm and irresolution. feeling at length that nothing could be done, and that they were only increasing their risk by remaining together longer, they agreed to separate, appointing to meet at the same place on the following night, if their project should not, in the interim, be discovered. "before daybreak," said catesby, "i will proceed to the cellar under the parliament house, and ascertain whether anything has happened to guy fawkes. my heart misgives me about him, and i reproach myself that i have allowed him to incur this peril alone." "guy fawkes is arrested," said a voice near them, "and is at this moment under examination before the king." "it is tresham who speaks," cried catesby; "secure him!" the injunction was instantly obeyed. tresham was seized, and several weapons pointed against his breast. he did not, however, appear to be dismayed, but, so far as could be discerned in the obscurity, seemed to maintain great boldness of demeanour. "i have again ventured among you, at the hazard of my life," he said, in a firm tone, "to give you this most important intelligence; and am requited, as i have ever been of late, with menaces and violence. stab me, and see whether my death will avail you in this extremity. i am in equal danger with yourselves; and whether i perish by your hands, or by those of the executioner, is of little moment." "let me question him before we avenge ourselves upon him," said catesby to rookwood. "how do you know that guy fawkes is a prisoner?" "i saw him taken," replied tresham, "and esteem myself singularly fortunate that i escaped the same fate. though excluded from further share in the project, i could not divest myself of a strong desire to know how matters were going on, and i resolved to visit the cellar secretly at midnight. as i stealthily approached it, i remarked several armed figures beneath a gateway, and conjecturing their purpose, instantly concealed myself behind a projection of the wall. i had not been in this situation many minutes, when the cellar door opened, and guy fawkes issued from it." "well!" cried catesby, breathlessly. "the party i had noticed immediately rushed forward, and secured him before he could offer any resistance," continued tresham. "after a brief struggle, certain of their number dragged him into the cellar, while others kept watch without. i should now have flown, but my limbs refused their office, and i was therefore compelled, however reluctantly, to see the end of it. in a short time guy fawkes was brought forth again, and i heard some one in authority give directions that he should be instantly taken to whitehall, to be interrogated before the king and the privy council. he was then led away, and a guard placed at the door of the cellar. feeling certain i should be discovered, i continued for some time in an agony of apprehension, not daring to stir. but, at length, summoning up sufficient resolution, i crept cautiously along the side of the wall, and got off unperceived. my first object was to warn you." "how did you become acquainted with our place of rendezvous?" demanded the elder wright. "i overheard you, at our last interview at white webbs, appoint a midnight meeting in this place," replied tresham, "and i hurried hither in the hope of finding you, and have not been disappointed." "when i give the word, plunge your swords into his breast," said catesby, in a low tone. "hold!" cried percy, taking him aside. "if we put him to death in this spot, his body will be found, and his slaughter may awaken suspicions against us. guy fawkes will reveal nothing." "of that i am well assured," said catesby. "shall we take the traitor with us to some secure retreat, where we can detain him till we learn what takes place at the palace, and if we find he has betrayed us, despatch him?" "that would answer no good purpose," returned percy "the sooner we are rid of him the better. we can then deliberate as to what is best to be done." "you are right," rejoined catesby. "if he _has_ betrayed us, life will be a burthen to him, and the greatest kindness we could render him would be to rid him of it. let him go. tresham," he added, in a loud voice, "you are free. but we meet no more." "we have not parted yet," cried the traitor, springing backwards, and uttering a loud cry. "i arrest you all in the king's name." the signal was answered by a band of soldiers, who emerged from behind the trees where they had hitherto been concealed, and instantly surrounded the conspirators. "it is now my turn to threaten," laughed tresham. catesby replied by drawing a petronel, and firing it in the supposed direction of the speaker. but he missed his mark. the ball lodged in the brain of a soldier who was standing beside him, and the ill-fated wretch fell to the ground. a desperate conflict now ensued. topcliffe, who commanded the assailing party, ordered his followers to take the conspirators alive, and it was mainly owing to this injunction that the latter were indebted for their safety. whispering his directions to his companions, catesby gave the word, and making a simultaneous rush forward, they broke through the opposing ranks, and instantly dispersing, and favoured by the gloom, they baffled pursuit. "we have failed in this part of our scheme," said tresham to topcliffe, as they met half an hour afterwards. "what is to be done?" "we must take the earl of salisbury's advice upon it," returned topcliffe. "i shall now hasten to whitehall to see how guy fawkes's interrogation proceeds, and will communicate with his lordship." upon this, they separated. none of the conspirators met again that night. each fled in a different direction, and, ignorant of what had happened to the rest, sought some secure retreat. catesby ran towards chancery-lane, and passing through a narrow alley, entered the large gardens which then lay between this thoroughfare and fetter-lane. listening to hear whether he was pursued, and finding nothing to alarm him, he threw himself on the sod beneath a tree, and was lost in painful reflection. "all my fair schemes are marred by that traitor, tresham," he muttered. "i could forgive myself for being duped by him, if i had slain him when he was in my power. but that he should escape to exult in our ruin, and reap the reward of his perfidy, afflicts me even more than failure." tortured by thoughts like these, and in vain endeavouring to snatch such brief repose as would fit him for the fatigue he might have to endure on the morrow, he did not quit his position till late in the morning of a dull november day--it was, as will be recollected, the memorable fifth--had arrived. he then arose, and slouching his hat, and wrapping his cloak around him, shaped his course towards fleet-street. from the knots of persons gathered together at different corners,--from their muttered discourse and mysterious looks, as well as from the general excitement that prevailed,--he felt sure that some rumour of the plot had gone abroad. shunning observation as much as he could, he entered a small tavern near fleet bridge, and called for a flask of wine and some food. while discussing these, he was attracted by the discourse of the landlord, who was conversing with his guests about the conspiracy. "i hear that all the papists are to be hanged, drawn, and quartered," cried the host; "and if it be true, as i have heard, that this plot is their contrivance, they deserve it. i hope i have no believer in that faith--no recusant in my house." "don't insult us by any such suspicion," cried one of the guests. "we are all loyal men--all good protestants." "do you know whether the conspirators have been discovered, sir?" asked the host of catesby. "i do not even know of the plot," replied the other. "what was its object?" "what was its object!" cried the host. "you will scarcely credit me when i tell you. i tremble to speak of it. its object was to blow up the parliament house, and the king and all the nobles and prelates of the land along with it." "horrible!" exclaimed the guests. "but how do you know it is a scheme of the papists?" asked catesby. "because i have been told so," rejoined the host. "but who else could devise such a monstrous plan? it would never enter into the head or heart of a protestant to conceive so detestable an action. we love our king too well for that, and would shed the last drop of our blood rather than a hair of his head should be injured. but these priest-ridden papists think otherwise. they regard him as a usurper; and having received a dispensation from the pope to that effect, fancy it would be a pious act to remove him. there will be no tranquillity in the kingdom while one of them is left alive; and i hope his majesty will take advantage of the present ferment to order a general massacre of them, like that of the poor protestants on saint bartholomew's day in paris." "ay,--massacre them," cried the guests; "that's the way. burn their houses and cut their throats. will it be lawful to do so without further authority, mine host? if so, we will set about it immediately." "i cannot resolve you on that point," replied the landlord. "you had better wait a short time. i dare say their slaughter will be publicly commanded." "heaven grant it may be so!" cried one of the guests. "i will bear my part in the business." catesby arose, paid his reckoning, and strode out of the tavern. "do you know, mine host," said the guest who had last spoken, "i half suspect that tall fellow, who has just left us, is a papist." "perhaps a conspirator," said another. "let us watch him," cried a third. "stay," cried the host, "he has paid me double my reckoning. i believe him to be an honest man and a good protestant." "what you say confirms my suspicions," rejoined the first speaker. "we will follow him." on reaching temple bar, catesby found the gates closed, and a guard stationed at them,--no one being allowed to pass through without examination. not willing to expose himself to this scrutiny, catesby turned away, and in doing so, perceived three of the persons he had just left in the tavern. the expression of their countenances satisfied him they were dogging him; but affecting not to perceive it, he retraced his steps, gradually quickening his pace until he reached a narrow street leading into whitefriars, down which he darted. the moment his pursuers saw this, they hurried after him, shouting, "a papist--a papist!--a conspirator!" but catesby was now safe. claiming the protection of certain alsatians who were lounging at the door of a tavern, and offering to reward them, they instantly drew their swords, and drove the others away, while catesby, tossing a few pieces of money to his preservers, passed through a small doorway into the temple, and making the best of his way to the stairs, leaped into a boat, and ordered the waterman to row to westminster. the man obeyed, and plying his oars, soon gained the middle of the stream. little way, however, had been made, when catesby descried a large wherry, manned by several rowers, swiftly approaching them, and instinctively comprehending whom it contained, ordered the man to rest on his oars till it had passed. in a few moments the wherry approached them. it was filled with serjeants of the guard and halberdiers, in the midst of whom sat guy fawkes. catesby could not resist the impulse that prompted him to rise, and the movement attracted the attention of the prisoner. the momentary glance they exchanged convinced catesby that fawkes perceived him, though his motionless features gave no token of recognition, and he immediately afterwards fixed his eyes towards heaven, as if to intimate,--at least catesby so construed the gesture,--that his earthly career was well-nigh ended. heaving a deep sigh, catesby watched the wherry sweep on towards the tower,--its fatal destination,--until it was lost to view. "all is over, i fear, with the bravest of our band," he thought, as he tracked its course; "but some effort must be made to save him. at all events, we will die sword in hand, and like soldiers, and not as common malefactors." abandoning his intention of proceeding to westminster, he desired the man to pull ashore, and landing at arundel stairs, hastened to the strand. here he found large crowds collected, the shops closed, and business completely at a stand. nothing was talked of but the conspiracy, and the most exaggerated and extraordinary accounts of it were circulated and believed. some would have it that the parliament house was already blown up, and that the city of london itself had been set fire to in several places by the papists. it was also stated that numerous arrests had taken place, and it was certain that the houses of several catholic nobles and wealthy gentlemen had been searched. to such a height was the popular indignation raised, that it required the utmost efforts of the soldiery to prevent the mob from breaking into these houses, and using violence towards their inmates. every gate and avenue to the palace was strictly guarded, and troops of horse were continually scouring the streets. sentinels were placed before suspected houses, and no one was suffered to enter them, or to go forth without special permission. detachments of soldiery were also stationed at the end of all the main thoroughfares. bars were thrown across the smaller streets and outlets, and proclamation was made that no one was to quit the city, however urgent his business, for three days. on hearing this announcement, catesby saw at once that if he did not effect his escape immediately, it would be impracticable. accordingly, he hurried towards charing-cross, and turning up st. martin's-lane, at the back of the king's mews, contrived to elude the vigilance of the guard, and speeded along the lane,--for it was then literally so, and surrounded on either side by high hedges,--until he came to st. giles's,--at this time nothing more than a few scattered houses, intermixed with trees. here he encountered a man mounted on a powerful steed, and seeing this person look hard at him, would have drawn out of the way, if the other had not addressed him by name. he then regarded the equestrian more narrowly, and found it was martin heydocke. "i have heard what has happened, mr. catesby," said martin, "and can imagine the desperate strait in which you must be placed. take my horse,--it may aid your flight. i was sent to london by my master, mr. humphrey chetham, to bring him intelligence of the result of your attempt, and i am sure i am acting in accordance with his wishes in rendering you such a service. at all events, i will risk it. mount, sir,--mount, and make the best of your way hence." catesby needed no further exhortation, but, springing into the saddle, hastily murmured his thanks, and striking into a lane on the right, rode off at a swift pace towards highgate. on reaching the brow of this beautiful hill, he drew in the bridle for a moment, and gazed towards the city he had just quitted. dark and bitter were his thoughts as he fixed his eye upon westminster abbey, and fancied he could discern the neighbouring pile, whose destruction he had meditated. remembering that from this very spot, when he had last approached the capital, in company with guy fawkes and viviana radcliffe, he had looked in the same direction, he could not help contrasting his present sensations with those he had then experienced. at that time he was full of ardour, and confident of success. now, all was lost to him, and he was anxious for little more than self-preservation. involuntarily, his eye wandered along the great city, until passing over the mighty fabric of saint paul's, it settled upon the tower,--upon the place of guy fawkes's captivity. "and can nothing be done for his deliverance?" sighed catesby, as he turned away, his eyes filling with moisture "must that brave soldier die the death of a felon--must he be subjected to the torture--horror! if he had died defending himself, i should scarcely have pitied him. and if he had destroyed himself, together with his foes, as he resolved to do, i should have envied him. but the idea of what he will have to suffer in that dreadful place--nay, what he is now, perhaps, suffering--makes the life-blood curdle in my veins. i will never fall alive into their hands." with this resolve, he struck spurs into his steed, and, urging him to a swift pace, dashed rapidly forward. he had ridden more than a mile, when hearing shouts behind him, he perceived two troopers galloping after him as fast as their horses could carry them. they shouted to him to stay, and as they were better mounted than he was, it was evident they would soon come up with him. determined, however, to adhere to the resolution he had just formed, and not to yield himself with life, he prepared for a conflict, and suddenly halting, he concealed a petronel beneath his cloak, and waited till his foes drew near. "i command you, in the king's name, to surrender," said the foremost trooper, riding up. "you are a rebel and a traitor." "be this my answer," replied catesby, aiming at the man, and firing with such certainty, that he fell from his horse mortally wounded. unsheathing his sword, he then prepared to attack the other trooper. but, terrified at the fate of his comrade, the man turned his horse's head, and rode off. without bestowing a thought on the dying man who lay groaning in the mire, catesby caught hold of the bridle of his horse, and satisfied that the animal was better than his own, mounted him, and proceeded at the same headlong pace as before. in a short time he reached finchley, where several persons rushed from their dwellings to inquire whether he brought any intelligence of the plot, rumours of which had already reached them. without stopping, catesby replied that most important discoveries had been made, and that he was carrying despatches from the king to northampton. no opposition was therefore offered him, and he soon left all traces of habitation behind him. urging his horse to its utmost, he arrived, in less than a quarter of an hour, at chipping barnet. here the same inquiries were made as at finchley, and returning the same answer--for he never relaxed his speed for a moment--he pursued his course. in less than three quarters of an hour after this, he arrived at saint albans, and proceeding direct to the post-house, asked for a horse. but instead of complying with the request, the landlord of the rose and crown--such was the name of the hostel--instantly withdrew, and returned the next moment with an officer, who desired to speak with catesby before he proceeded further. the latter, however, took no notice of the demand, but rode off. the clatter of horses' hoofs behind him soon convinced him he was again pursued, and he was just beginning to consider in what way he should make a second defence, when he observed two horsemen cross a lane on the left, and make for the main road. his situation now appeared highly perilous, especially as his pursuers, who had noticed the other horsemen at the same time as himself, shouted to them. but he was speedily relieved. these persons, instead of stopping, accelerated their pace, and appeared as anxious as he was to avoid those behind him. they were now within a short distance of dunstable, and were ascending the lovely downs which lie on the london side of this ancient town, when one of the horsemen in front chancing to turn round, catesby perceived it was rookwood. overjoyed at the discovery, he shouted to him at the top of his voice, and the other, who it presently appeared was accompanied by keyes, instantly stopped. in a few seconds catesby was by their side, and a rapid explanation taking place, they all three drew up in order of battle. by this time their pursuers had arrived within a hundred yards of them, and seeing how matters stood, and not willing to hazard an engagement, after a brief consultation, retired. the three friends then pursued their route, passed through dunstable, and without pausing a moment on the road, soon neared fenny stratford. just before they arrived at this place, catesby's horse fell from exhaustion. instantly extricating himself from the fallen animal, he ran by the side of his companions till they got to the town, where rookwood, who had placed relays on the road, changed his horse, and the others were fortunate enough to procure fresh steeds. proceeding with unabated impetuosity, they soon cleared a few more miles, and had just left stony stratford behind them, when they overtook a solitary horseman, who proved to be john wright, and a little further on they came up with percy, and christopher wright. though their numbers were thus increased, they did not consider themselves secure, but flinging their cloaks away to enable them to proceed with greater expedition, hurried on to towcester. here keyes quitted his companions, and shaped his course into warwickshire, where he was afterwards taken, while the others, having procured fresh horses, made the best of their way to ashby saint leger's. about six o'clock, catesby and his companions arrived at his old family seat, which he had expected to approach in triumph, but which he now approached with feelings of the deepest mortification and disappointment. they found the house filled with guests--among whom was robert winter--who were just sitting down to supper. catesby rushed into the room in which these persons were assembled, covered with mud and dirt, his haggard looks and dejected appearance proclaiming that his project had failed. his friends followed, and their appearance confirmed the impression that he had produced. lady catesby hastened to her son, and strove to comfort him; but he rudely repulsed her. "what is the matter?" she anxiously inquired. "what is the matter!" cried catesby, in a furious tone, and stamping his foot to the ground. "all is lost! our scheme is discovered; guy fawkes is a prisoner, and ere long we shall all be led to the block. yes, all!" he repeated, gazing sternly around. "i will never be led thither with life," said robert winter. "nor i," added a young catholic gentleman, named acton of ribbesford, who had lately joined the conspiracy. "though the great design has failed, we are yet free, and have swords to draw, and arms to wield them." "ay," exclaimed robert winter, "all our friends are assembled at dunchurch. let us join them instantly, and we may yet stir up a rebellion which may accomplish all we can desire. i, myself, accompanied humphrey littleton to dunchurch this morning, and know we shall find everything in readiness." "do not despair," cried lady catesby; "all will yet be well. every member of our faith will join you, and you will soon muster a formidable army." "we must not yield without a blow," cried percy, pouring out a bumper of wine, and swallowing it at a draught. "you are right," said rookwood, imitating his example. "we will sell our lives dearly." "if you will adhere to this resolution, gentlemen," rejoined catesby, "we may yet retrieve our loss. with five hundred stanch followers, who will stand by me to the last, i will engage to raise such a rebellion in england as shall not be checked, except by the acknowledgment of our rights, or the dethronement of the king." "we will all stand by you," cried the others. "swear it," cried catesby, raising the glass to his lips. "we do," was the reply. "wearied as we are," cried catesby, "we must at once proceed to dunchurch, and urge our friends to rise in arms with us." "agreed," cried the others. summoning all his household, and arming them, catesby then set out with the rest for dunchurch, which lay about five miles from ashby saint leger's. they arrived there in about three quarters of an hour, and found the mansion crowded with catholic gentlemen and their servants. entering the banquet hall, they found sir everard digby at the head of the board, with garnet on his right hand. upwards of sixty persons were seated at the table. their arrival was greeted with loud shouts, and several of the guests drew their swords and flourished them over their heads. "what news?" cried sir everard digby. "is the blow struck?" "no," replied catesby; "we have been betrayed." a deep silence prevailed. a change came over the countenances of the guests. significant glances were exchanged, and it was evident that general uneasiness prevailed. "what is to be done?" cried sir everard digby, after a pause. "our course is clear," returned catesby. "we must stand by each other. in that case, we have nothing to fear, and shall accomplish our purpose, though not in the way originally intended." "i will have nothing further to do with the matter," said sir robert digby of coleshill, sir everard's uncle. and rising, he quitted the room with several of his followers, while his example was imitated by humphrey littleton and others. "all chance for the restoration of our faith in england is over," observed garnet, in a tone of despondency. "not so, father," replied catesby, "if we are true to each other. my friends," he cried, stopping those who were about to depart, "in the name of our holy religion i beseech you to pause. much is against us now. but let us hold together, and all will speedily be righted. every catholic in this county, in cheshire, in lancashire, and wales, must flock to our standard when it is once displayed--do not desert us--do not desert yourselves--for our cause is your cause. i have a large force at my command; so has sir everard digby, and together we can muster nearly five hundred adherents. with these, we can offer such a stand as will enable as to make conditions with our opponents, or even to engage with them with a reasonable prospect of success. i am well assured, moreover, if we lose no time, but proceed to the houses of our friends, we shall have a large army with us. do not fall off, then. on you depends our success." this address was followed by loud acclamations; and all who heard it agreed to stand by the cause in which they had embarked to the last. as catesby left the banqueting-hall with sir everard, to make preparations for their departure, they met viviana and a female attendant. "i hear the enterprise has failed," she cried, in a voice suffocated by emotion. "what has happened to my husband? is he safe? is he with you?" "alas! no," replied catesby; "he is a prisoner." viviana uttered a cry of anguish, and fell senseless into the arms of the attendant. chapter xiv. the examination. disarmed by sir thomas knevet and his followers, who found upon his person a packet of slow matches and touchwood, and bound hand and foot, guy fawkes was dragged into the cellar by his captors, who instantly commenced their search. in a corner behind the door they discovered a dark lantern, with a light burning within it; and moving with the utmost caution--for they were afraid of bringing sudden destruction upon themselves--they soon perceived the barrels of gunpowder ranged against the wall. carefully removing the planks, billets, and iron bars with which they were covered, they remarked that two of the casks were staved in, while the hoops from a third were taken off, and the powder scattered around it. they also noticed that several trains were laid along the floor,--everything, in short, betokening that the preparations for the desperate deed were fully completed. while they were making this investigation, guy fawkes, who, seeing that further resistance was useless, had remained perfectly motionless up to this moment, suddenly made a struggle to free himself; and so desperate was the effort, that he burst the leathern thong that bound his hands, and seizing the soldier nearest to him, bore him to the ground. he then grasped the lower limbs of another, who held a lantern, and strove to overthrow him, and wrest the lantern from his grasp, evidently intending to apply the light to the powder. and he would unquestionably have executed his terrible design, if three of the most powerful of the soldiers had not thrown themselves upon him, and overpowered him. all this was the work of a moment; but it was so startling, that sir thomas knevet and topcliffe, though both courageous men, and used to scenes of danger--especially the latter--rushed towards the door, expecting some dreadful catastrophe would take place. "do him no harm," cried knevet, as he returned to the soldiers, who were still struggling with fawkes,--"do him no harm. it is not here he must die." "a moment more, and i had blown you all to perdition," cried fawkes. "but heaven ordained it otherwise." "heaven will never assist such damnable designs as yours," rejoined knevet. "thrust him into that corner," he added to his men, who instantly obeyed his injunctions, and held down the prisoner so firmly that he could not move a limb. "keep him there. i will question him presently." "you _may_ question me," replied fawkes, sternly; "but you will obtain no answer." "we shall see," returned knevet. pursuing the search with topcliffe, he counted thirty-six hogsheads and casks of various sizes, all of which were afterwards found to be filled with powder. though prepared for this discovery, knevet could not repress his horror at it, and gave vent to execrations against the prisoner, to which the other replied by a disdainful laugh. they then looked about, in the hope of finding some document or fragment of a letter, which might serve as a clue to the other parties connected with the fell design, but without success. nothing was found except a pile of arms; but though they examined them, no name or cipher could be traced on any of the weapons. "we will now examine the prisoner more narrowly," said knevet. this was accordingly done. on removing guy fawkes's doublet, a horse-hair shirt appeared, and underneath it, next his heart, suspended by a silken cord from his neck, was a small silver cross. when this was taken from him, guy fawkes could not repress a deep sigh. "there is some secret attached to that cross," whispered topcliffe, plucking knevet's sleeve. upon this, the other held it to the light, while topcliffe kept his eye fixed upon the prisoner, and observed that, in spite of all his efforts to preserve an unmoved demeanour, he was slightly agitated. "do you perceive anything?" he asked. "yes," replied knevet, "there is a name. but the character is so small i cannot decipher it." "let me look at it," said topcliffe. "this is most important," he added, after gazing at it for a moment; "the words inscribed on it are, '_viviana radcliffe, ordsall hall_' you may remember that this young lady was examined a short time ago, on suspicion of being connected with some popish plot against the state, and committed to the tower, whence she escaped in a very extraordinary manner. this cross, found upon the prisoner, proves her connexion with the present plot. every effort must be used to discover her retreat." another deep sigh involuntarily broke from the breast of guy fawkes. "you hear how deeply interested he is in the matter," observed topcliffe, in a low tone. "this trinket will be of infinite service to us in future examinations, and may do more for us with this stubborn subject even than the rack itself." "you are right," returned knevet. "i will now convey him to whitehall, and acquaint the earl of salisbury with his capture." "do so," replied topcliffe. "i have a further duty to perform. before morning i hope to net the whole of this wolfish pack." "indeed!" exclaimed knevet. "have you any knowledge of the others?" topcliffe smiled significantly. "time will show," he said. "but if you do not require me further, i will leave you." with this, he quitted the cellar, and joined the earl of mounteagle and tresham, who were waiting for him outside at a little distance from the cellar. after a brief conference, it was arranged, in compliance with the earl of salisbury's wishes, that if they failed in entrapping the conspirators, nothing should be said about the matter. he then departed with tresham. their subsequent proceedings have already been related. by sir thomas knevet's directions, guy fawkes was now raised by two of the soldiers, and led out of the cellar. as he passed through the door, he uttered a deep groan. "you groan for what you have done, villain," said one of the soldiers. "on the contrary," rejoined fawkes, sternly, "i groan for what i have not done." he was then hurried along by his conductors, and conveyed through the great western gate, into the palace of whitehall, where he was placed in a small room, the windows of which were strongly grated. before quitting him, sir thomas knevet put several questions to him, but he maintained a stern and obstinate silence. committing him to the custody of an officer of the guard, whom he enjoined to keep strict guard over him, as he valued his life, knevet then went in search of the earl of salisbury. the secretary, who had not retired to rest, and was anxiously awaiting his arrival, was delighted with the success of the scheme. they were presently joined by lord mounteagle; and after a brief conference it was resolved to summon the privy council immediately, to rouse the king, and acquaint him with what had occurred, and to interrogate the prisoner in his presence. "nothing will be obtained from him, i fear," said knevet. "he is one of the most resolute and determined fellows i ever encountered." and he then related the desperate attempt made by fawkes in the vault to blow them all up. "whether he will speak or not, the king must see him," said salisbury. as soon as knevet was gone, the earl observed to mounteagle, "you had now better leave the palace. you must not appear further in this matter, except as we have arranged. before morning, i trust we shall have the whole of the conspirators in our power, with damning proofs of their guilt." "by this time, my lord, they are in tresham's hands," replied mounteagle. "if he fails, not a word must be said," observed salisbury. "it must not be supposed we have moved in the matter. all great statesmen have contrived treasons, that they might afterwards discover them; and though i have not contrived this plot, i have known of its existence from the first, and could at any time have crushed it had i been so minded. but that would not have answered my purpose. and i shall now use it as a pretext to crush the whole catholic party, except those on whom, like yourself, i can confidently rely." "your lordship must admit that i have well seconded your efforts," observed mounteagle. "i do so," replied salisbury, "and you will not find me ungrateful. farewell! i hope soon to hear of our further success." mounteagle then took his departure, and salisbury immediately caused all such members of the privy council as lodged in the palace to be aroused, desiring they might be informed that a terrible plot had been discovered, and a conspirator arrested. in a short time, the duke of lennox, the earl of marr, lord hume, the earl of southampton, lord henry howard, lord mountjoy, sir george hume, and others, were assembled; and all eagerly inquired into the occasion of the sudden alarm. meanwhile, the earl of salisbury had himself repaired to the king's bedchamber, and acquainted him with what had happened. james immediately roused himself, and desired the chamberlain, who accompanied the earl, to quit the presence. "will it be safe to interrogate the prisoner here?" he asked. "i will take care your majesty shall receive no injury," replied salisbury; "and it is absolutely necessary you should examine him before he is committed to the tower." "let him be brought before me, then, directly," said the king. "i am impatient to behold a wretch who has conceived so atrocious--so infernal a design against me, and against my children. hark 'e, salisbury, one caution i wish to observe. let a captain of the guard, with his drawn sword in hand, place himself between me and the prisoner, and let two halberdiers stand beside him, and if the villain moves a step, bid them strike him dead. you understand?" [illustration: _guy fawkes interrogated by king james the first_] "perfectly," replied salisbury, bowing. "in that case, you may take off his bonds--that is, if you think it prudent to do so--not otherwise," continued james. "i would not have the knave suppose he can awe me." "your majesty's commands shall be fulfilled to the letter," returned the earl. "lose no time, salisbury," cried james, springing out of bed, and beginning to dress himself without the assistance of his chamberlain. the earl hastily retired, and ordered the attendants to repair to their royal master. he next proceeded to the chamber where guy fawkes was detained, and ordered him to be unbound, and brought before the king. when the prisoner heard this mandate, a slight smile crossed his countenance, but he instantly resumed his former stern composure. the smile, however, did not escape the notice of salisbury, and he commanded the halberdiers to keep near to the prisoner, and if he made the slightest movement in the king's presence, instantly to despatch him. giving some further directions, the earl then led the way across a court, and entering another wing of the palace, ascended a flight of steps, and traversed a magnificent corridor. guy fawkes followed, attended by the guard. they had now reached the antechamber leading to the royal sleeping apartment, and "salisbury ascertained from the officers in attendance that all was in readiness. motioning the guard to remain where they were, he entered the inner room alone, and found james seated on a chair of state near the bed, surrounded by his council;--the earl of marr standing on his right hand, and the duke of lennox on his left, all anxiously awaiting his arrival. behind the king were stationed half a dozen halberdiers. "the prisoner is without," said salisbury. "is it your majesty's pleasure that he be admitted?" "ay, let him come in forthwith," replied james. "stand by me, my lords. and do you, varlets, keep a wary eye upon him. there is no saying what he may attempt." salisbury then waved his hand. the door was thrown open, and an officer entered the room, followed by guy fawkes, who marched between two halberdiers. when within a couple of yards of the king, the officer halted, and withdrew a little on the right, so as to allow full view of the prisoner, while he extended his sword between him and the king. nothing could be more undaunted than the looks and demeanour of fawkes. he strode firmly into the room, and without making any reverence, folded his arms upon his breast, and looked sternly at james. "a bold villain!" cried the king, as he regarded him with curiosity not unmixed with alarm. "who, and what are you, traitor?" "a conspirator," replied fawkes. "that i know," rejoined james, sharply. "but how are you called?" "john johnson," answered fawkes. "i am servant to mr. thomas percy." "that is false," cried salisbury. "take heed that you speak the truth, traitor, or the rack shall force it from you." "the rack will force nothing from me," replied fawkes, sternly; "neither will i answer any question asked by your lordship." "leave him to me, salisbury,--leave him to me," interposed james. "and it was your hellish design to blow us all up with gunpowder?" he demanded. "it was," replied fawkes. "and how could you resolve to destroy so many persons, none of whom have injured you?" pursued james. "dangerous diseases require desperate remedies," replied fawkes. "milder means have been tried, but without effect. it was god's pleasure that this scheme, which was for the benefit of his holy religion, should not prosper, and therefore i do not repine at the result." "and are you so blinded as to suppose that heaven can approve the actions of him who raises his hand against the king--against the lord's anointed?" cried james. "he is no king who is excommunicated by the apostolic see," replied fawkes. "this to our face!" cried james, angrily. "have you no remorse--no compunction for what you have done?" "my sole regret is that i have failed," replied fawkes. "you will not speak thus confidently on the rack," said james. "try me," replied fawkes. "what purpose did you hope to accomplish by this atrocious design?"' demanded the earl of marr. "my main purpose was to blow back the beggarly scots to their native mountains," returned fawkes. "this audacity surpasses belief," said james. "mutius scævola, when in the presence of porsenna, was not more resolute. hark 'e, villain, if i give you your life, will you disclose the names of your associates?" "no," replied fawkes. "they shall be wrung from you," cried salisbury. fawkes smiled contemptuously. "you know me not," he said. "it is idle to interrogate him further," said james. "let him be removed to the tower." "be it so," returned salisbury; "and when next your majesty questions him, i trust it will be in the presence of his confederates." "despite the villain's horrible intent, i cannot help admiring his courage," observed james, in a low tone; "and were he as loyal as he is brave, he should always be near our person." with this, he waved his hand, and guy fawkes was led forth. he was detained by the earl of salisbury's orders till the morning,--it being anticipated that before that time the other conspirators would be arrested. but as this was not the case, he was placed in a wherry, and conveyed, as before related, to the tower. end of the second book book the third. the conspirators. the conclusion shall be from the admirable clemency and moderation of the king; in that, howsoever these traitors have exceeded all others in mischief, yet neither will the king exceed the usual punishment of law, nor invent any new torture or torment for them, but is graciously pleased to afford them as well an ordinary course of trial as an ordinary punishment much inferior to their offence. and surely worthy of observation is the punishment by law provided and appointed for high treason: for, first, after a traitor hath had his just trial, and is convicted and attainted, he shall have his judgment to be drawn to the place of execution from his prison, as being not worthy any more to tread upon the face of the earth whereof he was made; also, for that he hath been retrograde to nature, therefore is he drawn backward at a horsetail. after, to have his head cut off which had imagined the mischief. and, lastly, his body to be quartered, and the quarters set up in some high and eminent place, to the view and detestation of men, and to become a prey for the fowls of the air. and this is a reward due to traitors, whose hearts be hardened; for that it is a physic of state and government to let out corrupt blood from the heart.--_sir edward coke's speech on the gunpowder treason._ chapter i. how guy fawkes was put to the torture. intimation of the arrest of guy fawkes having been sent to the tower, his arrival was anxiously expected by the warders and soldiers composing the garrison, a crowd of whom posted themselves at the entrance of traitor's gate, to obtain a sight of him. as the bark that conveyed the prisoner shot through london bridge, and neared the fortress, notice of its approach was given to the lieutenant, who, scarcely less impatient, had stationed himself in a small circular chamber in one of the turrets of saint thomas's or traitor's tower, overlooking the river. he hastily descended, and had scarcely reached the place of disembarkation, when the boat passed beneath the gloomy archway, the immense wooden wicket closed behind it; and the officer in command springing ashore, was followed more deliberately by fawkes, who mounted the slippery stairs with a firm footstep. as he gained the summit, the spectators pressed forward; but sir william waad, ordering them in an authoritative tone to stand back, fixed a stern and scrutinizing glance on the prisoner. "many vile traitors have ascended those steps," he said, "but none so false-hearted, none so bloodthirsty as you." "none ever ascended them with less misgiving, or with less self-reproach," replied fawkes. "miserable wretch! do you glory in your villany?" cried the lieutenant. "if anything could heighten my detestation of the pernicious creed you profess, it would be to witness its effects on such minds as yours. what a religion must that be, which can induce its followers to commit such monstrous actions, and delude them into the belief that they are pious and praiseworthy!" "it is a religion, at least, that supports them at seasons when they most require it," rejoined fawkes. "peace!" cried the lieutenant, fiercely, "or i will have your viperous tongue torn out by the roots." turning to the officer, he demanded his warrant, and glancing at it, gave some directions to one of the warders, and then resumed his scrutiny of fawkes, who appeared wholly unmoved, and steadily returned his gaze. meanwhile, several of the spectators, eager to prove their loyalty to the king, and abhorrence of the plot, loaded the prisoner with execrations, and finding these produced no effect, proceeded to personal outrage. some spat upon his face and garments; some threw mud, gathered from the slimy steps, upon him; some pricked him with the points of their halberds; while others, if they had not been checked, would have resorted to greater violence. only one bystander expressed the slightest commiseration for him. it was ruth ipgreve, who, with her parents, formed part of the assemblage. a few kindly words pronounced by this girl moved the prisoner more than all the insults he had just experienced. he said nothing, but a slight and almost imperceptible quivering of the lip told what was passing within. the jailer was extremely indignant at his daughter's conduct, fearing it might prejudice him in the eyes of the lieutenant. "get hence, girl," he cried, "and stir not from thy room for the rest of the day. i am sorry i allowed thee to come forth." "you must look to her, jasper ipgreve," said sir william waad, sternly. "no man shall hold an office in the tower who is a favourer of papacy. if you were a good protestant, and a faithful servant of king james, your daughter could never have acted thus unbecomingly. look to her, i say,--and to yourself." "i will, honourable sir," replied jasper, in great confusion. "take her home directly," he added, in an under tone to his wife. "lock her up till i return, and scourge her if thou wilt. she will ruin us by her indiscretion." in obedience to this injunction, dame ipgreve seized her daughter's hand, and dragged her away. ruth turned for a moment to take a last look at the prisoner, and saw that his gaze followed her, and was fraught with an expression of the deepest gratitude. by way of showing his disapproval of his daughter's conduct, the jailer now joined the bitterest of guy fawkes's assailants; and ere long the assemblage became infuriated to such an ungovernable pitch, that the lieutenant, who had allowed matters to proceed thus far in the hope of shaking the prisoner's constancy, finding his design fruitless, ordered him to be taken away. escorted by a dozen soldiers with calivers on their shoulders, guy fawkes was led through the archway of the bloody tower, and across the green to the beauchamp tower. he was placed in the spacious chamber on the first floor of that fortification, now used as a mess-room by the guards. sir william waad followed him, and seating himself at a table, referred to the warrant. "you are here called john johnson. is that your name?" he demanded. "if you find it thus written, you need make no further inquiry from me," replied fawkes. "i am the person so described. that is sufficient for you." "not so," replied the lieutenant; "and if you persist in this stubborn demeanour, the severest measures will be adopted towards you. your sole chance of avoiding the torture is in making a full confession." "i do not desire to avoid the torture," replied fawkes. "it will wrest nothing from me." "so all think till they have experienced it," replied the lieutenant; "but greater fortitude than yours has given way before our engines." fawkes smiled disdainfully, but made no answer. the lieutenant then gave directions that he should be placed within a small cell adjoining the larger chamber, and that two of the guard should remain constantly beside him, to prevent him from doing himself any violence. "you need have no fear," observed fawkes. "i shall not destroy my chance of martyrdom." at this juncture a messenger arrived, bearing a despatch from the earl of salisbury. the lieutenant broke the seal, and after hurriedly perusing it, drew his sword, and desiring the guard to station themselves outside the door, approached fawkes. "notwithstanding the enormity of your offence," he observed, "i find his majesty will graciously spare your life, provided you will reveal the names of all your associates, and disclose every particular connected with the plot." guy fawkes appeared lost in reflection, and the lieutenant, conceiving he had made an impression upon him, repeated the offer. "how am i to be assured of this?" asked the prisoner. "my promise must suffice," rejoined waad. "it will not suffice to me," returned fawkes. "i must have a pardon signed by the king." "you shall have it on one condition," replied waad. "you are evidently troubled with few scruples. it is the earl of salisbury's conviction that the heads of many important catholic families are connected with this plot. if they should prove to be so,--or, to be plain, if you will accuse certain persons whom i will specify, you shall have the pardon you require." "is this the purport of the earl of salisbury's despatch?" asked guy fawkes. the lieutenant nodded. "let me look at it," continued fawkes. "you may be practising upon me." "your own perfidious nature makes you suspicious of treachery in others," cried the lieutenant. "will this satisfy you?" and he held the letter towards guy fawkes, who instantly snatched it from his grasp. "what ho!" he shouted in a loud voice; "what ho!" and the guards instantly rushed into the room. "you shall learn why you were sent away. sir william waad has offered me my life, on the part of the earl of salisbury, provided i will accuse certain innocent parties--innocent, except that they are catholics--of being leagued with me in my design. read this letter, and see whether i speak not the truth." and he threw it among them. but no one stirred, except a warder, who, picking it up, delivered it to the lieutenant. "you will now understand whom you have to deal with," pursued fawkes. "i do," replied waad. "but were you as unyielding as the walls of this prison, i would shake your obduracy." "i pray you not to delay the experiment," said fawkes. "have a little patience," retorted waad. "i will not balk your humour, depend upon it." with this, he departed, and repairing to his lodgings, wrote a hasty despatch to the earl, detailing all that had passed, and requesting a warrant for the torture, as he was apprehensive, if the prisoner expired under the severe application that would be necessary to force the truth from him, he might be called to account. two hours afterwards the messenger returned with the warrant. it was in the handwriting of the king, and contained a list of interrogations to be put to the prisoner, concluding by directing him "to use the gentler torture first, _et sic per gradus ad ima tenditur_. and so god speed you in your good work!" thus armed, and fearless of the consequences, the lieutenant summoned jasper ipgreve. "we have a very refractory prisoner to deal with," he said, as the jailer appeared. "but i have just received the royal authority to put him through all the degrees of torture if he continues obstinate. how shall we begin?" "with the scavenger's daughter and the little ease, if it please you, honourable sir," replied ipgreve. "if these fail, we can try the gauntlets and the rack; and lastly, the dungeon among the rats, and the hot stone." "a good progression," said the lieutenant, smiling. "i will now repair to the torture-chamber. let the prisoner be brought there without delay. he is in the beauchamp tower." ipgreve bowed and departed, while the lieutenant, calling to an attendant to bring a torch, proceeded along a narrow passage communicating with the bell tower. opening a secret door within it, he descended a flight of stone steps, and traversing a number of intricate passages, at length stopped before a strong door, which he pushed aside, and entered the chamber he had mentioned to ipgreve. this dismal apartment has already been described. it was that in which viviana's constancy was so fearfully approved. two officials in the peculiar garb of the place--a sable livery--were occupied in polishing the various steel implements. besides these, there was the chirurgeon, who was seated at a side table, reading by the light of a brazen lamp. he instantly arose on seeing the lieutenant, and began, with the other officials, to make preparations for the prisoner's arrival. the two latter concealed their features by drawing a large black capoch, or hood, attached to their gowns over them, and this disguise added materially to their lugubrious appearance. one of them then took down a broad iron hoop, opening in the centre with a hinge, and held it in readiness. their preparations were scarcely completed when heavy footsteps announced the approach of fawkes and his attendants. jasper ipgreve ushered them into the chamber, and fastened the door behind them. all the subsequent proceedings were conducted with the utmost deliberation, and were therefore doubly impressive. no undue haste occurred, and the officials, who might have been mistaken for phantoms or evil spirits, spoke only in whispers. guy fawkes watched their movements with unaltered composure. at length, jasper ipgreve signified to the lieutenant that all was ready. "the opportunity you desired of having your courage put to the test is now arrived," said the latter to the prisoner. "what am i to do?" was the reply. "remove your doublet, and prostrate yourself," subjoined ipgreve. guy fawkes obeyed, and when in this posture began audibly to recite a prayer to the virgin. "be silent," cried the lieutenant, "or a gag shall be thrust into your mouth." kneeling upon the prisoner's shoulders, and passing the hoop under his legs, ipgreve then succeeded, with the help of his assistants, who added their weight to his own, in fastening the hoop with an iron button. this done, they left the prisoner with his limbs and body so tightly compressed together that he was scarcely able to breathe. in this state he was allowed to remain for an hour and a half. the chirurgeon then found on examination that the blood had burst profusely from his mouth and nostrils, and in a slighter degree from the extremities of his hands and feet. "he must be released," he observed in an under tone to the lieutenant. "further continuance might be fatal." accordingly, the hoop was removed, and it was at this moment that the prisoner underwent the severest trial. despite his efforts to control himself, a sharp convulsion passed across his frame, and the restoration of impeded circulation and respiration occasioned him the most acute agony. the chirurgeon bathed his temples with vinegar, and his limbs being chafed by the officials, he was placed on a bench. "my warrant directs me to begin with the 'gentler tortures,' and to proceed by degrees to extremities," observed the lieutenant, significantly. "you have now had a taste of the milder sort, and may form some conjecture what the worst are like. do you still continue contumacious?" "i am in the same mind as before," replied fawkes, in a hoarse but firm voice. "take him to the little ease, and let him pass the night there," said the lieutenant. "to-morrow i will continue the investigation." fawkes was then led out by ipgreve and the officials, and conveyed along a narrow passage, until arriving at a low door, in which there was an iron grating, it was opened, and disclosed a narrow cell about four feet high, one and a few inches wide, and two deep. into this narrow receptacle, which seemed wholly inadequate to contain a tall and strongly-built man like himself, the prisoner was with some difficulty thrust, and the door locked upon him. in this miserable plight, with his head bent upon his breast,--the cell being so contrived that its wretched inmate could neither sit, nor recline at full length within it,--guy fawkes prayed long and fervently; and no longer troubled by the uneasy feelings which had for some time haunted him, he felt happier in his present forlorn condition than he had been when anticipating the full success of his project. "at least," he thought, "i shall now win myself a crown of martyrdom, and whatever my present sufferings may be, they will be speedily effaced by the happiness i shall enjoy hereafter." overcome, at length, by weariness and exhaustion, he fell into a sort of doze--it could scarcely be called sleep--and while in this state, fancied he was visited by saint winifred, who, approaching the door of the cell, touched it, and it instantly opened. she then placed her hand upon his limbs, and the pain he had hitherto felt in them subsided. "your troubles will soon be over," murmured the saint, "and you will be at rest. do not hesitate to confess. your silence will neither serve your companions nor yourself." with these words the vision disappeared, and guy fawkes awoke. whether it was the effect of imagination, or that his robust constitution had in reality shaken off the effects of the torture, it is impossible to say, but it is certain that he felt his strength restored to him, and attributing his recovery entirely to the marvellous interposition of the saint, he addressed a prayer of gratitude to her. while thus occupied, he heard--for it was so dark he could distinguish nothing--a sweet low voice at the grating of the cell, and imagining it was the same benign presence as before, paused and listened. "do you hear me?" asked the voice. "i do," replied fawkes. "is it the blessed winifred, who again vouchsafes to address me?" "alas, no!" replied the voice; "it is one of mortal mould. i am ruth ipgreve, the jailer's daughter. you may remember that i expressed some sympathy in your behalf at your landing at traitor's gate to-day, for which i incurred my father's displeasure. but you will be quite sure i am a friend, when i tell you i assisted viviana radcliffe to escape." "ha!" exclaimed guy fawkes, in a tone of great emotion. "i was in some degree in her confidence," pursued ruth; "and, if i am not mistaken, you are the object of her warmest regard." the prisoner could not repress a groan. "you are guy fawkes," pursued ruth. "nay, you need have no fear of me. i have risked my life for viviana, and would risk it for you." "i will disguise nothing from you," replied fawkes. "i am he you have named. as the husband of viviana--for such i am--i feel the deepest gratitude to you for the service you rendered her. she bitterly reproached herself with having placed you in so much danger. how did you escape?" "i was screened by my parents," replied ruth. "it was given out by them that viviana escaped through the window of her prison, and i was thus preserved from punishment. where is she now?" "in safety, i trust," replied fawkes. "alas! i shall never behold her again." "do not despair," returned ruth. "i will try to effect your liberation; and though i have but slender hope of accomplishing it, still there is a chance." "i do not desire it," returned fawkes. "i am content to perish. all i lived for is at an end." "this shall not deter me from trying to save you," replied ruth; "and i still trust there is happiness in store for you with viviana. amid all your sufferings, rest certain there is one who will ever watch over you. i dare not remain here longer, for fear of a surprise. farewell!" she then departed, and it afforded guy fawkes some solace to ponder on the interview during the rest of the night. on the following morning jasper ipgreve appeared, and placed before him a loaf of the coarsest bread, and a jug of dirty water. his scanty meal ended, he left him, but returned in two hours afterwards with a party of halberdiers, and desiring him to follow him, led the way to the torture-chamber. sir william waad was there when he arrived, and demanding in a stern tone whether he still continued obstinate, and receiving no answer, ordered him to be placed in the gauntlets. upon this, he was suspended from a beam by his hands, and endured five hours of the most excruciating agony--his fingers being so crushed and lacerated that he could not move them. he was then taken down, and still refusing to confess, was conveyed to a horrible pit, adjoining the river, called, from the loathsome animals infesting it, "the dungeon among the rats." it was about twenty feet wide and twelve deep, and at high tide was generally more than two feet deep in water. into this dreadful chasm was guy fawkes lowered by his attendants, who, warning him of the probable fate that awaited him, left him in total darkness. at this time the pit was free from water; but he had not been there more than an hour, when a bubbling and hissing sound proclaimed that the tide was rising, while frequent plashes convinced him that the rats were at hand. stooping down, he felt that the water was alive with them--that they were all around him--and would not, probably, delay their attack. prepared as he was for the worst, he could not repress a shudder at the prospect of the horrible death with which he was menaced. at this juncture, he was surprised by the appearance of a light, and perceived at the edge of the pit a female figure bearing a lantern. not doubting it was his visitant of the former night, he called out to her, and was answered in the voice of ruth ipgreve. "i dare not remain here many minutes," she said, "because my father suspects me. but i could not let you perish thus. i will let down this lantern to you, and the light will keep away the rats. when the tide retires you can extinguish it." so saying, she tore her kerchief into shreds, and tying the slips together, lowered the lantern to the prisoner, and without waiting to receive his thanks, hurried away. thus aided, guy fawkes defended himself as well as he could against his loathsome assailants. the light showed that the water was swarming with them--that they were creeping by hundreds up the sides of the pit, and preparing to make a general attack upon him. at one time, fawkes determined not to oppose them, but to let them work their will upon him; but the contact of the noxious animals made him change his resolution, and he instinctively drove them off. they were not, however, to be easily repulsed, and returned to the charge with greater fury than before. the desire of self preservation now got the better of every other feeling, and the dread of being devoured alive giving new vigour to his crippled limbs, he rushed to the other side of the pit. his persecutors, however, followed him in myriads, springing upon him, and making their sharp teeth meet in his flesh in a thousand places. in this way the contest continued for some time, guy fawkes speeding round the pit, and his assailants never for one moment relaxing in the pursuit, until he fell from exhaustion, and his lantern being extinguished, the whole host darted upon him. thinking all over, he could not repress a loud cry, and it was scarcely uttered, when lights appeared, and several gloomy figures bearing torches were seen at the edge of the pit. among these he distinguished sir william waad, who offered instantly to release him if he would confess. "i will rather perish," replied fawkes, "and i will make no further effort to defend myself. i shall soon be out of the reach of your malice." "this must not be," observed the lieutenant to jasper ipgreve, who stood by. "the earl of salisbury will never forgive me if he perishes." "then not a moment must be lost, or those ravenous brutes will assuredly devour him," replied ipgreve. "they are so fierce, that i scarcely like to venture among them." a ladder was then let down into the pit, and the jailer and the two officials descended. they were just in time. fawkes had ceased to struggle, and the rats were attacking him with such fury that his words would have been speedily verified, but for ipgreve's timely interposition. on being taken out of the pit, he fainted from exhaustion and loss of blood; and when he came to himself, found he was stretched upon a couch in the torture-chamber, with the chirurgeon and jasper ipgreve in attendance. strong broths and other restoratives were then administered; and his strength being sufficiently restored to enable him to converse, the lieutenant again visited him, and questioning him as before, received a similar answer. in the course of that day and the next, he underwent at intervals various kinds of torture, each more excruciating than the preceding, all of which he bore with unabated fortitude. among other applications, the rack was employed with such rigour, that his joints started from their sockets, and his frame seemed torn asunder. on the fourth day he was removed to another and yet gloomier chamber, devoted to the same dreadful objects as the first. it had an arched stone ceiling, and at the further extremity yawned a deep recess. within this there was a small furnace, in which fuel was placed, ready to be kindled; and over the furnace lay a large black flag, at either end of which were stout leathern straps. after being subjected to the customary interrogations of the lieutenant, fawkes was stripped of his attire, and bound to the flag. the fire was then lighted, and the stone gradually heated. the writhing frame of the miserable man ere long showed the extremity of his suffering; but as he did not even utter a groan, his tormentors were compelled to release him. on this occasion, there were two personages present who had never attended any previous interrogation. they were wrapped in large cloaks, and stood aloof during the proceedings. both were treated with the most ceremonious respect by sir william waad, who consulted them as to the extent to which he should continue the torture. when the prisoner was taken off the heated stone, one of those persons advanced towards him, and gazed curiously at him. fawkes, upon whose brow thick drops were standing, and who was sinking into the oblivion brought on by overwrought endurance, exclaimed, "it is the king;" and fainted. "the traitor knew your majesty," said the lieutenant. "but you see it is in vain to attempt to extort anything from him." "so it seems," replied james; "and i am greatly disappointed, for i was led to believe that i should hear a full confession of the conspiracy from his own lips. how say you, good master chirurgeon, will he endure further torture?" "not without danger of life, your majesty, unless he has some days' repose," replied the chirurgeon, "even if he can endure it then." "it will not be necessary to apply it further," replied salisbury. "i am now in full possession of the names of all the principal conspirators; and when the prisoner finds further concealment useless, he will change his tone. to-morrow, the commissioners appointed by your majesty for the examination of all those concerned in this dreadful project, will interrogate him in the lieutenant's lodgings, and i will answer with my life that the result will be satisfactory." "enough," said james. "it has been a painful spectacle which we have just witnessed, and yet we would not have missed it. the wretch possesses undaunted resolution, and we can never be sufficiently grateful to the beneficent providence that prevented him from working his ruthless purpose upon us. the day on which we were preserved from this gunpowder treason shall ever hereafter be kept sacred in our church, and thanks shall be returned to heaven for our wonderful deliverance." "your majesty will act wisely," replied salisbury. "the ordinance will impress the nation with a salutary horror of all papists and traitors,--for they are one and the same thing,--and keep alive a proper feeling of enmity against them. such a fearful example shall be made of these miscreants as shall, it is to be hoped, deter all others from following their cause. not only shall they perish infamously, but their names shall for ever be held in execration." "be it so," rejoined james. "it is a good legal maxim--_crescente malitiâ, crescere debuit et poena_." upon this, he left the chamber, and, traversing a number of subterranean passages with his attendants, crossed the drawbridge near the byward tower to the wharf, where his barge was waiting for him, and returned in it to whitehall. at an early hour on the following day, the commissioners appointed to the examination of the prisoner, met together in a large room on the second floor of the lieutenant's lodgings, afterwards denominated, from its use on this occasion, the council chamber. affixed to the walls of this room may be seen at the present day a piece of marble sculpture, with an inscription commemorative of the event. the commissioners were nine in number, and included the earls of salisbury, northampton, nottingham, suffolk, worcester, devon, marr, and dunbar, and sir john popham, lord chief justice. with these were associated sir edward coke, attorney-general, and sir william waad. the apartment in which the examination took place is still a spacious one, but at the period in question it was much larger and loftier. the walls were panelled with dark lustrous oak, covered in some places with tapestry, and adorned in others with paintings. over the chimney-piece hung a portrait of the late sovereign, elizabeth. the commissioners were grouped round a large heavily carved oak table, and, after some deliberation together, it was agreed that the prisoner should be introduced. sir william waad then motioned to topcliffe, who was in attendance with half a dozen halberdiers, and a few moments afterwards a panel was pushed aside, and guy fawkes was brought through it. he was supported by topcliffe and ipgreve, and it was with the greatest difficulty he could drag himself along. so severe had been the sufferings to which he had been subjected, that they had done the work of time, and placed more than twenty years on his head. his features were thin and sharp, and of a ghastly whiteness, and his eyes hollow and bloodshot. a large cloak was thrown over him, which partially concealed his shattered frame and crippled limbs; but his bent shoulders, and the difficulty with which he moved, told how much he had undergone. on seeing the presence in which he stood, a flush for a moment rose to his pallid cheek, his eye glowed with its wonted fire, and he tried to stand erect--but his limbs refused their office--and the effort was so painful, that he fell back into the arms of his attendants. he was thus borne forward by them, and supported during his examination. the earl of salisbury then addressed him, and enlarging on the magnitude and horrible nature of his treason, concluded by saying that the only reparation he could offer was to disclose not only all his own criminal intentions, but the names of his associates. "i will hide nothing concerning myself," replied fawkes; "but i shall be for ever silent respecting others." the earl then glanced at sir edward coke, who proceeded to take down minutes of the examination. "you have hitherto falsely represented yourself," said the earl. "what is your real name?" "guy fawkes," replied the prisoner. "and do you confess your guilt?" pursued the earl. "i admit that it was my intention to blow up the king and the whole of the lords spiritual and temporal assembled in the parliament house with gunpowder," replied fawkes. "and you placed the combustibles in the vault where they were discovered?" demanded salisbury. the prisoner answered in the affirmative. "you are a papist?" continued the earl. "i am a member of the church of rome," returned fawkes. "and you regard this monstrous design as righteous and laudable--as consistent with the religion you profess, and as likely to uphold it?" said the earl. "i did so," replied fawkes. "but i am now convinced that heaven did not approve it, and i lament that it was ever undertaken." "still, you refuse to make the only reparation in your power--you refuse to disclose your associates?" said salisbury. "i cannot betray them," replied fawkes. "traitor! it is needless," cried the earl; "they are known to us--nay, they have betrayed themselves. they have risen in open and armed rebellion against the king; but a sufficient power has been sent against them; and if they are not ere this defeated and captured, many days will not elapse before they will be lodged in the tower." "if this is the case, you require no information from me," rejoined fawkes. "but i pray you name them to me." "i will do so," replied salisbury; "and if i have omitted you can supply the deficiency. i will begin with robert catesby, the chief contriver of this hell-engendered plot,--i will next proceed to the superior of the jesuits, father garnet,--next, to another jesuit priest, father oldcorne,--next, to sir everard digby,--then, to thomas winter and robert winter,--then, to john wright and christopher wright,--then, to ambrose rookwood, thomas percy, and john grant, and lastly, to robert keyes." "are these all?" demanded fawkes. "all we are acquainted with," said salisbury. "then add to them the names of francis tresham, and of his brother-in-law, lord mounteagle," rejoined fawkes. "i charge both with being privy to the plot." "i have forgotten another name," said salisbury, in some confusion, "that of viviana radcliffe, of ordsall hall. i have received certain information that she was wedded to you while you were resident at white webbs, near epping forest, and was cognisant of the plot. if captured, she will share your fate." fawkes could not repress a groan. salisbury pursued his interrogations, but it was evident, from the increasing feebleness of the prisoner, that he would sink under it if the examination was further protracted. he was therefore ordered to attach his signature to the minutes taken by sir edward coke, and was placed in a chair for that purpose. a pen was then given him, but for some time his shattered fingers refused to grasp it. by a great effort, and with acute pain, he succeeded in tracing his christian name thus:-- [illustration: "guido"] while endeavouring to write his surname, the pen fell from his hand, and he became insensible. chapter ii. showing the troubles of viviana. on coming to herself, viviana inquired for garnet; and being told that he was in his chamber alone, she repaired thither, and found him pacing to and fro in the greatest perturbation. "if you come to me for consolation, daughter," he said, "you come to one who cannot offer it. i am completely prostrated in spirit by the disastrous issue of our enterprise; and though i tried to prepare myself for what has taken place, i now find myself utterly unable to cope with it." [illustration: _guy fawkes subscribing his examination after the torture_] "if such is your condition, father," replied viviana, "what must be that of my husband, upon whose devoted head all the weight of this dreadful calamity now falls? you are still at liberty--still able to save yourself--still able, at least, to resist unto the death, if you are so minded. but he is a captive in the tower, exposed to every torment that human ingenuity can invent, and with nothing but the prospect of a lingering death before his eyes. what is your condition, compared with his?" "happy--most happy, daughter," replied garnet, "and i have been selfish and unreasonable. i have, given way to the weakness of humanity, and i thank you from the bottom of my heart for enabling me to shake it off." "you have indulged false hopes, father," said viviana, "whereas i have indulged none, or rather, all has come to pass as i desired. the dreadful crime with which i feared my husband's soul would have been loaded is now uncommitted, and i have firm hope of his salvation. if i might counsel you, i would advise you to surrender yourself to justice, and by pouring out your blood on the scaffold, wash out your offence. such will be my own course. i have been involuntarily led into connexion with this plot; and though i have ever disapproved of it, since i have not revealed it i am as guilty as if i had been its contriver. i shall not shun my punishment. fate has dealt hardly with me, and my path on earth has been strewn with thorns, and cast in grief and trouble. but i humbly trust that my portion hereafter will be with the blessed." "i cannot doubt it, daughter," replied garnet; "and though i do not view our design in the light that you do, but regard it as justifiable, if not necessary, yet, with your feelings, i cannot sufficiently admire your conduct. your devotion and self-sacrifice is wholly without parallel. at the same time, i would try to dissuade you from surrendering yourself to our relentless enemies. believe me, it will add the severest pang to your husband's torture to know that you are in their power. his nature is stern and unyielding, and, persuaded as he is of the justice of his cause, he will die happy in that conviction, certain that his name, though despised by our heretical persecutors, will be held in reverence by all true professors of our faith. no, daughter, fly and conceal yourself till pursuit is relinquished, and pass the rest of your life in prayer for the repose of your husband's soul." "i will pass it in endeavouring to bring him to repentance," replied viviana. "the sole boon i shall seek from my judges will be permission to attempt this." "it will be refused, daughter," replied garnet, "and you will only destroy yourself, not aid him. rest satisfied that the great power who judges the hearts of men, and implants certain impulses within them, for his own wise but inscrutable purposes, well knows that guy fawkes, however culpable his conduct may appear in your eyes, acted according to the dictates of his conscience, and in the full confidence that the design would restore the true worship of god in this kingdom. the failure of the enterprise proves that he was mistaken--that we were all mistaken,--and that heaven was unfavourable to the means adopted,--but it does not prove his insincerity." "these arguments have no weight with me, father," replied viviana; "i will leave nothing undone to save his soul, and whatever may be the result, i will surrender myself to justice." "i shall not seek to move you from your purpose, daughter," replied garnet, "and can only lament it. before, however, you finally decide, let us pray together for directions from on high." thus exhorted, viviana knelt down with the priest before a small silver image of the virgin, which stood in a niche in the wall, and they both prayed long and earnestly. garnet was the first to conclude his devotions; and as he gazed at the upturned countenance and streaming eyes of his companion, his heart was filled with admiration and pity. at this juncture the door opened, and catesby and sir everard digby entered. on hearing them, viviana immediately arose. "the urgency of our business must plead an excuse for the interruption, if any is needed," said catesby; "but do not retire, madam. we have no secrets from you now. sir everard and i have fully completed our preparations," he added, to garnet. "our men are all armed and mounted in the court, and are in high spirits for the enterprise. as the service, however, will be one of the greatest danger and difficulty, you had better seek a safe asylum, father, till the first decisive blow is struck." "i would go with you, my son," rejoined garnet, "if i did not think my presence might be an hinderance. i can only aid you with my prayers, and those can be more efficaciously uttered in some secure retreat, than during a rapid march or dangerous encounter." "you had better retire to coughton with lady digby and viviana," said sir everard. "i have provided a sufficient escort to guard you thither,--and, as you are aware, there are many hiding-places in the house, where you can remain undiscovered in case of search." "i place myself at your disposal," replied garnet. "but viviana is resolved to surrender herself." "this must not be," returned catesby. "such an act at this juncture would be madness, and would materially injure our cause. whatever your inclinations may prompt, you must consent to remain in safety, madam." "i have acquiesced in your proceedings thus far," replied viviana, "because i could not oppose them without injury to those dear to me. but i will take no further share in them. my mind is made up as to the course i shall pursue." "since you are bent upon your own destruction,--for it is nothing less,--it is the duty of your friends to save you," rejoined catesby. "you shall not do what you propose, and when you are yourself again, and have recovered from the shock your feelings have sustained, you will thank me for my interference." "you are right, catesby," observed sir everard; "it would be worse than insanity to allow her to destroy herself thus." "i am glad you are of this opinion," said garnet. "i tried to reason her out of her design, but without avail." "catesby," cried viviana, throwing herself at his feet, "by the love you once professed for me,--by the friendship you entertained for him who unhesitatingly offered himself for you, and your cause, i implore you not to oppose me now!" "i shall best serve you, and most act in accordance with the wishes of my friend, by doing so," replied catesby. "therefore, you plead in vain." "alas!" cried viviana. "my purposes are ever thwarted. you will have to answer for my life." "i should, indeed, have it to answer for, if i permitted you to act as you desire," rejoined catesby. "i repeat you will thank me ere many days are passed." "sir everard," exclaimed viviana, appealing to the knight, "i entreat you to have pity upon me." "i do sincerely sympathise with your distress," replied digby, in a tone of the deepest commiseration; "but i am sure what catesby advises is for the best. i could not reconcile it to my conscience to allow you to sacrifice yourself thus. be governed by prudence." "oh no----no!" cried viviana, distractedly. "i will not be stayed. i command you not to detain me." "viviana," said catesby, taking her arm, "this is no season for the display of silly weakness either on our part or yours. if you cannot control yourself, you must be controlled. father garnet, i intrust her to your care. two of my troop shall attend you, together with your own servant, nicholas owen. you shall have stout horses, able to accomplish the journey with the greatest expedition, and i should wish you to convey her to her own mansion, ordsall hall, and to remain there with her till you hear tidings of us." "it shall be as you direct, my son," said garnet. "i am prepared to set out at once." "that is well," replied catesby. "you will not do me this violence, sir," cried viviana. "i appeal against it, to you, sir everard." "i cannot help you, madam," replied the knight, "indeed, i cannot." "then heaven, i trust, will help me," cried viviana, "for i am wholly abandoned of man." "i beseech you, madam, put some constraint upon yourself," said catesby. "if, after your arrival at ordsall, you are still bent upon your rash and fatal design, father garnet shall not oppose its execution. but give yourself time for reflection." "since it may not be otherwise, i assent," replied viviana. "if i must go, i will start at once." "wisely resolved," replied sir everard. viviana then retired, and soon afterwards appeared equipped for her journey. the two attendants and nicholas owen were in the court-yard, and catesby assisted her into the saddle. "do not lose sight of her," he said to garnet, as the latter mounted. "rest assured i will not," replied the other. and taking the direction of coventry, the party rode off at a brisk pace. catesby then joined the other conspirators, while sir everard sent off lady digby and his household, attended by a strong escort, to coughton. this done, the whole party repaired to the court-yard, where they called over the muster-roll of their men, to ascertain that none were missing,--examined their arms and ammunition,--and finding all in order, sprang to their steeds, and putting themselves at the head of the band, rode towards southam and warwick. chapter iii. huddington. about six o'clock in the morning the conspirators reached leamington priors, at that time an inconsiderable village; and having ridden nearly twenty miles over heavy and miry roads,--for a good deal of rain had fallen in the night,--they stood in need of some refreshment. accordingly, they entered the first farm-yard they came to, and proceeding to the cow-houses and sheepfolds, turned out the animals within them, and fastening up their own steeds in their places, set before them whatever provender they could find. those, and they were by far the greater number, who could not find better accommodation, fed their horses in the yard, which was strewn with trusses of hay and great heaps of corn. the whole scene formed a curious picture. here was one party driving away the sheep and cattle, which were bleating and lowing,--there, another rifling a hen-roost, and slaughtering its cackling inmates. on this hand, by the direction of catesby, two stout horses were being harnessed with ropes to a cart, which he intended to use as a baggage-waggon; on that, sir everard digby was interposing his authority to prevent the destruction of a fine porker. their horses fed, the next care of the conspirators was to obtain something for themselves: and ordering the master of the house, who was terrified almost out of his senses, to open his doors, they entered the dwelling, and causing a fire to be lighted in the chief room, began to boil a large kettle of broth upon it, and to cook other provisions. finding a good store of eatables in the larder, rations were served out to the band. two casks of strong ale were likewise broached, and their contents distributed; and a small keg of strong waters being also discovered, it was disposed of in the same way. this, however, was the extent of the mischief done. all the conspirators, but chiefly catesby and sir everard digby, dispersed themselves amongst the band, and checked any disposition to plunder. the only articles taken away from the house were a couple of old rusty swords and a caliver. catesby proposed to the farmer to join their expedition. but having now regained his courage, the sturdy churl obstinately refused to stir a foot with them, and even ventured to utter a wish that the enterprise might fail. "i am a good protestant, and a faithful subject of king james, and will never abet popery and treason," he said. this bold sally would have been answered by a bullet from one of the troopers, if catesby had not interfered. "you shall do as you please, friend," he said, in a conciliatory tone. "we will not compel any man to act against his conscience, and we claim the same right ourselves. will you join us, good fellows?" he added, to two farming men, who were standing near their master. "must i confess to a priest?" asked one of them. "certainly not," replied catesby. "you shall have no constraint whatever put upon you. all i require is obedience to my commands in the field." "then i am with you," replied the fellow. "thou'rt a traitor and rebel, sam morrell," cried the other hind, "and wilt come to a traitor's end. i will never fight against king james. and if i must take up arms, it shall be against his enemies, and in defence of our religion. no priests,--no papistry for me." "well said, hugh," cried his master; "we'll die in that cause, if need be." catesby turned angrily away, and giving the word to his men to prepare to set forth, in a few minutes all were in the saddle; but on inquiring for the new recruit, sam morrell, it was found he had disappeared. the cart was laden with arms, ammunition and a few sacks of corn; and the line being formed, they commenced their march. the morning was dark and misty, and all looked dull and dispiriting. the conspirators, however, were full of confidence, and their men, exhilarated and refreshed by their meal, appeared anxious for an opportunity of distinguishing themselves. arrived within half a mile of warwick, whence the lofty spire of the church of saint nicholas, the tower of saint mary's, and the ancient gates of this beautiful old town could just be discerned through the mist, a short consultation was held by the rebel leaders as to the expediency of attacking the castle, and carrying off the horses with which they had learnt its stables were filled. deciding upon making the attempt, their resolution was communicated to their followers, and received with loud acclamations. catesby then put himself at the head of the band, and they all rode forward at a brisk pace. crossing the bridge over the avon, whence the castle burst upon them in all its grandeur and beauty, catesby dashed forward to an embattled gate commanding the approach to the structure, and knocking furiously against it, a wicket was opened by an old porter, who started back on beholding the intruders. he would have closed the wicket, but catesby was too quick for him, and springing from his steed, dashed aside the feeble opposition of the old man, and unbarred the gate. instantly mounting again, he galloped along a broad and winding path cut so deeply in the rock, that the mighty pile they were approaching was completely hidden from view. a few seconds, however, brought them to a point, from which its three towers reared themselves full before them. another moment brought them to the edge of the moat, at this time crossed by a stone bridge, but then filled with water, and defended by a drawbridge. as no attack like the present was apprehended, and as the owner of the castle, the celebrated fulke greville, afterwards lord brooke, to whom it had been recently granted by the reigning monarch, was then in the capital, the drawbridge was down, and though several retainers rushed forth on hearing the approach of so many horsemen, they were too late to raise it. threatening these persons with destruction if any resistance was offered, catesby passed through the great entrance, and rode into the court, where he drew up his band. by this time, the whole of the inmates of the castle had collected on the ramparts, armed with calivers and partisans, and whatever weapons they could find, and though their force was utterly disproportioned to that of their opponents, they seemed disposed to give them battle. paying no attention to them, catesby proceeded to the stables, where he found upwards of twenty horses, which he exchanged for the worst and most jaded of his own, and was about to enter the castle in search of arms, when he was startled by hearing the alarm-bell rung. this was succeeded by the discharge of a culverin on the summit of the tower, named after the redoubted guy, earl of warwick; and though the bell was instantly silenced, rookwood, who had dislodged the party from the ramparts, brought word that the inhabitants of warwick were assembling, that drums were beating at the gates, and that an attack might be speedily expected. not desiring to hazard an engagement at this juncture, catesby gave up the idea of ransacking the castle, and ordered his men to their horses. some delay, however, occurred before they could all be got together, and, meanwhile, the ringing of bells and other alarming sounds continued. at one time, it occurred to catesby to attempt to maintain possession of the castle; but this design was overruled by the other conspirators, who represented to him the impracticability of the design. at length, the whole troop being assembled, they crossed the drawbridge, and speeded along the rocky path. before the outer gate they found a large body of men, some on horseback, and some on foot, drawn up. these persons, however, struck with terror at their appearance, retreated, and allowed them a free passage. on turning to cross the bridge, they found it occupied by a strong and well-armed body of men, headed by the sheriff of warwickshire, who showed no disposition to give way. while the rebel party were preparing to force a passage, a trumpet was sounded, and the sheriff, riding towards them, commanded them in the king's name to yield themselves prisoners. "we do not acknowledge the supremacy of james stuart, whom you call king," rejoined catesby, sternly. "we fight for our liberties, and for the restoration of the holy catholic religion which we profess. do not oppose us, or you will have cause to rue your temerity." "hear me," cried the sheriff, turning from him to his men: "i promise you all a free pardon in the king's name, if you will throw down your arms, and deliver up your leaders. but, if after this warning, you continue in open rebellion against your sovereign, you will all suffer the vilest death." "rejoin your men, sir," said catesby, in a significant tone, and drawing a petronel. "a free pardon and a hundred pounds to him who will bring me the head of robert catesby," said the sheriff, disregarding the menace. "your own is not worth half the sum," rejoined catesby; and levelling the petronel, he shot him dead. the sheriff's fall was the signal for a general engagement. exasperated by the death of their leader, the royalist party assailed the rebels with the greatest fury, and as the latter were attacked at the same time in the rear, their situation began to appear perilous. but nothing could withstand the vigour and determination of catesby. cheering on his men, he soon cut a way across the bridge, and would have made good his retreat, if he had not perceived, to his infinite dismay, that percy and rookwood had been captured. regardless of any risk he might run, he shouted to those near to follow him, and made such a desperate charge upon the royalists that in a few minutes he was by the side of his friends, and had liberated them. in trying, however, to follow up his advantage he got separated from his companions, and was so hotly pressed on all sides, that his destruction seemed inevitable. his petronels had both brought down their mark; and in striking a blow against a stalwart trooper his sword had shivered close to the handle. in this defenceless state his enemies made sure of him, but they miscalculated his resources. he was then close to the side of the bridge, and, before his purpose could be divined, struck spurs deeply into his horse, and cleared the parapet with a single bound. a shout of astonishment and admiration arose alike from friend and foe, and there was a general rush towards the side of the bridge. the noble animal that had borne him out of danger was seen swimming towards the bank, and, though several shots were fired at him, he reached it in safety. this gallant action so raised catesby in the estimation of his followers, that they welcomed him with the utmost enthusiasm, and rallying round him, fought with such vigour, that they drove their opponents over the bridge and compelled them to flee towards the town. catesby now mustered his men, and finding his loss slighter than he expected, though several were so severely wounded, that he was compelled to leave them behind, rode off at a quick pace. after proceeding for about four miles along the stratford road, they turned off on the right into a narrow lane leading to snitterfield, with the intention of visiting norbrook, the family residence of john grant. on arriving there, they put the house into a state of defence, and then assembled in the hall, while their followers recruited themselves in the court-yard. "so far, well," observed catesby, flinging himself into a chair; "the first battle has been won." "true," replied grant; "but it will not do to tarry here long. this house cannot hold out against a prolonged attack." "we will not remain here more than a couple of hours," replied catesby: "but where shall we go next? i am for making some desperate attempt, which shall strike terror into our foes." "are we strong enough to march to the earl of harrington's mansion near coventry, and carry off the princess elizabeth?" asked percy. "she were indeed a glorious prize," replied catesby; "but i have no doubt, on the first alarm of our rising, she has been conveyed to a place of safety. and even if she were there, we should have the whole armed force of coventry to contend with. no--no, it will not do to attempt that." "nothing venture, nothing have!" cried sir everard digby. "we ought, in my opinion, to run any risk to secure her." "you know me too well, digby," rejoined catesby, "to doubt my readiness to undertake any project, however hazardous, which would offer the remotest chance of success. but in this i see none, unless, indeed, it could be accomplished by stratagem. let us first ascertain what support we can obtain, and then decide upon the measures to be adopted." "i am content," returned digby. "old mr. talbot of grafton is a friend of yours, is he not?" continued catesby, addressing thomas winter. "can you induce him to join us?" "i will try," replied thomas winter; "but i have some misgivings." "be not faint-hearted," rejoined catesby. "you and stephen littleton shall go to him at once, and join us at your own mansion of huddington, whither we will proceed as soon as our men are thoroughly recruited. use every argument you can devise with talbot,--tell him that the welfare of the catholic cause depends on our success,--and that neither his years nor infirmities can excuse his absence at this juncture. if he will not, or cannot come himself, cause him to write letters to all his catholic neighbours, urging them to join us, and bid him send all his retainers and servants to us." "i will not neglect a single plea," replied thomas winter, "and i will further urge compliance by his long friendship towards myself. but, as i have just said, i despair of success." soon after this, he and stephen littleton, with two of the troopers well-mounted and well-armed, rode across the country through lanes and by-roads, with which they were well acquainted, to grafton. at the same time, catesby repaired to the court-yard, and assembling his men, found there were twenty-five missing. more than half of these it was known had been killed or wounded at warwick; but the rest, it was suspected, had deserted. whatever effect this scrutiny might secretly have upon catesby, he maintained a cheerful and confident demeanour, and mounting a flight of steps, harangued the band in energetic and exciting terms. displaying a small image of the virgin to them, he assured them they were under the special protection of heaven, whose cause they were fighting--and concluded by reciting a prayer, in which the whole assemblage heartily joined. this done, they filled the baggage-cart with provisions and further ammunition, and forming themselves into good order, took the road to alcester. they had not gone far, when torrents of rain fell, and the roads being in a shocking condition, and ploughed up with ruts, they turned into the fields wherever it was practicable, and continued their march very slowly, and under excessively disheartening circumstances. on arriving at the ford across the avon, near bishopston, they found the stream so swollen that it was impossible to get across it. sir everard digby, who made the attempt, was nearly carried off by the current. they were therefore compelled to proceed to stratford, and cross the bridge. "my friends," said catesby, commanding a halt at a short distance of the town, "i know not what reception we may meet with here. probably much the same as at warwick. but i command you not to strike a blow, except in self-defence." those injunctions given, attended by the other conspirators, except percy and rookwood, who brought up the rear, he rode slowly into stratford, and proceeding to the market-place, ordered a trumpet to be sounded. on the first appearance of the troop, most of the inhabitants fled to their houses, and fastened the doors, but some few courageous persons followed them at a wary distance. these were harangued at some length by catesby, who called upon them to join the expedition, and held out promises, which only excited the derision of the hearers. indeed, the dejected looks of most of the band, and the drenched and muddy state of their apparel, made them objects of pity and contempt, rather than of serious apprehension: and nothing but their numbers prevented an attack being made upon them. catesby's address concluded amid groans of dissatisfaction; and finding he was wasting time, and injuring his own cause, he gave the word to march, and moved slowly through the main street, but not a single recruit joined him. another unpropitious circumstance occurred just as they were leaving stratford. two or three of his followers tried to slink away, when catesby, riding after them, called to them to return, and no attention being paid to his orders, he shot the man nearest him, and compelled the others, by threats of the same punishment, to return to their ranks. this occurrence, while it occasioned much discontent and ill-will among the band, gave great uneasiness to their leaders. catesby and percy now brought up the rear, and kept a sharp look-out to check any further attempt at desertion. digby and winter, being well acquainted with all the catholic gentry in the neighbourhood, they proceeded to their different residences, and were uniformly coldly received, and in some cases dismissed with reproaches and menaces. in spite of all their efforts, too, repeated desertions took place; and long before they reached alcester, their force was diminished by a dozen men. not thinking it prudent to pass through the town, they struck into a lane on the right, and fording the arrow near ragley, skirted that extensive park, and crossing the hills near weethly and stoney moreton, arrived in about an hour and a half, in a very jaded condition, at huddington, the seat of robert winter. affairs seemed to wear so unpromising an aspect, that catesby, on entering the house, immediately called a council of his friends, and asked them what they proposed to do. "for my own part," he said, "i am resolved to fight it out. i will continue my march as long as i can get a man to follow me, and when they are all gone, will proceed alone. but i will never yield." "we will all die together, if need be," said sir everard digby. "let us rest here to-night, and in the morning proceed to lord windsor's mansion, hewel grange, which i know to be well stocked with arms, and, after carrying off all we can, we will fortify stephen littleton's house at holbeach, and maintain it for a few days against our enemies." this proposal agreed to, they repaired to the court-yard, and busied themselves in seeing the wants of their followers attended to; and such a change was effected by good fare and a few hours' repose, that the spirits of the whole party revived, and confidence was once more restored. a slight damp, however, was again thrown upon the satisfaction of the leaders, by the return of thomas winter and stephen littleton from grafton. their mission had proved wholly unsuccessful. mr. talbot had not merely refused to join them, but had threatened to detain them. "he says we deserve the worst of deaths," observed thomas winter, in conclusion, "and that we have irretrievably injured the catholic cause." "and i begin to fear he speaks the truth," rejoined christopher wright. "however, for us there is no retreat." "none whatever," rejoined catesby, in a sombre tone. "we must choose between death upon the battle-field or on the scaffold." "the former be my fate," cried percy. "and mine," added catesby. an anxious and perturbed night was passed by the conspirators, and many a plan was proposed and abandoned. it had been arranged among them that they should each in succession make the rounds of the place, to see that the sentinels were at their posts--strict orders having been given to the latter to fire upon whomsoever might attempt to fly--but, as catesby, despite his great previous fatigue, was unable to rest, he took this duty chiefly upon himself. returning at midnight from an examination of the court-yard, he was about to enter the house, when he perceived before him a tall figure, with a cloak muffled about its face, standing in his path. it was perfectly motionless, and catesby, who carried a lantern in his hand, threw the light upon it, but it neither moved forward, nor altered its position. catesby would have challenged it, but an undefinable terror seized him, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. an idea rose to his mind that it was the spirit of guy fawkes, and, by a powerful effort, he compelled himself to address it. "are you come to warn me?" he demanded. the figure moved in acquiescence, and withdrawing the cloak, revealed features of ghastly paleness, but resembling those of fawkes. "have i long to live?" demanded catesby. the figure shook its head. "shall i fall to-morrow?" pursued catesby. the figure again made a gesture in the negative. "the next day?" solemnly inclining its head, the figure once more muffled its ghastly visage in its cloak, and melted from his view. for some time catesby remained in a state almost of stupefaction. he then summoned up all the resolution of his nature, and instead of returning to the house, continued to pace to and fro in the court, and at last walked forth into the garden. it was profoundly dark; and he had not advanced many steps when he suddenly encountered a man. repressing the exclamation that rose to his lips, he drew a petronel from his belt, and waited till the person addressed him. "is it you, sir john foliot?" asked a voice, which he instantly recognised as that of topcliffe. "ay," replied catesby, in a low tone. "did you manage to get into the house?" pursued topcliffe. "i did," returned catesby; "but speak lower. there is a sentinel within a few paces of us. come this way." and grasping the other's arm he drew him further down the walk. "do you think we may venture to surprise them?" demanded topcliffe. "hum!" exclaimed catesby, hesitating, in the hope of inducing the other to betray his design. "or shall we wait the arrival of sir richard walsh, the sheriff of worcestershire, and the _posse comitatûs_?" pursued topcliffe. "how soon do you think the sheriff will arrive?" asked catesby, scarcely able to disguise his anxiety. "he cannot be here before daybreak--if so soon," returned topcliffe, "and then we shall have to besiege the house; and though i have no fear of the result, yet some of the conspirators may fall in the skirmish; and my orders from the earl of salisbury, as i have already apprised you, are, to take them alive." "true," replied catesby. "i would not, for twice the reward i shall receive for the capture of the whole party, that that desperate traitor, catesby, should be slain," continued topcliffe. "the plot was contrived by him, and the extent of its ramifications can alone be ascertained through him." "i think i can contrive their capture," observed catesby; "but the utmost caution must be used. i will return to the house, and find out where the chief conspirators are lodged. i will then throw open the door, and will return to this place, where you can have our men assembled. if we can seize and secure the leaders, the rest will be easy." "you will run great risk, sir john," said topcliffe, with affected concern. "heed not that," replied catesby. "you may expect me in a few minutes. get together your men as noiselessly as you can." with this he hastily withdrew. on returning to the house, he instantly roused his companions, and acquainted them with what had occurred. "my object," he said, "is to make topcliffe a prisoner. we may obtain much useful information from him. as to the others, if they offer resistance, we will put them to death." "what force have they?" asked sir everard digby, with some uneasiness. "it is impossible to say precisely," replied catesby; "but not more than a handful of men, i should imagine, as they are waiting for sir richard walsh." "i know not what may be the issue of this matter," observed robert winter, whose looks were unusually haggard; "but i have had a strange and ominous dream, which fills me with apprehension." "indeed!" exclaimed catesby, upon whose mind the recollection of the apparition he had beheld rushed. "catesby," pursued robert winter, taking him aside, "if you have any sin unrepented of, i counsel you to make your peace with heaven, for i fear you are not long for this world." "it may be so," rejoined catesby, firmly; "and i have many dark and damning sins upon my soul, but i will die as i have lived, firm and unshaken to the last. and now, let us prepare for our foes." so saying, he proceeded to call up the trustiest of his men, and enjoining profound silence upon them, disposed them in various places, that they might instantly appear at his signal. after giving them other directions, he returned to the garden, and coughed slightly. he was answered by a quickly-approaching footstep, and a voice demanded, "are you there, sir john?" catesby answered in a low tone in the affirmative. "come forward, then," rejoined topcliffe. as he spoke there was a rush of persons towards the spot, and seizing catesby, he cried, in a triumphant tone, while he unmasked a lantern, and threw its light full upon his face, "you are caught in your own trap, mr. catesby. you are my prisoner." "not so, villain," cried catesby, disengaging himself by a powerful effort. springing backwards, he drew his sword, and making the blade describe a circle round his body, effected his retreat in safety, though a dozen shots were fired at him. leaping the garden wall, he was instantly surrounded by the other conspirators, and the greater part of the band, who, hearing the reports of the fire-arms, had hurried to the spot. instantly putting himself at their head, catesby returned to the garden; but topcliffe and his party had taken the alarm and fled. torches were brought, and, by catesby's directions, a large heap of dry stubble was set on fire. but, though the flames revealed every object for a considerable distance around them, no traces of the hostile party could be discerned. after continuing their ineffectual search for some time, the conspirators returned to the house, and abandoning all idea of retiring to rest, kept strict watch during the remainder of the night. little conversation took place. all were deeply depressed; and catesby paced backwards and forwards within a passage leading from the hall to the dining-chamber. his thoughts were gloomy enough, and he retraced the whole of his wild and turbulent career, pondering upon its close, which he could not disguise from himself was at hand. "it matters not," he mentally ejaculated; "i shall not die ignominiously, and i would rather perish in the vigour of manhood than linger out a miserable old age. i have striven hard to achieve a great enterprise, and having failed, have little else to live for. this band cannot hold together two days longer. our men will desert us, or turn upon us to obtain the price set upon our heads. and, were they true, i have little reliance upon my companions. they have no longer the confidence that can alone insure success, and i expect each moment some one will propose a surrender. surrender! i will never do so with life. something must be done--something worthy of me--and then let me perish. i have ever prayed to die a soldier's death." as he uttered these words unconsciously aloud, he became aware of the presence of robert winter, who stood at the end of the passage, watching him. "your prayer will not be granted, catesby," said the latter. "some dreadful doom, i fear, is reserved for you and all of us." "what mean you?" demanded the other, uneasily. "listen to me," replied robert winter. "i told you i had a strange and appalling dream to-night, and i will now relate it. i thought i was in a boat upon the river thames, when all at once the day, which had been bright and smiling, became dark and overcast,--not dark like the shades of night, but gloomy and ominous, as when the sun is shrouded by an eclipse. i looked around, and every object was altered. the tower of saint paul's stood awry, and seemed ready to topple down,--so did the spires and towers of all the surrounding fanes. the houses on london bridge leaned frightfully over the river, and the habitations lining its banks on either side, seemed shaken to their foundations. i fancied some terrible earthquake must have occurred, or that the end of the world was at hand." "go on," said catesby, who had listened with profound attention to the relation. "the stream, too, changed its colour," continued robert winter, "and became red as blood, and the man who rowed my boat was gone, and his place occupied by a figure masked and habited like an executioner. i commanded him to row me ashore, and in an instant the bark shot to land, and i sprang out, glad to be liberated from my mysterious conductor. my steps involuntarily led me toward the cathedral, and on entering it, i found its pillars, shrines, monuments, and roof hung with black. the throng that ever haunt paul's walk had disappeared, and a few dismal figures alone traversed the aisles. on approaching them, i recognised in their swollen, death-like, and blackened lineaments, some resemblance to you and our friends. i was about to interrogate them, when i was awakened by yourself." "a strange dream, truly," observed catesby, musingly, "and coupled with what i myself have seen to-night, would seem to bode evil." and he then proceeded to describe the supernatural appearance he had beheld to his companion. "all is over with us," rejoined robert winter. "we must prepare to meet our fate." "we must meet it like men,--like brave men, robert," replied catesby. "we must not disgrace ourselves and our cause." "you are right," rejoined robert winter; "but these visions are more terrible than the contemplation of death itself." "if you require further rest, take it," returned catesby. "in an hour i shall call up our men, and march to hewel grange." "i am wearied enough," replied robert winter, "but i dare not close my eyes again." "then recommend your soul to heaven," said catesby. "i would be alone. melancholy thoughts press upon me, and i desire to unburden my heart to god." robert winter then left him, and he withdrew into a closet where there was an image of the virgin, and kneeling before it, prayed long and fervently. arising in a calmer frame of mind, he returned to the hall, and summoning his companions and followers, their horses were brought forth, and they commenced their march. it was about four o'clock when they started, and so dark, that they had some difficulty in finding the road. they proceeded at a slow pace, and with the utmost caution; but notwithstanding this, and though the two winters and grant, who were well acquainted with the country, led the way, many trifling delays and disasters occurred. their baggage-cart frequently stuck fast in the deep ruts, while the men missing their way, got into the trenches skirting the lane, and were not unfrequently thrown from their horses. more than once, too, the alarm was given that they were pursued, and a sudden halt ordered; but these apprehensions proved groundless, and, after a most fatiguing ride, they found themselves at stoke prior, and within two miles of hewel grange. originally built in the early part of the reign of henry the eighth, and granted by that monarch to an ancestor of its present possessor, lord windsor, this ancient mansion was quadrangular in form, and surrounded by a broad deep fosse. situated in the heart of an extensive park, at the foot of a gentle hill, it was now approached from the brow of the latter beautiful eminence by the rebel party. but at this season, and at this hour, both park and mansion had a forlorn look. the weather still continued foggy, with drizzling showers, and though the trees were not yet entirely stripped of their foliage, their glories had altogether departed. the turf was damp and plashy, and in some places partook so much of the character of a swamp, that the horsemen were obliged to alter their course. but all obstacles were eventually overcome, and in ten minutes after their entrance into the park, they were within gunshot of the mansion. there were no symptoms of defence apparent, but the drawbridge being raised, it was catesby's opinion, notwithstanding appearances, that their arrival was expected. he was further confirmed in this idea when, sounding a trumpet, and calling to the porter to let down the drawbridge, no answer was returned. the entrance to the mansion was through a lofty and machiolated gateway, strengthened at each side by an embattled turret. perceiving a man at one of the loopholes, catesby discharged his petronel at him, and it was evident from the cry that followed that the person was wounded. an instant afterwards calivers were thrust through the other loopholes, and several shots fired upon the rebels, while some dozen armed men appeared upon the summit of the tower, and likewise commenced firing. perceiving topcliffe among the latter, and enraged at the sight, catesby discharged another petronel at him, but without effect. he then called to some of his men to break down the door of an adjoining barn, and to place it in the moat. the order was instantly obeyed, and the door afloat in the fosse, and springing upon it, he impelled himself with a pike towards the opposite bank. several shots were fired at him, and though more than one struck the door, he crossed the moat uninjured. so suddenly was this daring passage effected, that before any of the defenders of the mansion could prevent him, catesby had severed the links of the chain fastening the drawbridge, and it fell clattering down. with a loud shout, his companions then crossed it. but they had still a difficulty to encounter. the gates, which were of great strength, and covered with plates of iron, were barred. but a ladder having been found in the barn, it was brought forward, and catesby mounting it sword in hand, drove back all who opposed him, and got upon the wall. he was followed by sir everard digby, percy, and several others, and driving the royalists before them, they made their way down a flight of stone steps, and proceeding to the gateway, threw it open, and admitted the others. all this was the work of a few minutes. committing the ransacking of the mansion to digby and percy, and commanding a dozen men to follow him, catesby entered a small arched doorway, and ascended a winding stone staircase in search of topcliffe. his progress was opposed by the soldiers, but beating aside all opposition, he gained the roof. topcliffe, however, was gone. anticipating the result of the attack, he had let himself drop from the summit of the tower to the walls, and descending by the ladder, had made good his retreat. disarming the soldiers, catesby then descended to the court-yard, where in a short time a large store of arms, consisting of corslets, demi-lances, pikes, calivers, and two falconets, were brought forth. these, together with a cask of powder, were placed in the baggage-waggon. meanwhile, the larder and cellar had been explored, and provisions of all kinds, together with a barrel of mead, and another of strong ale, being found, they were distributed among the men. while this took place, catesby searched the mansion, and, partly by threats, partly by persuasion, induced about twenty persons to join them. this unlooked-for success so encouraged the conspirators, that their drooping spirits began to revive. catesby appeared as much elated as the others, but at heart he was full of misgiving. soon afterwards, the rebel party quitted hewel grange, taking with them every weapon they could find. the forced recruits were placed in the midst of the band, so that escape was impracticable. chapter iv. holbeach. avoiding the high road, and traversing an unfrequented part of the country, the conspirators shaped their course towards stourbridge. as they reached forfield green, they perceived a large party descending the hilly ground near bromsgrove, and evidently in pursuit of them. an immediate halt was ordered, and taking possession of a farm-house, they prepared for defence. seeing these preparations, their pursuers, who proved to be sir richard walsh the sheriff of worcestershire, sir john foliot, three gentlemen named ketelbye, salwaye, and conyers, attended by a large posse of men, all tolerably well armed, drew up at some distance from the farm, and appeared to be consulting as to the prudence of making an attack. topcliffe was with them; and catesby, who reconnoitered their proceedings from a window of the dwelling, inferred from his gestures that he was against the assault. and so it proved. the royalist party remained where they were, and as one or two of their number occasionally disappeared, catesby judged, and correctly, that they were despatched for a reinforcement. not willing to wait for this, he determined to continue his march, and, accordingly, forming his men into a close line, and bringing up the rear himself, they again set forward. sir richard walsh and his party followed them, and whenever they were in a difficult part of the road, harassed them with a sudden attack. in this way, several stragglers were cut off, and a few prisoners made. so exasperated did catesby become by these annoyances, that, though desirous to push forward as fast as possible, he halted at the entrance of a common, and prepared for an engagement. but his purpose was defeated, for the royalist party took another course, nor did he see anything more of them for some time. in about an hour the rebels arrived at the banks of the river stour, not far from the little village of churchill, and here, just as they were preparing to ford the stream, the sheriff and his followers again made their appearance. by this time, also, the forces of their opponents were considerably augmented, and as more than a third of their own party were engaged in crossing the stream, which was greatly swollen by the recent rains, and extremely dangerous, their position was one of no slight peril. nothing daunted, catesby instantly drew up his men on the bank, and, after a short skirmish, drove away the enemy, and afterwards contrived to cross the river without much loss. he found, however, that the baggage-cart had got immersed in the stream, and it was feared that the powder would be damaged. they remained on the opposite bank for some time; but as their enemies did not attempt to follow them, they took the way to holbeach, a large and strongly built mansion belonging, as has been already stated, to stephen littleton. here they arrived without further molestation, and their first business was to put it into a complete state of defence. [illustration: _the explosion at holbeach_] after a long and anxious consultation, sir everard digby quitted them, undertaking to return on the following day with succours. stephen littleton also disappeared on the same evening. his flight produced a strong impression on catesby, and he besought the others not to abandon the good cause, but to stand by it, as he himself meant to do, to the last. they all earnestly assured him that they would do so, except robert winter, who sat apart, and took no share in their discourse. catesby then examined the powder that had been plunged in the water in crossing the stour, and found it so much wetted as to be nearly useless. a sufficient stock of powder being of the utmost consequence to them, he caused all the contents of the barrel, not dissolved by the immersion, to be poured into a large platter, and proceeded to dry it before a fire which had been kindled in the hall. a bag of powder, which had likewise been slightly wetted, was also placed at what was considered a safe distance from the fire. "heaven grant this may prove more destructive to our enemies than the combustibles we placed in the mine beneath the parliament house!" observed percy. "heaven grant so, indeed!" rejoined catesby, with a moody smile. "they would call it retribution, where we to perish by the same means which we designed for others." "jest not on so serious a matter, catesby," observed robert winter. "for my own part, i dread the sight of powder, and shall walk forth till you have dried this, and put it away." "you are not going to leave us, like stephen littleton?" rejoined catesby, suspiciously. "i will go with him," said christopher wright; "so you need be under no apprehension." accordingly, he quitted the hall with robert winter, and they proceeded to the court-yard and were conversing together on the dismal prospects of the party, when a tremendous explosion took place. the roof of the building seemed rent in twain, and amidst a shower of tiles, plaster, bricks, and broken wood falling around, the bag of powder dropped untouched at their feet. "mother of mercy!" exclaimed christopher wright, picking it up. "here is a providential occurrence. had this exploded, we must all have been destroyed." "let us see what has happened," cried robert winter. and, followed by christopher wright, he rushed towards the hall, and bursting open the door, beheld catesby enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and pressing his hand to his face, which was scorched and blackened by the explosion. rookwood was stretched on the floor in a state of insensibility, and it at first appeared that life was extinct. percy was extinguishing the flames, which had caught his dress, and john grant was similarly occupied. "those are the very faces i beheld in my dream," cried robert winter, gazing at them with affright. "it was a true warning." rushing up to catesby, christopher wright clasped him in his arms, and extinguishing his flaming apparel, cried, "wretch that i am! that i should live to see this day!" "be not alarmed!" gasped catesby. "it is nothing--it was a mere accident." "it is no accident, catesby," replied robert winter. "heaven is against us and our design." and he quitted the room, and left the house. nor did he return to it. "i will pray for forgiveness!" cried john grant, whose vision was so much injured by the explosion that he could as yet see nothing. and dragging himself before an image of the virgin, he prayed aloud, acknowledging that the act he had designed was so bloody that it called for the vengeance of heaven, and expressing his sincere repentance. "no more of this," cried catesby, staggering up to him, and snatching the image from him. "it was a mere accident, i tell you. we are all alive, and shall yet succeed." on inquiry, christopher wright learnt that a blazing coal had shot out of the fire, and falling into the platter containing the powder, had occasioned the disastrous accident above described. chapter v. the close of the rebellion. unable longer to endure the agony occasioned by his scorched visage, catesby called for a bucket of water, and plunged his head into it. somewhat relieved by the immersion, he turned to inquire after his fellow-sufferers. rookwood having been carried into the open air, had by this time regained his consciousness; percy was shockingly injured, his hair and eyebrows burnt, his skin blackened and swollen with unseemly blisters, and the sight of one eye entirely destroyed; while john grant, though a degree less hurt than his companions, presented a grim and ghastly appearance. in fact, the four sufferers looked as if they had just escaped from some unearthly place of torment, and were doomed henceforth to bear the brand of divine wrath on their countenances. seeing the effect produced on the others, catesby rallied all his force, and treating the accident as a matter of no moment, and which ought not to disturb the equanimity of brave men, called for wine, and quaffed a full goblet. injured as he was, and smarting with pain, percy followed his example, but both john grant and rookwood refused the cup. "hark 'e, gentlemen," cried catesby, fiercely, "you may drink or not, as you see fit. but i will not have you assume a deportment calculated to depress our followers. stephen littleton and robert winter have basely deserted us. if you have any intention of following them, go at once. we are better without you than with you." "i have no thought of deserting you, catesby," rejoined rookwood, mournfully; "and when the time arrives for action, you will find i shall not be idle. but i am now assured that we have sold ourselves to perdition." "pshaw!" cried catesby, with a laugh that communicated an almost fiendish expression to his grim features; "because a little powder has accidentally exploded and blackened our faces, are we to see in the occurrence the retributive justice of heaven? are we to be cast down by such a trifle? be a man, and rouse yourself. recollect that the eyes of all england are upon us; and if we must fall, let us perish in a manner that becomes us. no real mischief has been done. my hand is as able to wield a blade, and my sight to direct a shot, as heretofore. if heaven had meant to destroy us, the bag of powder which has been taken up in the yard, and which was sufficient not only to annihilate us, but to lay this house in ruins, would have been suffered to explode." "would it _had_ exploded!" exclaimed john wright. "all would then have been over." "are you, too, fainthearted, john?" cried catesby. "well, well, leave me one and all of you. i will fight it out alone." "you wrong me by the suspicion, catesby," returned john wright. "i am as true to the cause as yourself. but i perceive that our last hour is at hand, and i would it were past." "the indulgence of such a wish at such a moment is a weakness," rejoined catesby. "i care not when death comes, provided it comes gloriously; and such should be your feeling. on the manner in which we meet our fate will depend the effect which our insurrection will produce throughout the country. we must set a brave example to our brethren. heaven be praised; we shall not perish on the scaffold!" "be not too sure of that," said grant, gloomily. "it may yet be our fate." "it shall never be mine," cried catesby. "nor mine," added percy. "i am so far from regarding the recent disaster as a punishment, though i am the severest sufferer by it, that i think we ought to return thanks to heaven for our preservation." "in whatever light the accident is viewed," observed john wright, "we cannot too soon address ourselves to heaven. we know not how long it may be in our power to do so." "again desponding," cried catesby. "but no matter. you will recover your spirits anon." john wright shook his head, and catesby, pulling his hat over his brows to hide his features, walked forth into the court-yard. he found, as he expected, that general consternation prevailed amongst the band. the men were gathered together in little knots, and, though they became silent as he approached, he perceived they were discussing the necessity of a surrender. nothing daunted by these unfavourable, appearances, catesby harangued them in such bold terms that he soon inspired them with some of his own confidence, and completely resteadied their wavering feelings. elated with his success, he caused a cup of strong ale to be given to each man, and proposed as a pledge, the restoration of the romish church. he then returned to the house; and summoning the other conspirators to attend him in a chamber on the ground-floor, they all prayed long and fervently, and concluded by administering the sacrament to each other. it was now thought necessary to have the damage done by the explosion repaired, and a few hours were employed in the operation. evening was fast approaching, and catesby, who was anxiously expecting the return of sir everard digby, stationed himself on the turreted walls of the mansion to look out for him. but he came not; and, fearing some mischance must have befallen him, catesby descended. desirous of concealing his misgivings from his companions, he put on a cheerful manner as he joined them. "i am surprised ere this that we have not been attacked," remarked percy. "our enemies may be waiting for the darkness, to take us by surprise. but they will be disappointed." "i can only account for the delay by supposing they have encountered sir everard digby, and the force he is bringing to us," remarked christopher wright. "it may be so," returned catesby, "and if so, we shall soon learn the result." in spite of all catesby's efforts he failed to engage his companions in conversation, and feeling it would best suit his present frame of mind, and contribute most to their safety, to keep in constant motion, he proceeded to the court-yard, saw that all the defences were secure, that the drawbridge was raised, the sentinels at their posts, and everything prepared for the anticipated attack. every half hour he thus made his rounds, and when towards midnight he was going forth, percy said to him, "do you not mean to take any rest, catesby?" "not till i am in my grave," was the moody reply. catesby's untiring energy was in fact a marvel to all his followers. his iron frame seemed wholly unsusceptible of fatigue; and even when he returned to the house, he continued to pace to and fro in the passage in preference to lying down. "rest tranquilly," he said to christopher wright, who offered to take his place. "i will rouse you on the slightest approach of danger." but though he preserved this stoical exterior, catesby's breast was torn by the keenest pangs. he could not hide from himself that, to serve his own ambitious purposes, he had involved many loyal and worthy (till he had deluded them) persons in a treasonable project, which must now terminate in their destruction; and their blood, he feared, would rest upon his head. but what weighed heaviest of all upon his soul was the probable fate of viviana. "if i were assured she would escape," he thought, "i should care little for all the rest, even for fawkes. they say it is never too late to repent. but my repentance shall lie between my maker and myself. man shall never know it." the night was dark, and the gloom was rendered more profound by a dense fog. fearing an attack might now be attempted, catesby renewed his vigilance. marching round the edge of the moat, he listened to every sound that might betray the approach of a foe. for some time, nothing occurred to excite his suspicions, until about an hour after midnight, as he was standing at the back of the house, he fancied he detected a stealthy tread on the other side of the fosse, and soon became convinced that a party of men were there. determined to ascertain their movements before giving the alarm, he held his breath, and drawing a petronel, remained perfectly motionless. presently, though he could discern no object, he distinctly heard a plank pushed across the moat, and could distinguish in the whispered accents of one of the party the voice of topcliffe. a thrill of savage joy agitated his bosom, and he internally congratulated himself that revenge was in his power. a footstep, though so noiseless as to be inaudible to any ear less acute than his own, was now heard crossing the plank, and feeling certain it was topcliffe, catesby allowed him to land, and then suddenly advancing, kicked the plank, on which were two other persons, into the water, and unmasking a dark lantern, threw its light upon the face of a man near him, who proved, as he suspected, to be topcliffe. aware of the advantage of making a prisoner of importance, catesby controlled the impulse that prompted him to sacrifice topcliffe to his vengeance, and firing his petronel in the air as a signal, he drew his sword, and sprang upon him. topcliffe attempted to defend himself, but he was no match for the skill and impetuosity of catesby, and was instantly overpowered and thrown to the ground. by this time, percy and several of the band had come up, and delivering topcliffe to the charge of two of the stoutest of them, catesby turned his attention to the other assailants. one of them got across the moat; but the other, encumbered by his arms, was floundering about, when catesby pointing a petronel at his head, he was fain to surrender, and was dragged out. a volley of musketry was now fired by the rebels in the supposed direction of their opponents, but it could not be ascertained what execution was done. after waiting for some time, in expectation of a further attack, catesby placed a guard upon the spot, and proceeded to examine topcliffe. he had been thrown into a cellar beneath the kitchen, and the two men were on guard over him. he refused to answer any of catesby's questions, though enforced by threats of instant death. on searching him some letters were found upon him, and thrusting them into his doublet, catesby left him, with the strictest injunctions to the men as to his safe custody. he then proceeded to examine the other captive, and found him somewhat more tractable. this man informed him that topcliffe had intended to steal into the house with the design of capturing the conspirators, or, failing in that, of setting fire to the premises. he also ascertained that topcliffe's force consisted only of a dozen men, so that no further attack need be apprehended. notwithstanding this information, catesby determined to be on the safe side, and doubling the sentinels, he stationed one of the conspirators, all of whom had sprung to arms at his signal, at each of the exposed points. he then withdrew to the mansion, and examined topcliffe's papers. the first despatch he opened was from the earl of salisbury, bearing date about the early part of fawkes's confinement in the tower, in which the earl expressed his determination of wringing a full confession from the prisoner. a bitter smile curled catesby's lip as he read this, but his brow darkened as he proceeded, and found that a magnificent reward was offered for his own arrest. "i must have catesby captured," ran the missive,--"so see you spare no pains to take him. i would rather all escaped than he did. his confession is of the last importance in the matter, and i rely upon your bringing him to me alive." "i will at least balk him of that satisfaction," muttered catesby. "but what is this of viviana?" reading further, he found that the earl had issued the same orders respecting viviana, and that she would be rigorously dealt with if captured. "alas!" groaned catesby; "i hope she will escape these inhuman butchers." the next despatch he opened was from tresham, and with a savage satisfaction he found that the traitor was apprehensive of double-dealing on the part of salisbury and mounteagle. he stated that he had been put under arrest, and was detained a prisoner in his own house; and fearing he should be sent to the tower, besought topcliffe to use his influence with the earl of salisbury not to deal unfairly with him. "he is rightly served!" cried catesby, with a bitter smile. "heaven grant they may deal with him as he dealt with us!" the consideration of these letters furnished catesby with food for much bitter reflection. pacing the room to and fro with uncertain footsteps, he remained more than an hour by himself, and at last yielding to the promptings of vengeance, repaired to the cellar in which he had placed topcliffe, with the intention of putting him to death. what was his rage and mortification to find both the guard and the prisoner gone! a door was open, and it was evident that the fugitives had stolen to the moat, and, swimming noiselessly across it in the darkness, had securely effected their retreat. fearful of exciting the alarm of his followers, catesby controlled his indignation, and said nothing of the escape of the prisoner to any but his confederates, who entirely approved of the policy of silence. they continued on the alert during the remainder of the night, and no one thought of seeking repose till it was fully light, and all danger of a surprise at an end. day dawned late and dismally. the fog that had hung round the mansion changed just before daybreak into drizzling rain, and this increased ere long to heavy and drenching showers. everything looked gloomy and depressing, and the conspirators were so disheartened, that they avoided each other's regards. catesby mounted the walls of the mansion to reconnoitre. the prospect was forlorn and melancholy to the last degree. the neighbouring woods were obscured by mist; the court-yard and garden flooded with rain; and the waters of the moat spotted by the heavy shower. not an object was in view, except a hind driving cattle to a neighbouring farm. catesby shouted to him, and the fellow with evident reluctance approaching the brink of the moat, was asked whether he had seen any troops in the neighbourhood. the man answered in the negative, but said he had heard that an engagement had taken place in the night, about five miles from thence, near hales owen, between sir everard digby and sir richard walsh, and that sir everard's party had been utterly routed, and himself taken prisoner. this intelligence was a severe blow to catesby, as it destroyed the last faint hope he had clung to. for some time he continued wrapt in thought, and then descended to the lower part of the house. a large fire had been kept up during the night in the hall, and the greater part of the band were now gathered round it, drying their wet clothes, and conversing together. a plentiful breakfast had been served out to them, so that they were in tolerably good spirits, and many of them talked loudly of the feats they meant to perform in case of an attack. catesby heard these boasts, but they fell upon an idle ear. he felt that all was over; that his last chance was gone; and that the struggle could not be much longer protracted. entering the inner room, he sat down at table with his companions, but he ate nothing, and continued silent and abstracted. "it is now my turn to reproach you," observed grant. "you look deeply depressed." "sir everard digby is a prisoner," replied catesby, sternly. "his capture grieves me sorely. he should have died with us." all echoed the wish. catesby arose and closed the door. "the attack will not be many hours delayed," he said; "and unless there should be some miraculous interposition in our behalf, it must end in our defeat. do not let us survive it," he continued earnestly. "let us swear to stand by each other as long as we can, and to die together." "agreed!" cried the others. "and now," continued catesby, "i must compel myself to take some nourishment, for i have much to do." having swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread, and drained a goblet of wine, he again visited every part of the habitation, examined the arms of the men, encouraged them by his looks and words, and became satisfied, unless some unlooked-for circumstance occurred to damp their ardour, they would offer a determined and vigorous resistance. "if i could only come off victorious in this last conflict, i should die content," thought catesby. "and i do not despair of it." the rain continued till eleven o'clock, when it ceased, and the mist that had attended it partially cleared off. about noon, catesby, who was on the look-out from the walls of the mansion, descried a large troop of horsemen issuing from the wood. he immediately gave the alarm. the bell was rung, and all sprang to arms. by this time the troop had advanced within a hundred yards of the house, and catesby, who had rushed into the court-yard, mounted a turret near the gate to watch their movements, and issue his commands. the royalists were headed by sir richard walsh, who was attended on the right by sir john foliot, and on the left by topcliffe. immediately behind them were ketelbye, salwaye, conyers, and others who had accompanied the _posse comitatûs_ the day before. a trumpet was then sounded, and a proclamation made in a loud voice by a trooper, commanding the rebels in the king's name to surrender, and to deliver up their leaders. the man had scarcely concluded his speech when he was for ever silenced by a shot from catesby. a loud and vindictive shout was raised by the royalists, and the assault instantly commenced. sir richard walsh directed the attack against the point opposite the drawbridge, while sir john foliot, topcliffe, and the others dispersed themselves, and completely surrounded the mansion. several planks were thrust across the moat, and in spite of the efforts of the rebels many of the assailants effected a passage. catesby drove back the party under sir richard walsh, and with his own hand hewed asunder their plank. in doing this, he so much exposed himself that, but for the injunctions of the sheriff, who commanded his followers not to fire upon him, he must have been slain. the other rebel-leaders displayed equal courage, and equal indifference to danger, and though, as has just been stated, a considerable number of the royalists had got across the moat, and entered the garden, they had obtained no material advantage. sir john foliot and topcliffe commanded this party, and encouraged them to press on. but such a continued and well-directed firing was kept up upon them from the walls and windows of the mansion, that they soon began to show symptoms of wavering. at this juncture, and while topcliffe was trying to keep his men together, a concealed door in the wall was opened, and catesby issued from it at the head of a dozen men. he instantly attacked topcliffe and his band, put several to the sword, and drove those who resisted into the moat. foliot and topcliffe with difficulty escaped across the plank, which was seized and pulled over to his own side by catesby. but the hope which this success inspired was instantly crushed. loud shouts were raised from the opposite wing of the mansion, and catesby to his great dismay perceived from the volumes of smoke ascending from it that it was on fire. uttering an exclamation of rage and despair, he commanded those with him not to quit their present position, and set off in the direction of the fire. he found that an outbuilding had been set in flames by a lighted brand thrown across the moat by a trooper. the author of the action was named john streete, and was afterwards rendered notorious by another feat to be presently related. efforts were made to extinguish the conflagration, but such was the confusion prevailing that it was found wholly impossible to do so, and it was feared that the destruction of the whole mansion would ensue. disaster after disaster followed. another party had crossed the moat, and burst into the court-yard. in the desperate conflict that ensued, rookwood was shot through the arm, and severely wounded by a pike, and was borne into the house by one of his followers, whom he entreated to kill him outright, but his request was refused. meantime, the drawbridge was lowered, and with loud and exulting shouts the great body of the royalists crossed it. catesby now perceived that the day was irretrievably lost. calling to christopher wright, who was standing near him, to follow him, and rushing towards the court-yard, he reached it just as the royalists gained an entrance. in numbers both parties were pretty, well matched, but the rebels were now thoroughly disheartened, and seeing how matters must end, many of them threw down their arms, and begged for mercy. a destructive fire, however, was still kept up on the royalists by a few of the rebels stationed on the walls of the mansion, under the command of john wright. putting himself at the head of a few faithful followers, catesby fought with all the fury of despair. christopher wright was shot by his side. grant instantly sprang forward, but was cut down by a trooper. catesby was too busily occupied to attend to the fate of his companions, but seeing thomas winter near him, called to him to come on. "i can fight no longer," said thomas winter. "my right arm is disabled by a bolt from a cross-bow." "then die," cried catesby. "he _shall_ die--on the scaffold," rejoined topcliffe, who had heard the exclamation. and rushing up to thomas winter, he seized him, and conveyed him to the rear of his party. catesby continued to fight with such determined bravery that sir richard walsh, seeing it would be vain to take him alive, withdrew his restrictions from his men, and ordered them to slay him. by this time most of the rebels had thrown down their arms. those on the walls had been dislodged, and john wright, refusing to yield, was slaughtered. catesby, however, having been joined by percy and half a dozen men, made a last desperate charge upon his opponents. in doing this, his sword shivered, and he would have fallen back, but found himself surrounded. percy was close behind him, and keeping together, they fought back to back. even in this disabled state, they made a long and desperate resistance. "remember your oath, percy," cried catesby. "you have sworn not to be taken to the scaffold." [illustration: _the death of catesby_] "fear nothing," replied percy. "i will never quit this spot alive." the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he fell to the ground mortally wounded, and the same shot that had pierced his breast had likewise stricken catesby. it was fired by the trooper, john streete, who has just been mentioned. collecting all his force, catesby struck a few terrible blows at his opponents, and, dashing through them, made for the house. just as he reached the door, which was standing open, his strength failed, and he fell to the ground. in this condition, he dragged himself into the vestibule, where there was a large wooden statue of the virgin, and clasping his arms around it pressed his lips to the feet of the image. he was followed by streete, with his drawn sword in one hand and a petronel in the other, prepared to finish his work. but ere he could reach him, catesby had expired. "so," exclaimed topcliffe, who came up the next moment, with sir richard walsh, "we have been robbed of our prey. the earl of salisbury will never forgive me for this disappointment." "i am glad i have done it, though," observed streete. "to kill two such traitors with one shot is something to talk of." "you will be well rewarded for it, no doubt," remarked topcliffe, sarcastically. "i care not whether i am or not," rejoined streete. "i have done my duty, and besides i have avenged my comrade, richard trueman, who was shot by this traitor when he read the proclamation." "i will take care that your brave action is duly represented to his majesty," observed sir richard walsh. and he failed not to keep his promise. streete received a pension of two shillings a day for the rest of his life--no inconsiderable sum in those days. the conflict was now at an end, for though some few of the more desperate of the rebels continued to struggle after their leaders had fallen, they were soon disarmed. sir richard walsh and topcliffe went in search of the other conspirators, and finding rookwood and grant, who though severely wounded were not dead, lying in the hall, immediately secured them. rookwood on their approach made an effort to plunge his dagger into his breast, but his hand was stayed by sir richard walsh. "we shall not go away quite empty-handed," cried topcliffe. "but these are sorry substitutes for catesby. "has catesby escaped?" demanded grant, faintly. "ay, to the other world," replied topcliffe. "he has kept his word," groaned grant. "he may have escaped some part of his punishment," said topcliffe, bitterly; "but the worst remains. his quarters will be exposed on every gate in london, and his head on the bridge. as to you, traitors, you know your doom." "and are prepared for it," rejoined grant. a guard being left over the prisoners, sir richard walsh and topcliffe then went to see that the other captives were properly secured. some few having made their escape into the adjoining fields, they were pursued and recaptured. the whole of the prisoners were then conveyed to stourbridge, where they were lodged in the gaol, after which sir richard walsh despatched a messenger to the earl of salisbury and the lords of the council acquainting them with what he had done. chapter vi. hagley. robert winter, it may be remembered, immediately after the explosion, quitted holbeach, and did not return to it. he proceeded to the neighbouring thicket, and while wandering about in a state bordering on distraction encountered stephen littleton, who had likewise deserted his companions on the same day. acquainting him with the disastrous occurrence that had taken place, and stating his impression that both god and man were against them, and that it would be vain as well as impious to struggle longer, he proposed to him to surrender. but stephen littleton so strongly combated this opinion, that he at last consented to make an effort to escape. this, however, was no easy matter, nor could they devise a plan that appeared feasible. both were well provided with money; but under present circumstances it would be of little use to them. a large price being set on their heads, and the whole country alarmed, they scarcely knew where to seek shelter. after a long debate, they quitted the covert, and keeping clear of all habitations, took the direction of stourbridge. on approaching the stour, at a point opposite churchill, where they knew the river was fordable, they perceived sir richard walsh's force approaching, and threw themselves into a ditch to avoid observation. it was quite dark when they again ventured forth, and at the peril of their lives they forded the stour, which was swollen more than it had been in the morning by the long-continued rain. their design was to proceed to hagley, the residence of stephen littleton's sister, mrs. littleton, and to claim her protection. this magnificent mansion lay about two miles on the other side of the river, in the heart of an extensive park, but they were obliged to take a circuitous route of nearly double the distance to reach it, and when at length they arrived there, and were about to steal into the court-yard; they found it occupied by a portion of sir richard walsh's troop. overcome by anxiety and fatigue, and scarcely knowing whither to proceed, they recrossed the park, and sought out the cottage of a poor woman, whose two sons had joined their ill-fated expedition, and were at that moment under arms at holbeach. she was a good catholic, and they thought they might confide in her. arriving at her cottage, they glanced in at the window, and perceiving her, as they concluded, alone, and cooking a small piece of meat at the fire, they raised the latch, and entered the house. the woman turned at their approach, and uttering a cry of surprise and alarm, pointed towards a back room. they then saw that they had betrayed themselves; but the caution came too late, and a stalwart trooper, alarmed by the cry, issued from the back room. from the wretched appearance of the new-comers, he at once guessed that they were rebels, and felt satisfied, from the richness of their apparel, dirtied and stained as it was, that they were persons of consequence. accordingly, he drew a brace of petronels, and holding them at their heads, commanded them to surrender. they were too much taken by surprise, and too enfeebled to offer resistance, and the trooper calling to the old woman to bring a cord to bind them, at the same time unloosed his own girdle, with which he fastened robert winter's arms behind his back. in doing this, he was compelled to lay down his petronels, and he had scarcely done so, when the woman snatched them up, and gave them to stephen littleton, who presented them at his head. it was now the turn of the conspirators to triumph. in another instant, robert winter was released by the old woman, and the pair throwing themselves upon the trooper, forced him to the ground. they then dragged him to the back room, and stripped him of his habiliments, which stephen littleton put on instead of his own attire, and binding him hand and foot, returned to the old woman. at the request of robert winter, she furnished him with a suit of clothes belonging to one of her sons, and then set before them the best eatables she possessed. they were ravenously hungry, and soon disposed of the viands. meanwhile, their hostess told them that the whole country was in arms against them; that mrs. littleton being suspected, though she had always been adverse to the design, her house had undergone a rigorous search; but that mr. humphrey littleton, not having taken any part in the insurrection, had not as yet been arrested, though it was feared he would be proved to be connected with the plot. she concluded by strongly counselling them to use the utmost caution, and to expose themselves as little as possible. they assured her she need have no apprehension on that score, and expressed great anxiety as to what would befal her when they were pone. "i do not desire to shed blood, if it can be helped," said stephen littleton; "but in a case of necessity, like the present, where life must be weighed against life, i hold it lawful to shed it. shall we put the trooper to death?" "not unless your own safety requires it, good sirs," she said. "i shall quit this cottage soon after you have left it, and obtain a safe asylum with one of my neighbours. it matters not what becomes of me. having lost my two sons,--for i consider them as already dead,--i have nothing left to bind me to life." unable to make any reply, the conspirators remained for some time silent, when, by the poor woman's advice, they withdrew to an upper chamber, and stretching themselves on a bed, sought a few hours' repose. the old woman kept watch below, and they gave her one of the petronels, with strict injunctions to blow out the trooper's brains if he attempted to move. nothing, however, occurred to alarm her, and at three o'clock she awakened them. offering the woman a handsome reward, which, however, she declined, they then set out; and shortly afterwards their hostess quitted her habitation, and withdrew to the cottage of a neighbour, where she remained concealed for some weeks, and then died of grief on learning that her sons had been slain during the assault of holbeach by the royalists. recruited by the rest they had enjoyed, the conspirators pursued their course over the fields. the weather was the same as that which disheartened their confederates at holbeach, and the rain fell so heavily that they had soon not a dry thread upon them. but being now disguised, they were not under so much apprehension of detection. shaping their course towards rowley regis, in staffordshire, which lay about five miles from hagley, where a farmer named pelborrow, a tenant of humphrey littleton, resided, and whom they thought would befriend them, they proceeded swiftly on their way; but, though well acquainted with the country, they were so bewildered and deceived by the fog, that they strayed materially out of their course, and when it grew light found themselves near weoley castle, and about four miles from birmingham. confiding in their disguises, and in their power of sustaining the characters they assumed, they got into the high road, and approaching a farm-house, stephen littleton, who had tied his companion's arms behind him with his belt, represented himself as a trooper conveying a prisoner from stourbridge to birmingham, and in consequence of this obtained a breakfast from the farmer. after their meal was over, the host, who had eyed them suspiciously, observed to the supposed trooper,-- "you will overtake some of your comrades before you reach egbaston, and had better lose no time in joining them. you are known to me, my masters," he added, in a tone that could not be heard by the household; "but i will not betray you. get you gone." the conspirators did not fail to act upon the suggestion, and as soon as they got out of sight, struck across the county in the direction of rowley regis, and arrived at the farm-house which was their destination in about an hour. pelborrow chanced to be in a barn adjoining his house, and alone, and on seeing them readily offered to hide them. no one had noticed their approach, and carefully concealing them amid the hay in the loft, he proceeded about his business as if nothing had happened. he could not just then procure them provisions without exciting suspicion; but when night arrived brought them a sufficient supply for the next day. in this way they passed nearly a week, never venturing to stir forth, for they had been traced to the neighbourhood, and constant search was going on after them. pelborrow had great difficulty in keeping his men out of the barn, and the disappearance of the provisions excited the suspicions of his female domestics, who began to think all was not right. he therefore intimated to the conspirators that they must change their quarters, and in the dead of the night, they removed to the house of another farmer named perkes, residing on the borders of hagley park, to whom pelborrow had confided the secret of their being in the neighbourhood, and who, on promise of a large reward, readily undertook to secrete them. perkes met them at a little distance from his house, and conducted them to a barley-mow, where he had contrived a hiding-place amid the straw for them. a woman-servant and a man were both let into the secret by perkes, and a sum of money, given him for that purpose by the conspirators, bribed them to silence. here they remained close prisoners, unable to stir forth, or even to change their habiliments for nearly six weeks, during which time they received constant intelligence from their protector of what was going forward, and learnt that the search for them had not relaxed. they were not without hope, however, that the worst was over, when an incident occurred that gave them serious uneasiness. one night, perkes, who was a stout, hale yeoman, and had formerly been warrener to mrs. littleton, went to catch conies, with a companion named poynter, and returned laden with spoil. after drinking a cup or two of ale together, the pair separated, and poynter feeling fatigued with his exertions, as well as drowsy with the liquor he had swallowed, determined to pass the night in his friend's barn, and entering it, clambered up to the loft, and laid himself in the straw. in doing this, he slipped into the hole made for the conspirators, who, aroused by his fall, instantly seized him. terrified to death, and fancying he had fallen into the hands of gipsies or other plunderers, poynter roared for mercy, which they were not at first disposed to show him; but the poor wretch, finding into whose hands he had fallen, besought them in such piteous terms to spare his life, affirming with the strongest oaths that he would never betray them, that they consented to spare him, on condition of his remaining with them as long as they should occupy their place of concealment. when perkes appeared in the morning, he was not a little surprised at finding his comrade caught in such a trap, but entirely approved of the course taken by the conspirators. poynter, as may be supposed, was no willing captive; and being constantly pondering on the means of escape, and of obtaining the reward for the apprehension of the conspirators, at last hit upon the following expedient. while engaged in the poaching expedition with perkes, he had received a slight wound in the leg, and the close confinement to which he was now subjected inflamed it to such a degree as to render it highly dangerous. this he represented to the conspirators, who, however, would not suffer him to depart; but desired perkes to bring him some ointment to dress his wound. the request was complied with, and feigning that it was necessary to approach the light to apply the salve, poynter scrambled up the straw, apparently for that sole purpose. he did not attempt to fly for several days; but at last, when they were grown less suspicious, he slided down the other side of the loft, and made good his retreat. the conspirators saw the error they had committed when too late. not daring to pursue him, they remained in fearful anticipation of an arrest throughout the day. but they were not disturbed until night, when perkes made his appearance. they told him what had happened; but he did not appear to be much alarmed. "i do not think you need be afraid of him," he said. "let me have some money, and i will go in quest of him at once, and bribe him to silence." "here are fifty marks," replied stephen littleton. "if that is not enough, take more." "it will amply suffice," replied perkes. "i will answer for his silence." this assurance greatly relieved the conspirators, and they were made completely easy by the return of perkes in less than an hour afterwards, who told them he had seen poynter, and had given him the money, binding him by the most solemn oaths not to betray them. "i have still better news for you, my masters," he added. "mrs. littleton has set out for london to-day; and i have received orders from mr. humphrey littleton to bring you to the hall at midnight." this last intelligence completed their satisfaction, and they awaited perkes's return with impatience. shortly before midnight, he came to summon them, and they set forth together. perkes's house lay about a mile from the hall, and they soon entered the park. the night was clear and frosty,--it was now the middle of december,--and as the conspirators trod the crisp sod, and gazed at the noble but leafless trees around them, they silently returned thanks to heaven for their restoration to freedom. humphrey littleton was waiting for them at the end of an avenue near the mansion, and tenderly embraced them. tears of joy were shed on both sides, and it seemed to humphrey littleton as if his brother had been restored from the grave. dismissing perkes with warm thanks, and promises of a further recompence, they then entered the house by a window, which had been left purposely open. humphrey littleton conducted them to his own chamber, where fresh apparel was provided for them; and to poor wretches who had not been able to put off their attire for so long a period, the luxury of the change was indescribably great. the arrival of the fugitives was kept secret from all the household except the man-cook, john ocklie, upon whose fidelity humphrey littleton thought he could rely. a good supper was prepared by this man, and brought up into his master's chamber, where the conspirators were now seated before a hearth heaped with blazing logs. the conspirators needed no solicitation to fall to, and they did ample justice to the good things before them. his spirits being raised by the good cheer, robert winter observed to the cook, who was in attendance upon them, "ah! jack, thy mistress little thinks what guests are now in her house, who have neither seen fire nor tasted a hot morsel for well-nigh two months." "ay, it is a sad matter," returned the cook, shaking his head, "and i wish i could offer your worships a flask of wine, or a cup of stout ale at the least. but the butler is in bed, and if i were to rouse him at this hour it might excite his suspicion. if you are willing, sir," he added, to humphrey littleton, "i will hie to my mother's cottage in the park, and bring a jug of ale from her." this was agreed to, and the cook left the house. his sole object, however, was to instruct his mother to give the alarm, so that the conspirators might be arrested before morning. on reaching her cottage, he was surprised to see a light within it, and two men there, one of whom was poynter, and the other mrs. littleton's steward, robert hazlewood. poynter had acquainted hazlewood with all he knew respecting the conspirators, supposing them still in the barley-mow, and they were discussing the best means of arresting them, when the cook entered the house. "the birds are flown," he said, "as you will find, if you search the nest. but come to the hall with a sufficient force betimes to-morrow morning, and i will show you where to find them. i shall claim, however, my share of the reward, though i must not appear in the matter." having fully arranged their plan, he procured the ale from his mother, and returned to the hall. the conspirators soon disposed of the jug, threw themselves on a couch in the room, and instantly dropping asleep, enjoyed such repose as only falls to the lot of those who have similarly suffered. and it was well they did sleep soundly, for it was the last tranquil night they ever enjoyed! humphrey littleton, who, as has been stated, reposed implicit confidence in the cook, had committed the key of the chamber to him, strictly enjoining him to call them in the morning; and the fellow, feeling secure of his prey, retired to rest. about seven o'clock, he burst suddenly into the room, and with a countenance of well-feigned alarm, which struck tenor into the breasts of the conspirators, cried-- "master hazlewood and the officers are below, and say they must search the house. poynter is with them." "the villain has betrayed us!" cried stephen littleton. "fools that we were to spare his life!" "there is no use in lamenting your indiscretion now, sir," replied the cook; "leave it to me, and i will yet effect your escape." "we place ourselves entirely in your hands," said stephen littleton. "go down stairs, sir," said the cook to humphrey littleton, "and hold master hazlewood in conversation for a few minutes, and i will engage to get the gentlemen safely out of the house." humphrey littleton obeyed, and descending to the steward, told him he was willing to conduct him to every room in the house. "i am certain they are here, and shall not quit it till i find them," rejoined hazlewood. "ah!" he exclaimed, as if struck by a sudden thought, "you say they are not in the house. perhaps, they are in the garden--in the summer-house? we will go and see." so saying, he took half-a-dozen of his men with him, leaving poynter and the rest with humphrey littleton, who was perplexed and alarmed at his conduct. meanwhile, the cook led the two conspirators along the gallery, and from thence down a back staircase, which brought them to a small door communicating with the garden. a few seconds were lost in opening it, and when they issued forth they encountered hazlewood and his men, who instantly arrested them. the unfortunate conspirators were conveyed under a strong guard to london, where they were committed to the tower, to take their trial with their confederates. chapter vii. viviana's last night at ordsall hall. on the evening of the third day after quitting dunchurch, viviana radcliffe and her companions arrived at ordsall hall. they had encountered many dangers and difficulties on the journey, and were well-nigh overcome with fatigue and anxiety. fearful of being detained, garnet had avoided all the larger towns in the way, and had consequently been driven greatly out of the direct course. he had assumed the disguise which he usually wore when travelling, that of a lawyer, and as he possessed great mimetic talent, he sustained the character admirably. viviana passed for his daughter, and his servant, nicholas owen, who was almost as clever an actor as his master, represented his clerk, while the two attendants performed the parts of clients. at abbots'-bromley, where they halted for refreshment on the second day, having spent the night at a small village near lichfield, they were detained by the landlord, who entertained some suspicions of them; but garnet succeeded in frightening the man into allowing them to depart. they underwent another alarm of the same kind at leek, and were for two hours locked up. but on the arrival of a magistrate, who had been sent for by the host, garnet gave so plausible an account of himself that the party were instantly set at liberty, and arrived without further molestation at their journey's end. viviana's last visit to the hall had been sad enough, but it was not so sad as the present. it was a dull november evening, and the wind moaned dismally through the trees, scattering the yellow leaves on the ground. the house looked forlorn and desolate. no smoke issued from the chimneys, nor was there any external indication that it was inhabited. the drawbridge was down, and as they passed over it, the hollow trampling of their steeds upon the planks vibrated painfully upon viviana's heart. before dismounting, she cast a wistful look around, and surveyed the grass-grown and neglected court, where, in years gone by, she had sported; the moat on whose brink she had lingered; and the surrounding woods, which she had never looked upon, even on a dreary day like the present, and when they were robbed in some measure of their beauty, without delight. scanning the deserted mansion from roof to foundation, she traced all its gables, angles, windows, doors, and walls, and claimed every piece of carved work, every stone as a familiar object, and as associated with other and happier hours. "it is but the wreck of what it was," she thought. "the spirit that animated it is fled. grass grows in its courts--no cheerful voices echo in its chambers--no hospitality is maintained in its hall--but neglect, gloom, and despair claim it as their own. the habitation and its mistress are well matched." guessing from the melancholy expression of her countenance what was passing within, and thinking it advisable to turn the current of her thoughts, garnet assisted her to alight, and committing the care of their steeds to owen and the others, proceeded with her to the principal entrance. everything appeared in nearly the same state as when they had last seen it, and the only change that had taken place was for the worse. the ceilings were mapped and mildewed with damps; the once-gorgeously stained glass was shivered in the windows; the costly arras hung in tattered fragments from the walls; while the floors, which were still strewn with plaster and broken furniture, were flooded with the moisture that had found its way through the holes in the roof. "bear up, dear daughter," said garnet, observing that viviana was greatly distressed by the sight, "and let the contemplation of this scene of havoc, instead of casting you down, inspire you with just indignation against enemies from whom it is vain to expect justice or mercy. how many catholic mansions have been thus laid waste! how many high-born and honourable men, whose sole fault was their adherence to the religion of their fathers, and their refusal to subscribe to doctrines against which their consciences revolted, have been put to death like your father; nay, have endured a worse fate, for they have languished out their lives in prison, while their families and retainers have undergone every species of outrage! how many a descendant of a proud line, distinguished for worth, for loyalty, and for devotion, has stood, as you now stand, upon his desolate hearth--has seen misery and ruin usurp the place of comfort and happiness--and has heard the very stones beneath his feet cry out for vengeance. accursed be our oppressors!" he added, lifting up his hands, and elevating his voice. "may their churches be thrown down--their faith crushed--their rights invaded--their children delivered to bondage--their hearths laid waste, as ours have been. may this, and worse come to pass, till the whole stock of heresy is uprooted!" "hold, father!" exclaimed viviana, "even here, beholding this miserable sight, and with feelings keenly excited, i cannot join in your terrible denunciation. what i hope for--what i pray for, is toleration, not vengeance. the sufferings of our brethren will not have been in vain, if they enable our successors to worship god in their own way, and according to the dictates of their consciences. the ruthless conduct of our persecutors must be held in as much abhorrence by all good protestants as our persecution of that sect, when we were in the ascendant, is regarded by all worthy members of our own church. i cannot believe that by persecution we can work out the charitable precepts inculcated by our saviour, and i am sure such a course is as adverse to the spirit of religion as it is to that of humanity. let us bear our sorrows with patience,--let us utter no repinings, but turn the other cheek to the smiter, and we shall find, in due time, that the hearts of our oppressors will relent, and that all the believers in the true god will be enabled to worship him in peace, though at different altars." "such a season will never arrive, daughter," replied garnet, severely, "till heresy is extirpated, and the false doctrines now prevailing utterly abolished. then, indeed, when the church of rome is re-established, and the old and true religion restored, universal peace will prevail. and let me correct the grievous and sinful error into which you have fallen. our church is always at war with heresy; and if it cannot uproot it by gentle means, authorizes, nay enjoins the employment of force." "i will not attempt to dispute with you upon points of faith, father," returned viviana; "i am content to think and act according to my own feelings and convictions. but i will not give up the hope that in some milder and wiser age, persecution on either side will cease, and the sufferings of its victims be remembered only to soften the hearts of fanatics, of whatever creed, towards each other. were a lesson wanting to ourselves, surely it might be found in the result that has attended your dark and criminal enterprise, and in which the disapproval of heaven has been signally manifested." "not so, daughter," replied garnet. "an action is not to be judged or justified by the event attending it, but by its own intrinsic merits. to aver the contrary were to throw a doubt upon the holy scriptures themselves, where we read in the book of judges that the eleven tribes of israel were commanded to make war upon the tribe of benjamin, and yet were twice defeated. we have failed. but this proves nothing against our project, which i maintain to be righteous and praiseworthy, undertaken to overthrow an heretical and excommunicated monarch, and to re-establish the true faith of the most high throughout this land." "i lament to find that you still persist in error, father," replied viviana; "but you cannot by any sophistry induce me to coincide with you in opinion. i hold the attempt an offence alike against god and man, and while i rejoice at the issue that has attended it, i deplore the irreparable harm it will do to the whole body of catholics, all of whom will be connected, by the bigoted and unthinking of the hostile party, with the atrocious design. not only have you done our cause an injury, but you have in a measure justified our opponents' severity, and given them a plea for further persecution." "no more of this, daughter," rejoined garnet, impatiently, "or i shall deem it necessary to reprove you. let us search the house, and try to find some habitable chamber in which you can pass the night." after a long search, they discovered a room in comparatively good order, and leaving viviana within it, garnet descended to the lower part of the house, where he found nicholas owen, and the two other attendants. "we have chanced upon a scanty supply of provender for our steeds," remarked owen, with a doleful look; "but we are not likely to obtain a meal ourselves, unless we can feed upon rats and mice, which appear to be the sole tenants of this miserable dwelling." "you must go to manchester instantly, and procure provisions," returned garnet. "but take heed you observe the utmost caution." "fear nothing," replied owen, "if i am taken, your reverence will lose your supper--that is all." he then set out upon his errand, and garnet proceeded to the kitchen, where, to his great surprise, he found the hearthstone still warm, and a few lighted embers upon it, while crumbs of bread, and little fragments of meat scattered about, proved that some one had taken a meal there. startled by this discovery, he continued his search, but as fruitlessly as before; and though he called to any one who might be hidden to come forth, the summons was unanswered. one of the attendants had placed a few sticks upon the smouldering ashes, and on returning to the kitchen, it was found that they had kindled. a fire being thus obtained, some of the broken furniture was used to replenish it, and by garnet's commands another fire was speedily lighted in viviana's chamber. night had now come on, and owen not returning, garnet became extremely uneasy, and had almost given him up, when the absentee made his appearance, with a large basket of provisions under his arm. "i have had some difficulty in obtaining them," he said; "and fancying i observed two persons following me, was obliged to take a circuitous route to get back. the whole town is in commotion about the plot, and it is said that the most rigorous measures are to be adopted towards all the catholic families in the neighbourhood." sighing at the latter piece of intelligence, garnet selected such provisions as he thought would be acceptable to viviana, and took them upstairs to her. she ate a little bread, and drank a cup of water, but refused to taste anything else, and finding it in vain to press her, garnet returned to the kitchen, where, being much exhausted, he recruited himself with a hearty meal and a cup of wine. left alone, viviana knelt down, and clasping a small crucifix to her breast, prayed long and fervently. while she was thus engaged, she heard the door open gently behind her, and turning her head, beheld an old man clothed in a tattered garb, with long white hair flowing over his shoulders, and a beard of the same snowy hue descending upon his breast. as he advanced slowly towards her, she started to her feet, and a brighter flame arising at the moment from the fire, it illumined the intruder's wobegone features. "is it possible!" she exclaimed,--"can it be my father's old steward, jerome heydocke?" "it is, indeed, my dear young mistress," replied the old man, falling on his knee before her. "heaven be praised!" he continued, seizing her hand, and bedewing it with tears; "i have seen you once again, and shall die content." "i never expected to behold you more, good heydocke," returned viviana, raising him. "i heard you had died in prison." "it was so given out by the jailers, to account for my escape," replied the old steward; "and i took care never to contradict the report by making my appearance. i will not distress you by the recital of all i have endured, but will simply state that i was confined in the prison upon hunt's bank, whence i escaped in the night by dropping upon the rocks, and from them into the river, where it was supposed i was drowned. making my way into the country, i concealed myself for a time in barns and out-buildings, until, at length, i ventured back to the old house, and have dwelt in it unmolested ever since. i should have perished of want long ago, but for the kindness of mr. humphrey chetham. he used to send my son regularly to me with provisions; and, now that martin is gone to london, on business, as i understood, relating to you, he brings them to me himself. he will be here to-morrow." "indeed!" exclaimed viviana. "i must see him." "as you please," returned the old man. "i suppose those are your companions below. i was in my hiding-place, and hearing voices and footsteps, did not dare to venture forth till all was still. on approaching this room, which i have been in the habit of occupying lately, and peeping through the door, which was standing ajar, i perceived a female figure, and thinking it must be you, though i scarcely dared to trust the evidence of my senses, i ventured in. oh! my dear, dear young mistress, what a joy it is to see you again! i fear you must have suffered much, for you are greatly altered." at this moment, garnet entered the room. he started on seeing the old steward. but an explanation was instantly given him. "you, then, are the person by whom the fire was recently lighted in the kitchen?" he asked. heydocke replied in the affirmative. "i came to bid you farewell for the night, dear daughter," said garnet, "and to assure you that you may rest without fear, for we have contrived to make fast the doors. come with me, my son," he added to the steward, "and you shall have a comfortable meal below." making a profound reverence to viviana, the old man followed him down stairs. viviana continued to pace to and fro within her chamber for some time, and then, overcome with fatigue, flung herself upon the bedstead, on which a cloak had been thrown. sleep soon closed her eyes, but it was disturbed by frightful and distressing dreams, from which she was suddenly aroused by a touch upon the arm. starting up, she perceived the old steward by the side of her couch, with a light in his hand. "what brings you here, heydocke?" she demanded, with surprise and alarm. "you have slept soundly, my dear young mistress, or you would not require to be informed," replied the steward. "there! do you not hear it?" he added, as a loud knocking resounded from below. viviana listened for a moment, and then as if struck by a sudden idea, hurried down stairs. she found garnet and the others assembled in the hall, but wholly unnerved by fright. "hide yourselves," she said, "and no ill shall befal you. quick!--not a moment is to be lost!" having allowed them sufficient time for concealment, she demanded in a loud voice who was without? "friends," was the reply. "it is the voice of doctor dee," replied heydocke. "indeed!" exclaimed viviana. "admit him instantly." heydocke obeyed, and throwing open the door, gave entrance to the doctor, who was wrapped in his long furred gown, and carried a lantern. he was accompanied by kelley and humphrey chetham. "your visit is singularly timed, mr. chetham," said viviana, after she had saluted the party; "but you are not the less welcome on that account. i much desired to see you, and indeed should have sent for you to-morrow. but how did you know i was here?" "the only explanation i can offer you is this," replied chetham. "i was hastily summoned from my residence at crumpsall by kelley, who told me you were at ordsall hall, and that doctor dee was about to visit you, and desired my company. thus summoned, i came at once." "a strange explanation indeed!" replied viviana. "close and fasten the door," said dee, in an authoritative tone to kelley, and as soon as his commands were obeyed, he took viviana's hand, and led her to the farther end of the hall. "my art informed me of your arrival, viviana," he said. "i am come to save you. you are in imminent danger." "i well know it," she replied; "but i have no wish to fly from justice. i am weary of my life, and would gladly resign it." "i would call to your recollection, viviana," pursued dee, "that i foretold the disastrous result of this plot, in which you have become unhappily involved, to guy fawkes, and warned him not to proceed in it. but he would not be advised, and is now a prisoner in the tower." "all i wish is to go thither, and die with him," rejoined viviana. "if you go thither, you will die before him," said dee. "i would do so," she replied. "viviana radcliffe," returned dee, in a compassionate tone, "i truly grieve for you. your attachment to this heinous traitor completely blinds you. the friendship i entertained for your mother makes me anxious to serve you--to see you happy. it is now in your power to be so. but if you take another false step, your fate is decided, and you will die an early death. i will answer for your safety--nay, what is more, i will undertake that ere long you shall again be mistress of this mansion, and have your estates restored to you." "you promise fairly, sir," she replied, with a mournful smile. "i have not yet done," pursued dee. "all i require for the service is, that when freed by the death of guy fawkes from the chain that now binds you,--for i am aware of your ill-starred union with him,--you shall bestow your hand upon humphrey chetham." "it may not be," replied viviana, firmly. "and if you could in truth read the secrets of the heart, you would know that mine would instantly reject the proposal." "think not it originates with me, viviana," said humphrey chetham, who had approached them unobserved. "my previous experience of your character would alone have prevented me from becoming a party to any such proposal, had i known it would be made. do not, i beseech you, sir," he added to dee, "clog your offer with conditions which will effectually prevent its accomplishment." "you are true to yourself, mr. chetham," rejoined viviana, "and will not, therefore, wonder that i continue so. were i to assent to doctor dee's proposal, i should be further from happiness than i am now, even if he could make good his words, and restore me to the station i have forfeited. i have received a shock from which i shall never recover, and the only haven of repose to which i look forward is the grave." "alas!" exclaimed chetham, in a pitying tone. "you will think i trespass too much upon your kindness," she pursued; "but you can render me a great service, and it will be the last i shall ever require from you." "name it!" cried chetham, eagerly. "i would beg you to escort me to london," she rejoined: "and to deliver me to the lords of the council. i would willingly escape the indignities to which t shall be exposed if i am conveyed thither as a prisoner. will you do this?" "i will," replied chetham. "lest you should think i have offered more than i can perform, viviana," said dee, who had listened attentively to the foregoing conversation, "i will now tell you on what grounds i build my expectation of procuring your pardon. the conspiracy was first revealed by me to the earl of salisbury, though for his own purposes he kept it secret to the last. he owes me a heavy debt, and shall pay it in the way i propose, if you desire it." "i will abide by what i have done," replied viviana. "you know, then, what fate awaits you?" said dee. "i shall not shrink from it," she rejoined. "it is well," he replied. "before i leave, i will give you another caution. father garnet is here. nay, attempt not to deny it. you cannot deceive me. besides, i desire to serve, not harm him. if he remains here till to-morrow, he will be captured. a proclamation has been issued for his arrest, as well as for that of father oldcorne. deliver him this warning. and now, farewell!" with this, he took up his lantern, and followed by kelley, quitted the hall. humphrey chetham only tarried a few moments to inform viviana that he would return soon after daybreak with a couple of steeds for the journey. as soon as he was gone, viviana communicated dee's warning to garnet, who was so alarmed by it, that he resolved not to delay his own departure a moment. taking an affectionate leave of viviana, and confiding her to the care of the old steward, he set out with his three attendants. faithful to his promise, humphrey chetham appeared at the appointed time. viviana bade an eternal farewell to the old steward, who was overwhelmed with grief, and looked as if his sorrows would soon be ended, and mounting one of the steeds brought by the young merchant, they took the direction of london. chapter viii. hendlip. garnet proceeded at a rapid pace for some miles before he acquainted his companions whither he was going. he then informed nicholas owen, who rode by his side, that he should make the best of his way to hendlip house, the seat of mr. thomas abingdon, near droitwich, in worcestershire, where he knew that father oldcorne and anne vaux had retired, and where he was certain to meet with a friendly reception and protection. owen, who was completely in his master's confidence, agreed that no safer asylum could be found, and they pursued their journey with so much ardour, that early on the following night they arrived within a short distance of the mansion. owen was sent forward to reconnoitre, and returned in about half an hour with mr. abingdon, who embraced garnet, and told him he was truly happy in being able to offer him a retreat. "and i think it will prove a secure one," he added. "there are so many hiding-places in the old house, that if it is beset for a year you will scarcely be discovered. have you heard of the fate of your confederates?" "alas! no, my son," replied garnet; "and i tremble to ask it." "it had better be told at once," rejoined abingdon. "catesby, percy, and the two wrights, have been slain in the defence of holbeach; while rookwood, grant, and thomas winter, all of whom were severely wounded in the siege, have been made prisoners, and are now on their way to the tower." "a fearful catalogue of ills!" exclaimed garnet. "it is not yet complete," pursued abingdon. "sir everard digby has been defeated, and made prisoner in an attempt to bring additional force to his friends, and keyes has been arrested in warwickshire." "these are woful tidings truly, my son," returned garnet. "but heaven's will be done!" he then dismissed his two attendants, to whom he gave a sum of money, together with the steeds, and attended by nicholas owen, repaired to the house with mr. abingdon, who admitted them through a secret door. hendlip house, which, unfortunately for the lovers of picturesque and storied habitations, was pulled down a few years ago, having been latterly used as a ladies' boarding-school, was a large and irregular structure, with walls of immense thickness, tall stacks of chimneys, turrets, oriel windows, and numberless projections, contrived to mask the labyrinths and secret chambers within. erected by john abingdon, father of the proprietor at the period of this history, and cofferer to queen elizabeth in the early part of the reign of that princess, it was filled with secret staircases, masked entrances, trap-doors, vaults, subterranean passages, secret recesses, and every other description of hiding-place. an immense gallery surrounded three sides of the entrance-hall, containing on each side a large chimney-piece, surmounted by a shield displaying the arms of the family--_argent_, a bend, _gules_, three eaglets displayed, _or_. behind each of these chimney-pieces was a small cell, or "priest's-hole," as it was termed, contrived in the thickness of the wall. throughout the mansion, the chambers were so sombre, and the passages so numerous and intricate, that, in the words of one who described it from personal observation, the whole place presented "a picture of gloom, insecurity, and suspicion." standing on an elevated situation, it commanded the country on all sides, and could not be approached during the day-time without alarm being given to its inmates. thomas abingdon, the owner of the mansion at the period in question, and the eldest son of its founder, was born at thorpe, near chertsey, in surrey, in . he was educated at oxford, and finished his studies at the universities of paris and rheims. a man of considerable taste and learning, but of a plotting disposition, he became a willing tool of the jesuits, and immediately on his return to england, connected himself with the different conspiracies set on foot for the liberation of the imprisoned queen of scots. for these offences he was imprisoned in the tower for the term of six years, and only escaped death from the fact of his being the queen's godson, coupled with the estimation in which she had held his father. on his liberation, he remained perfectly tranquil till the accession of james, when he became a secret plotter against that monarch. his concealment of the two priests, about to be related, occasioned his being again sent to the tower, and if it had not been for the intercession of lord mounteagle, whose sister he had espoused, he would have been executed. he was pardoned on condition of never stirring beyond the precincts of worcestershire, and he employed his retirement in compiling an account of the antiquities of that county, which he left behind him in manuscript, and of which doctor nash, its more recent historian, has largely availed himself. with a habitation so contrived, mr. abingdon might fairly promise his guests a safe asylum. conducting them along a secret passage to a chamber of which he alone possessed the key, he left garnet within it, and taking owen with him to another place of concealment, returned shortly afterwards with anne vaux and father oldcorne. the two priests tenderly embraced each other, and oldcorne poured forth his tears on his superior's shoulder. garnet next turned to anne vaux, between whom and himself, as has been before mentioned, an affectionate intimacy subsisted, and found her quite overcome by her feelings. supper was now served to garnet by a confidential servant, and after a few hours spent in conversation with his friends, during which they discussed the disastrous issue of the affair, and the probable fate of the conspirators, they quitted him, and he retired to rest--but not before he had returned thanks to heaven for enabling him once more to lay down his head in safety. on the following morning, he was visited by mrs. abingdon, a lady of considerable personal attractions, and anne vaux; and when he had recovered from the fatigue of his journey, and the anxieties he had recently undergone, he experienced great delight in their society. the chamber he occupied was lighted by a small loop-hole, which enabled him to breathe the fresh air, and gaze upon the surrounding country. in this way, nearly two months passed on, during which, though rigorous inquiries were made throughout the country, no clue was found by the searchers to lead them to hendlip; and the concealed parties began to indulge hopes that they should escape detection altogether. being in constant correspondence with her brother, lord mounteagle, though she did not trust him with the important secret of the concealment of the priests, mrs. abingdon ascertained all that was done in reference to the conspirators, whose trials were now approaching, and communicated the intelligence to garnet. on the morning of the th of january, and when long quietude had bred complete fancied security in garnet, anne vaux and mrs. abingdon suddenly entered his chamber, and with countenances of the utmost alarm, informed him that mr. abingdon's confidential servant had just returned from worcester, where his master then was, and had brought word that topcliffe, armed with a search-warrant from the earl of salisbury, had just passed through that city on his way to holt castle, the residence of sir henry bromley. "it appears," said mrs. abingdon, "that humphrey littleton, who has been apprehended and condemned to death at worcester for harbouring his brother and robert winter, has sought to procure a remission of his sentence by betraying your retreat. in consequence of this, topcliffe has been sent down from london, with a warrant addressed to sir henry bromley, to aid him in searching hendlip. my husband has given particular orders that you are to be removed to the most secure hiding-place without delay; and he deeply regrets that he himself cannot return till evening, for fear of exciting suspicion." "take me where you please, daughter," replied garnet, who was thrown into great perturbation by the intelligence. "i thought myself prepared for any emergency. but i was wofully deceived." "be not alarmed, father," said anne vaux, in an encouraging tone. "let them search as long as they will, they will never discover your retreat." "i have a strong presentiment to the contrary," replied garnet. at this moment, oldcorne made his appearance, and on learning the alarming news, was as much dismayed as his superior. after a short consultation, and while the priests were putting aside every article necessary to be removed, mrs. abingdon proceeded to the gallery, and contrived on some plausible pretext to send away the whole of the domestics from this part of the house. this done, she hastily returned, and conducted the two priests to one of the large fire-places. a raised stone about two feet high occupied the inside of the chimney, and upon it stood an immense pair of iron dogs. obeying mrs. abingdon's directions, garnet got upon the stone, and setting his foot on the large iron knob on the left, found a few projections in the masonry on the side, up which he mounted, and opening a small door, made of planks of wood, covered with bricks, and coloured black, so as not to be distinguishable from the walls of the chimney, crept into a recess contrived in the thickness of the wall. this cell was about two feet wide, and four high, and was connected with another chimney at the back, by means of three or four small holes. around its sides ran a narrow stone shelf, just wide enough to afford an uncomfortable seat. garnet was followed by oldcorne, who brought with him a quantity of books, vestments, and sacred vessels used in the performance of the rites of the church of rome. these articles, which afterwards occasioned them much inconvenience, they did not dare to leave behind. having seen them safely bestowed, mrs. abingdon and her companion went in search of provisions, and brought them a piece of cold meat and a pasty, together with some bread, dried fruit, conserves, and a flask of wine. they did not dare to bring more, for fear of exciting the suspicion of the household. their next care was to conduct owen, and oldcorne's servant, chambers, to a similar retreat in one of the other chimneys, and to provide them with a scanty supply of provisions and a flask of wine. all this was accomplished without being noticed by any of the domestics. as may be imagined, a most anxious day was passed by all parties. towards evening, sir henry bromley, the sheriff of the county, accompanied by topcliffe, and attended by a troop of soldiers, appeared at the gates of the mansion, and demanded admittance. just at this moment, mr. abingdon rode up, and affecting to know nothing of the matter, saluted sir henry bromley, with whom he was on terms of intimacy, and inquired his business. "you are charged with harbouring two jesuit priests, fathers garnet and oldcorne, supposed to be connected with the late atrocious conspiracy against the king, mr. abingdon," interposed topcliffe; "and i brought a warrant from the earl of salisbury, which i have delivered to sir henry bromley, commanding him to search your house for them." "i was loth to accept the office, mr. abingdon," said sir henry bromley, who was a handsome, middle-aged man; "but my duty to my sovereign allows me no alternative. i trust, though a catholic, that you share my own detestation of this diabolical plot, and would not shelter any of its contrivers, or abettors." "you judge me rightly, sir henry," replied abingdon, who, meanwhile, had received a private signal from his confidential servant that all was safe, "i would not. i am just returned from worcester, where i have been for the last two days. enter my house, i pray you, and search every corner of it; and if you find a jesuit priest concealed within it, you shall hang me at my own gate." "you must be misinformed, sir," observed sir henry, who was completely imposed upon by abingdon's unconcerned demeanour; "they cannot be here." "trust me, they are," returned the other, "and i should like to take him at his word." giving directions to the band to environ the house, and guard all its approaches, so as to prevent any one from escaping from it, topcliffe took half-a-dozen men with him, and instructed them how to act. they first repaired to the great dining-chamber, where, in accordance with the instructions received from the earl of salisbury, topcliffe proceeded to the further end of the room, and directed his men to break down the wainscot. with some difficulty, the order was obeyed, and the entrance to a vault discovered, into which topcliffe descended but he found nothing to repay his trouble. returning to the dining-chamber, he questioned mr. abingdon, who secretly enjoyed his disappointment, as to the use of the vault, but the latter professed entire ignorance of its existence. the searchers next proceeded to the cellar, and bored the floors with a broach to a considerable depth, to try whether there were any vaults beneath them, but they made no discovery. meanwhile topcliffe hurried upstairs, and examined the size of the rooms, to see whether they corresponded with those below; and wherever any difference was observable, he caused the panels to be pulled down, and holes broken in the walls. in this way, several secret passages were discovered, one of which led to the chamber lately occupied by garnet. encouraged by this discovery, the searchers continued their operations to a late hour, when they desisted for the night. on the following day they resumed their task, and sir henry bromley took a general survey of the house, both externally and internally, noting the appearances outside, and seeing that they corresponded with the rooms within. the three extraordinary chimney-pieces in the gallery attracted topcliffe's attention; but the contrivances within were so well managed, that they escaped his notice. he even got into the chimneys, and examined the walls on either side, but could detect nothing. and, lastly, he ordered large fires to be lighted within them, but the experiment proving fruitless, he turned his attention elsewhere. mr. abingdon had attended him during this part of the search, and, though he preserved an unmoved exterior, he was full of apprehension, and was greatly relieved when it was abandoned. in the course of the same day, two other hiding-places were found in the thickness of the walls, but nothing was discovered within them. in order to prevent any communication with the concealed persons, topcliffe stationed a sentinel at the door of mr. abingdon's chamber, and another at that of anne vaux. on the third day the search was continued more rigorously than ever. wainscots were taken down; walls broken open; the boards of the floor removed; and other secret passages, vaults, and hiding-places discovered. some priests' vestments and articles used in the romish service were found in one of these places, and shown to mr. abingdon. he at first denied all knowledge of them; but when topcliffe brought forward the title-deeds of his property, which had been found in the same place, he was obliged to confess he had put them there himself. still, though these discoveries had been made, the searchers were as far from their aim as ever; and sir henry bromley, who began to despair of success, would have departed on the fifth day, if topcliffe had not prevented him. "i am certain they are here," said the latter, "and have hit upon a plan which cannot fail to bring them forth." the prisoners meanwhile suffered grievously from their confinement, and hearing the searchers knocking against the walls, and even within the chimney, felt certain they should be discovered. not being able to stand upright, or to stretch themselves within the cell, the sitting posture they were compelled to adopt became, after a time, intolerably irksome. broths, milk, wine, and other nutritious fluids, were conveyed to them by means of a reed from the adjoining chimney; but after the fifth day this supply was stopped, as mrs. abingdon and anne vaux were compelled by topcliffe to remove to a different part of the house. they now began to experience all the horrors of starvation, and debated whether they should die where they were, or yield themselves up to their enemies. wretched as their condition was, however, it was not so bad as that of their domestics, owen and chambers, whose wants had not been so carefully attended to, and who were now reduced to the most deplorable state. nor were their friends less uneasy. aware that the captives, whom there was no means of relieving, for the searchers were constantly on the watch, could not hold out much longer, mrs. abingdon consulted with her husband whether it would not be better to reveal their hiding-places; but this he would not permit. by this time, every secret chamber, vault, and passage in the place, except the actual retreats of the conspirators, had been discovered by topcliffe, and though nothing material was found, he felt assured, from the uneasiness displayed by mr. abingdon and his wife, and above all by anne vaux, that it could not be long before his perseverance was rewarded. though he narrowly watched the two ladies, from the first, he could never detect them in the act of conveying food to the captives; but feeling convinced that they did so, he determined to remove them to a different part of the house, and their unwillingness to obey the order confirmed his suspicions. "we are sure of our prey now," he observed to sir henry bromley. "they must be half-starved by this time, and will speedily surrender themselves." "pray heaven they do so!" returned the other. "i am wearied to death with my long stay here." "have a few hours' patience," rejoined topcliffe, "and you will find that your time has not been thrown away." and he was right. soon after midnight, a trooper, who was watching in the gallery, beheld two spectral-looking figures approach him, and appalled by their ghastly appearance, uttered a loud cry. this brought topcliffe, who was in the hall below, to his aid, and instantly perceiving what was the matter, he ran towards the supposed phantoms, and seized them. the poor wretches, who were no other than owen and chambers, and were well-nigh famished, offered no resistance, but would neither confess where they had been hidden, nor who they were. as the trooper had not seen them come forth, though he affirmed with a tremendous oath that they had issued from the floor, the walls were again sounded, but with no result. food being placed before the captives, they devoured it voraciously; but topcliffe forbore to question them further that night, feeling confident that he could extract the truth from them on the morrow, either by promises or threats. he was however, mistaken. they continued as obstinate as before, and when confronted with mr. abingdon, denied all knowledge of him: neither would they explain how they got into the house. sir henry bromley, however, now considered himself justified in placing mr. abingdon and his lady under arrest, and topcliffe redoubled his exertions to discover the hiding-place of the two priests. he examined every part of the gallery most carefully,--took down one of the chimney-pieces, (singularly enough, it was the wrong one,) but was still unable to discover their retreat. meanwhile, the poor wretches inside found it impossible to endure their condition longer. anything seemed preferable to the lingering and agonizing death they were now enduring, and they resolved to delay their surrender no longer. had they been able to hold out a few hours more, they would have escaped; for sir henry bromley was so fatigued with the search, and so satisfied that nothing further would come of it, that he resolved, notwithstanding topcliffe's efforts to dissuade him, to depart on the morrow. of this they were ignorant, and having come to the determination to surrender, garnet opened the entrance to the chimney, and hearing voices below, and being too feeble to get out unassisted, he called to the speakers for aid. his voice was so hollow, and had such a sepulchral sound, that those who heard it stared at each other in astonishment and affright. "who calls?" cried one of the troopers, after a pause. "one of those you seek," replied garnet. "come and help us forth." upon hearing this, and ascertaining whence the voice came from, one of the men ran to fetch sir henry bromley and topcliffe, both of whom joyfully obeyed the summons. "is it possible they can be in the chimney?" cried topcliffe. "why, i myself have examined it twice." "we are here, nevertheless," replied garnet, who heard the remark; "and if you would take us alive, lose no time." the hint was not lost upon topcliffe. casting a triumphant look at bromley, he seized a torch from one of his attendants, and getting into the chimney, soon perceived the entrance to the recess. on beholding his prey, he uttered an exclamation of joy, and the two miserable captives, seeing the savage and exulting grin that lighted up his features, half repented the step they had taken. it was now, however, too late, and garnet begged him to help them out. "that i will readily do, father," replied topcliffe. "you have given us a world of trouble. but you have made ample amends for it now." "had we been so minded, you would never have found us," rejoined garnet. "this cell would have been our sepulchre." "no doubt," retorted topcliffe, with a bitter laugh. "but a death on the scaffold is preferable to the horrors of starvation." finding it impossible to remove garnet, whose limbs were so cramped that they refused their office, he called to the troopers below to bring a ladder, which was placed in the chimney, and then, with some exertion, he succeeded in getting him down. this done, he supported him towards sir henry bromley, who was standing near a small table in the gallery. [illustration: _the discovery of garnet and oldcorne at hendlip_] "i told you your time would not be thrown away, sir henry," he observed; "here is father garnet. it is well you yielded yourself to-night, father," he added, to garnet, with his customary cynical chuckle; "for sir henry had resolved to depart to-morrow." "indeed!" groaned garnet. "help me to a chair." while this was passing, oldcorne was brought down by two of the troopers, and the unfortunate priests were conveyed to an adjoining chamber, where they were placed in a bed, their stiffened limbs chafed, and cordials administered to them. they were reduced, however, to such extremity of weakness, that it was not judged prudent to remove them till the third day, when they, together with their two servants, owen and chambers, who were as much enfeebled as themselves, were conveyed to worcester. chapter ix. whitehall. such was the expedition used by humphrey chetham and viviana, that they accomplished the journey to london in an extraordinarily short space of time. proceeding direct to whitehall, viviana placed a letter in the hands of a halberdier, and desired that it might be given without delay to the earl of salisbury. after some demur, the man handed it to an usher, who promised to lay it before the earl. some time elapsed before the result of its reception was known, when an officer, accompanied by two sergeants of the guard, made his appearance, and commanded viviana and her companion to follow him. crossing a wide hall, which was filled with the various retainers of the palace, who regarded them with a sort of listless curiosity, and ascending a flight of marble steps, they traversed a long corridor, and were at length ushered into the presence of the earl of salisbury. he was seated at a table, covered with a multitude of papers, and was busily employed in writing a despatch, but immediately stopped on their entrance. he was not alone. his companion was a middle-aged man, attired in a suit of black velvet, with a cloak of the same material; but as he sat with his back towards the door, it was impossible to discern his features. "you may leave us," said salisbury to the officer, "but remain without." "and be ready to enter at a moment's notice," added his companion, without altering his position. the officer bowed, and retired with his followers. "your surrender of yourself at this time, viviana radcliffe," said the earl, "weighs much in your favour; and if you are disposed freely to declare all you know of the conspiracy, it is not impossible that the king may extend his mercy towards you." "i do not desire it, my lord," she replied. "in surrendering myself, i have no other aim than to satisfy the laws i have outraged. i do not seek to defend myself, but i desire to offer an explanation to your lordship. circumstances, which it is needless to detail, drew me into connexion with the conspirators, and i became unwillingly the depositary of their dark design." "you were guilty of misprision of treason in not revealing it," remarked the earl. "i am aware of it," she rejoined; "but this, i take heaven to witness, is the extent of my criminality. i held the project in the utmost abhorrence, and used every argument i was mistress of to induce its contrivers to abandon it." "if such were the case," demanded the earl, "what withheld you from disclosing it?" "i will now confess what torture could not wring from me before," she replied. "i was restrained from the disclosure by a fatal passion." "i suspected as much," observed the earl, with a sneer. "for whom?" "for guy fawkes," returned viviana. "god's mercy! guy fawkes!" ejaculated the earl's companion, starting to his feet. and turning as he spoke, and facing her, he disclosed heavy but not unintellectual features, now charged with an expression of the utmost astonishment. "did you say guy fawkes, mistress?" "it is the king," whispered humphrey chetham. "since i know in whose presence i stand, sire," replied viviana, "i will answer the interrogation. guy fawkes was the cause of my concealing my acquaintance with the plot. and more, i will confess to your majesty, that much as i abhor the design, if he had not been a conspirator, i should never have loved him. his sombre and enthusiastic character first gave him an interest in my eyes, which, heightened by several important services which he rendered me, soon ripened into love. linked to his fortunes, shrouded by the same gloomy cloud that enveloped him, and bound by a chain from which i could not extricate myself, i gave him my hand. but the moment of our union was the moment of our separation. we have not met since, and shall meet no more, unless to part for ever." "a strange history!" exclaimed james, in a tone that showed he was not unmoved by the relation. "i beseech your majesty to grant me one boon," cried viviana, falling at his feet. "it is to be allowed a single interview with my husband--not for the sad gratification of beholding him again--not for the indulgence of my private sorrows--but that i may endeavour to awaken a feeling of repentance in his breast, and be the means of saving his soul alive." "my inclinations prompt me to grant the request, salisbury," said the king, irresolutely. "there can be no risk in doing it--eh?" "not under certain restrictions, my liege," replied the earl. "you shall have your wish, then, mistress," said james, "and i trust your efforts may be crowned with success. your husband is a hardy traitor--a second jacques clement--and we never think of him without the floor shaking beneath our feet, and a horrible smell of gunpowder assailing our nostrils. blessed be god for our preservation! but whom have we here?" he added, turning to humphrey chetham. "another conspirator come to surrender himself?" "no, my liege," replied chetham; "i am a loyal subject of your majesty, and a stanch protestant." "if we may take your word for it, doubtless," replied the king, with an incredulous look. "but how come you in this lady's company?" "i will hide nothing from your majesty," replied chetham. "long before viviana's unhappy acquaintance with fawkes--for such i must ever consider it--my affections had been fixed upon her, and i fondly trusted she would not prove indifferent to my suit. even now, sire, when all hope is dead within me, i have not been able to overcome my passion, but love her as devotedly as ever. when, therefore, she desired my escort to london to surrender herself, i could not refuse the request." "it is the truth, my liege," added viviana. "i owe humphrey chetham (for so this gentleman is named) an endless debt of gratitude; and not the least of my present distresses is the thought of the affliction i have occasioned him." "dismiss it from your mind, then, viviana," rejoined chetham. "it will not mitigate my sorrows to feel that i have added to yours." "your manner and looks seem to give a warranty for loyalty, young sir," said the king. "but i must have some assurance of the truth of your statement before you are set at large." "i am your willing prisoner, my liege," returned chetham. "but i have a letter for the earl of salisbury, which may vouch perhaps for me." and as he spoke, he placed a letter in the earl's hands, who broke open the seal, and hastily glanced at its contents. "it is from doctor dee," he said, "from whom, as your majesty is aware, we have received much important information relative to this atrocious design. he answers for this young man's loyalty." "i am glad to hear it," rejoined the king. "it would have been mortifying to be deceived by so honest a physiognomy." "your majesty will be pleased to attach your signature to this warrant for viviana radcliffe's committal to the tower," said salisbury, placing a paper before him. james complied, and the earl summoned the guard. "have i your majesty's permission to attend this unfortunate lady to the fortress?" cried chetham, prostrating himself before the king. james hesitated, but glancing at the earl, and reading no objection in his looks, he assented. whispering some private instructions to the officer respecting chetham, salisbury delivered the warrant to him. viviana and her companion were then removed to a small chamber adjoining the guard-room, where they remained for nearly an hour, at the expiration of which time the officer again appeared, and conducted them to the palace-stairs, where a large wherry awaited them, in which they embarked. james did not remain long with his councillor, and as soon as he had retired, salisbury summoned a confidential attendant, and told him to acquaint lord mounteagle, who was in an adjoining apartment, that he was now able to receive him. the attendant departed, and presently returned with the nobleman in question. as soon as they were alone, and salisbury had satisfied himself they could not be overheard, he observed to the other, "since tresham's committal to the tower yesterday, i have received a letter from the lieutenant, stating that he breathes nothing but revenge against yourself and me, and threatens to betray us, if he is not released. it will not do to let him be examined by the council; for though we can throw utter discredit on his statement, it may be prejudicial to my future designs." "true, my lord," replied mounteagle. "but how do you propose to silence him?" "by poison," returned salisbury. "there is a trusty fellow in the tower, a jailer named ipgreve, who will administer it to him. here is the powder," he added, unlocking a coffer, and taking out a small packet; "it was given me by its compounder, doctor dee. it is the same, i am assured, as the celebrated italian poison prepared by pope alexander the sixth; is without scent or taste; and destroys its victim without leaving a trace of its effects." "i must take heed how i offend your lordship," observed mounteagle. "nay," rejoined salisbury, with a ghastly smile, "it is for traitors like tresham, not true men like you, to fear me." "i understand the distinction, my lord," replied the other. "i must intrust the entire management of this affair to you," pursued salisbury. "to me!" exclaimed mounteagle. "tresham is my brother-in-law. i can take no part in his murder." "if he lives, you are ruined," rejoined salisbury, coldly. "you must sacrifice him or yourself. but i see you are reasonable. take this powder, and proceed to the tower. see ipgreve alone, and instruct him to drug tresham's wine with it. a hundred marks shall be his reward when the deed is done." "my soul revolts from the deed," said mounteagle, as he took the packet. "is there no other way of silencing him?" "none whatever," replied salisbury, sternly. "his blood be upon his own head." with this, mounteagle took his departure. chapter x. the parting of viviana and humphrey chetham. humphrey chetham was so oppressed by the idea of parting with viviana, that he did not utter a single word during their transit to the tower. passing beneath the gloomy archway of traitors' gate, they mounted the fatal steps, and were conducted to the guard-room near the by-ward tower. the officer then despatched one of the warders to inform the lieutenant of viviana's arrival, and telling humphrey chetham he would allow him a few minutes to take leave of her, considerately withdrew, and left them alone together. "oh! viviana!" exclaimed chetham, unable to repress his grief, "my heart bleeds to see you here. if you repent the step you have taken, and desire freedom, say so, and i will use every effort to liberate you. i have been successful once, and may be so again." "i thank you for your devotion," she replied, in a tone of profound gratitude; "but you have rendered me the last service i shall ever require of you. i deeply deplore the misery i have occasioned you, and regret my inability to requite your attachment as it deserves to be requited. my last prayers shall be for your happiness; and i trust you will meet with some being worthy of you, and who will make amends for my insensibility." "be not deceived, viviana," replied chetham, in a broken voice; "i shall never love again. your image is too deeply imprinted upon my heart ever to be effaced." "time may work a change," she rejoined; "though i ought not to say so, for i feel it would work none in me. suffer me to give you one piece of counsel. devote yourself resolutely to the business of life, and you will speedily regain your peace of mind." "i will follow your instructions implicitly," replied chetham; "but have little hope of the result you promise me." "let the effort be made," she rejoined;--"and now promise me to quit london to-morrow. return to your native town, employ yourself in your former occupations; and strive not to think of the past, except as a troubled dream from which you have fortunately awakened. do not let us prolong our parting, or your resolution may waver. farewell!" so saying, she extended her hand towards him, and he pressed it passionately to his lips. "farewell, viviana!" he cried, with a look of unutterable anguish. "may heaven support you in your trials!" "one of them i am now enduring," she replied, in a broken voice. "farewell for ever, and may all good angels bless you!" at this moment, the officer appeared, and announcing the approach of the lieutenant, told chetham that his time had expired. without hazarding another look at viviana, the young merchant tore himself away, and followed the officer out of the tower. obedient to viviana's last request, he quitted london on the following day, and acting upon her advice, devoted himself on his return to manchester sedulously to his mercantile pursuits. his perseverance and integrity were crowned with entire success, and he became in due season the wealthiest merchant of the town. but the blighting of his early affections tinged his whole life, and gave a melancholy to his thoughts and an austerity to his manner originally foreign to them. true to his promise, he died unmarried. his long and worthy career was marked by actions of the greatest benevolence. in proportion as his means increased, his charities were extended, and he truly became "a father to the fatherless and the destitute." to him the town of manchester is indebted for the noble library and hospital bearing his name; and for these admirable institutions by which they so largely benefit, his memory must ever be held in veneration by its inhabitants. chapter xi. the subterranean dungeon. regarding viviana with a smile of savage satisfaction, sir william waad commanded jasper ipgreve, who accompanied him, to convey her to one of the subterranean dungeons below the devereux tower. "she cannot escape thence without your connivance," he said; "and you shall answer to me for her safe custody with your life." "if she escapes again, your worship shall hang me in her stead," rejoined ipgreve. "my instructions from the earl of salisbury state that it is the king's pleasure that she be allowed a short interview with guy fawkes," said the lieutenant, in a low tone. "let her be taken to his cell to-morrow." the jailer bowed, and motioning the guard to follow him with viviana, he led the way along the inner ward till he arrived at a small strong door in the wall a little to the north of the beauchamp tower, which he unlocked, and descended into a low cavernous-looking vault. striking a light, and setting fire to a torch, he then led the way along a narrow gloomy passage, which brought them to a circular chamber, from which other passages diverged, and selecting one of them, threaded it till he came to the door of a cell. "here is your dungeon," he said to viviana, as he drew back the heavy bolts, and disclosed a small chamber, about four feet wide and six long, in which there was a pallet. "my dame will attend you soon." with this, he lighted a lamp, and departing with the guard, barred the door outside. viviana shuddered as she surveyed the narrow dungeon in which she was placed. roof, walls, and floor were of stone; and the aspect of the place was so dismal and tomb-like, that she felt as if she were buried alive. some hours elapsed before dame ipgreve made her appearance. she was accompanied by ruth, who burst into tears on beholding viviana. the jailer's wife had brought a few blankets and other necessaries with her, together with a loaf of bread and a jug of water. while disposing the blankets on the couch, she never ceased upbraiding viviana for her former flight. poor ruth, who was compelled to assist her mother, endeavoured by her gestures and looks to convey to the unfortunate captive that she was as much devoted to her as ever. their task completed, the old woman withdrew, and her daughter, casting a deeply-commiserating look at viviana, followed her, and the door was barred without. determined not to yield to despondency, viviana knelt down, and addressed herself to heaven; and, comforted by her prayers, threw herself on the bed, and sank into a peaceful slumber. she was awakened by hearing the bolts of her cell withdrawn, and the next moment ruth stood before her. "i fear you have exposed yourself to great risk in thus visiting me," said viviana, tenderly embracing her. "i would expose myself to any risk for you, sweet lady," replied ruth. "but, oh! why do i see you here again? the chief support of guy fawkes during his sufferings has been the thought that you were at liberty." "i surrendered myself in the hope of beholding him again," rejoined viviana. "you have given a fond, but fatal proof of your affection," returned ruth. "the knowledge that you are a captive will afflict him more than all the torments he has endured." "what torments _has_ he endured, ruth?" inquired viviana with a look of anguish. "do not ask me to repeat them," replied the jailer's daughter. "they are too dreadful to relate. when you behold his shattered frame and altered looks, you will comprehend what he has undergone." "alas!" exclaimed viviana, bursting into tears, "i almost fear to behold him." "you must prepare for a fearful shock," returned ruth. "and now, madam, i must take my leave. i will endeavour to see you again to-morrow, but dare not promise to do so. i should not have been able to visit you now, but that my father is engaged with lord mounteagle." "with lord mounteagle!" cried viviana. "upon what business? "upon a foul business," rejoined ruth. "no less than the destruction of mr. tresham, who is now a prisoner in the tower. lord mounteagle came to the well tower this evening, and i accidentally overheard him propose to my father to administer poison to the person i have named." "i do not pity their victim," returned viviana. "he is a double-dyed traitor, and will meet with the fate he deserves." "farewell, madam," said ruth. "if i do not see you again, you will know that you have one friend in this fortress who deeply sympathizes with your afflictions." so saying, she withdrew, and viviana heard the bolts slipped gently into their sockets. vainly, after ruth's visit, did she try to compose herself. sleep fled her eyes, and she was haunted all night by the image of fawkes, haggard and shattered by torture, as he had been described by the jailer's daughter. day and night were the same to her, and she could only compute progress of the time by her own feelings, judging by which, she supposed it to be late in the day when she was again visited. the bolts of her cell being withdrawn, two men clad in long black gowns, and having hoods drawn over their faces, entered it. they were followed by ipgreve; and viviana, concluding she was about to be led to the torture, endeavoured to string herself to its endurance. though he guessed what was passing in her breast, jasper ipgreve did not care to undeceive her, but motioning the hooded officials to follow him with her, quitted the cell. seizing each a hand, the attendants led her after him along a number of intricate passages, until he stopped before the door of a cell, which he opened. "be brief in what you have to say," he cried, thrusting her forward. "i shall not allow you much time." viviana no sooner set foot in the cell than she felt in whose presence she stood. on a stool at the further end of the narrow chamber, with his head upon his breast, and a cloak wrapped around his limbs, sat fawkes. a small iron lamp, suspended by a rusty chain from the ceiling, served to illumine his ghastly features. he lifted his eyes from the ground on her entrance, and recognising her, uttered a cry of anguish. raising himself by a great effort, he opened his arms, and she rushed into them. for some moments, both continued silent. grief took away their utterance; but at length, guy fawkes spoke. "my cup of bitterness was not sufficiently full," he said. "this alone was wanting to make it overflow." "i fear you will blame me," she replied, "when you learn that i have voluntarily surrendered myself." guy fawkes uttered a deep groan. "i am the cause of your doing so," he said. "you are so," she replied. "but you will forgive me when you know my motive. i came here to urge you to repentance. oh! if you hope that we shall meet again hereafter--if you hope that we shall inherit joys which will requite us for all our troubles, you will employ the brief time left you on earth in imploring forgiveness for your evil intentions." "having had no evil intentions," replied fawkes, coldly, "i have no pardon to ask." "the tempter who led you into the commission of sin under the semblance of righteousness, puts these thoughts into your heart," replied viviana. "you have escaped the commission of an offence which must have deprived you of the joys of heaven, and i am thankful for it. but if you remain impenitent, i shall tremble for your salvation." "my account will soon be settled with my maker," rejoined fawkes; "and he will punish or reward me according to my deserts. i have acted according to my conscience, and can never repent that which i believe to be a righteous design." "but do you not now see that you were mistaken," returned viviana,--"do you not perceive that the sword which you raised against others has been turned against yourself,--and that the great power whom you serve and worship has declared himself against you?" "you seek in vain to move me," replied fawkes. "i am as insensible to your arguments as to the tortures of my enemies." "then heaven have mercy upon your soul!" she rejoined. "look at me, viviana," cried fawkes, "and behold the wreck i am. what has supported me amid my tortures--in this dungeon--in the presence of my relentless foes?--what, but the consciousness of having acted rightly? and what will support me on the scaffold except the same conviction? if you love me, do not seek to shake my faith! but it is idle to talk thus. you cannot do so. rest satisfied we shall meet again. everything assures me of it. wretched as i appear in this solitary cell, i am not wholly miserable, because i am buoyed up by the certainty that my actions are approved by heaven." "i will not attempt to destroy the delusion, since it is productive of happiness to you," replied viviana. "but if my earnest, heartfelt prayers can conduce to your salvation, they shall not be wanting." as she spoke, the door of the cell was opened by jasper ipgreve, who stepped towards her, and seized her roughly by the hand. "your time has expired, mistress," he said; "you must come with me." "a minute longer," implored fawkes. "not a second," replied ipgreve. "shall we not meet again?" cried viviana, distractedly. "ay, the day before your execution," rejoined ipgreve. "i have good news for you," he added, pausing for a moment, and addressing fawkes. "mr. tresham, who i told you has been brought to the tower, has been taken suddenly and dangerously ill." "if the traitor perishes before me, i shall die content," observed fawkes. "then rest assured of it," said viviana. "the task of vengeance is already fulfilled." she was then forced away by ipgreve, and delivered by him to the hooded officials outside, who hurried her back to her dungeon. chapter xii. the traitor betrayed. lord mounteagle arrived at the tower shortly after viviana, and repairing at once to the lieutenant's lodgings, had a brief conference with him, and informed him that he had a secret order to deliver to jasper ipgreve, from the earl of salisbury, touching the conspirators. sir william waad would have summoned the jailer; but mounteagle preferred visiting him at the well tower, and accordingly proceeded thither. he found ipgreve with his wife and daughter, and telling him he desired a moment's private speech with him, the jailer dismissed them. suspecting that the new-comer's errand related in some way to viviana, ruth contrived to place herself in such a situation that she could overhear what passed. a moment's scrutiny of jasper's villanous countenance satisfied mounteagle that the earl of salisbury was not mistaken in his man; and, as soon as he supposed they were alone, he unhesitatingly opened his plan to him. as he expected, jasper exhibited no reluctance to undertake it; and, after some further discussion, it was agreed to put it in execution without delay. "the sooner mr. tresham is silenced the better," said jasper; "for he threatens to make disclosures to the council that will bring some noble persons," with a significant look at mounteagle, "into trouble." "where is he confined?" demanded the other. "in the beauchamp tower," replied ipgreve. "i will visit him at once," said mounteagle; "and when i have conferred with him, will call for wine. bring two goblets, and in that which you give to tresham place this powder." ipgreve nodded assent, and with a grim smile took the packet. shortly after this, they quitted the well tower together, and passing under the archway of the bloody tower, crossed the green, and entered the fortification in which the traitor was confined. tresham was treated with far greater consideration than the other conspirators, being allowed the use of the large room on the upper floor of the beauchamp tower, which was seldom allotted to any persons except those of the highest distinction. when they entered, he was pacing to and fro within his chamber in great agitation; but he immediately stopped on seeing mounteagle, and rushed towards him. "you bring me my liberation?" he said. "it is impossible to effect it at present," returned the other. "but make yourself perfectly easy. your confinement will not be of long duration." "i will not be trifled with," cried tresham, furiously. "if i am examined by the council, look to yourselves. as i hope for salvation, the truth shall out." "leave us," said mounteagle, with a significant look at the jailer, who quitted the chamber. "hark'e, mounteagle," said tresham, as soon as they were alone, "i have been your tool thus far. but if you propose to lead me blindfold to the scaffold, you are greatly mistaken. you think that you have me safe within these walls; that my voice cannot be heard; and that i cannot betray you. but you are deceived--fearfully deceived, as you will find. i have your letters--the earl of salisbury's letters, proving that you were both aware of the plot--and that you employed me to watch its progress, and report it to you. i have also letters from doctor dee, the warden of manchester, detailing his acquaintance with the conspiracy, and containing descriptions of the persons of fawkes and catesby, which i showed to the earl of salisbury.--these letters are now in my possession, and i will deliver them to the council, if i am not released." "deliver them to me, and i swear to you, you shall be set free," said mounteagle. "i will not trust you," rejoined tresham. "liberate me, and they are yours. but i will not rob myself of vengeance. i will confound you and the false earl of salisbury." "you wrong us both by your unjust suspicions," said mounteagle. "wrong you!" echoed tresham, contemptuously. "where is my promised reward? why am i in this dungeon? why am i treated like a traitor? if you meant me fairly, i should not be here, but like yourself at liberty, and in the enjoyment of the king's favour. but you have duped me, villain, and shall rue it. if i am led to the scaffold, it shall be in your company." "compose yourself," rejoined mounteagle, calmly. "appearances, i own, are against us. but circumstances render it imperatively necessary that the earl of salisbury should appear to act against you. you have been charged by guy fawkes, when under the torture, of being a confederate in the design, and your arrest could not be avoided. i am come hither to give you a solemn assurance that no harm shall befal you, but that you shall be delivered from your thraldom in a few days--perhaps in a few hours." "you have no further design against me," said tresham, suspiciously. "what motive could i have in coming hither, except to set your mind at rest?" rejoined mounteagle. "and i shall receive my reward?" demanded tresham. "you will receive your reward," returned mounteagle, with significant emphasis. "i swear it. so make yourself easy." "if i thought i might trust you, i should not heed my imprisonment, irksome though it be," rejoined tresham. "it cannot be avoided, for the reasons i have just stated," replied mounteagle. "but come, no more despondency. all will be well with you speedily. let us drown care in a bumper. what ho! jailer," he added, opening the door, "a cup of wine!" in a few minutes, ipgreve made his appearance, bearing two goblets filled with wine on a salver, one of which he presented to mounteagle, and the other to tresham. "here is to your speedy deliverance from captivity!" said mounteagle, draining the goblet. "you will not refuse that pledge, tresham?" "of a surety not," replied the other. "to my speedy deliverance!" and he emptied the cup, while mounteagle and the jailer exchanged significant glances. "and now, having fully discharged my errand, i must bid you farewell," said mounteagle. "you will not forget your promise?" observed tresham. "assuredly not," replied the other. "a week hence, and you will make no complaint against me.--are you sure you did not give me the wrong goblet?" he added to ipgreve, as they descended the spiral staircase. "quite sure, my lord," returned the jailer, with a grim smile. mounteagle immediately quitted the tower, and hastening to whitehall, sought out the earl of salisbury, to whom he related what he had done. the earl complimented him on his skilful management of the matter; and congratulating each other upon having got rid of a dangerous and now useless instrument, they separated. on the following day, tresham was seized with a sudden illness, and making known his symptoms to ipgreve, the chirurgeon who attended the prison was sent for, and on seeing him, pronounced him dangerously ill, though he was at a loss to explain the nature of his disorder. every hour the sick man grew worse, and he was torn with racking pains. connecting his sudden seizure with the visit of lord mounteagle, an idea of the truth flashed upon him, and he mentioned his suspicions to the chirurgeon, charging jasper ipgreve with being accessory to the deed. the jailer stoutly denied the accusation, and charged the prisoner in his turn with making a malicious statement to bring him into discredit. "i will soon test the truth of his assertion," observed the chirurgeon, taking a small flat piece of the purest gold from his doublet. "place this in your mouth." tresham obeyed, and ipgreve watched the experiment with gloomy curiosity. "you are a dead man," said the chirurgeon to tresham, as he drew forth the piece of gold, and perceived that it was slightly tarnished. "poison _has_ been administered to you." "is there no remedy--no counter-poison?" demanded tresham, eagerly. the chirurgeon shook his head. "then let the lieutenant be summoned," said tresham; "i have an important confession to make to him. i charge this man," pointing to the jailer, "with giving poisoned wine to me. do you hear what i say to you?" "i do," replied the chirurgeon. "but he will never reveal it," said ipgreve, with great unconcern. "i have a warrant from the earl of salisbury for what i have done." "what!" cried tresham, "can murder be committed here with impunity?" "you have to thank your own indiscretion for what has happened," rejoined ipgreve. "had you kept a close tongue in your head, you would have been safe." "can nothing be done to save me?" cried the miserable man, with an imploring look at the chirurgeon. "nothing whatever," replied the person appealed to. "i would advise you to recommend your soul to god." "will you not inform the lieutenant that i desire to speak with him?" demanded tresham. the chirurgeon glanced at ipgreve, and receiving a sign from him, gave a promise to that effect. they then quitted the cell together, leaving tresham in a state of indescribable agony both of mind and body. half an hour afterwards, the chirurgeon returned, and informed him that the lieutenant refused to visit him, or to hear his confession, and wholly discredited the fact of his being poisoned. "i will take charge of your papers, if you choose to commit them to me," he said, "and will lay them before the council." "no," replied tresham; "while life remains to me i will never part with them." "i have brought you a mixture which, though it cannot heal you, will, at least, allay your sufferings," said the chirurgeon. "i will not take it," groaned tresham. "i distrust you as much as the others." "i will leave it with you, at all events," rejoined the chirurgeon, setting down the phial. the noise of the bolts shot into their sockets sounded to tresham as if his tomb were closed upon him, and he uttered a cry of anguish. he would have laid violent hands upon himself, and accelerated his own end, but he wanted courage to do so, and continued to pace backwards and forwards across his chamber as long as his strength lasted. he was about to throw himself on the couch, from which he never expected to rise again, when his eyes fell upon the phial. "what if it should be poison!" he said, "it will end my sufferings the sooner." and placing it to his lips, he swallowed its contents. as the chirurgeon had foretold, it alleviated his sufferings, and throwing himself on the bed he sank into a troubled slumber, during which he dreamed that catesby appeared to him with a vengeful countenance, and tried to drag him into a fathomless abyss that yawned beneath their feet. shrieking with agony, he awoke, and found two persons standing by his couch. one of them was the jailer, and the other appeared, from his garb, to be a priest; but a hood was drawn over his head so as to conceal his features. "are you come to witness my dying pangs, or to finish me?" demanded tresham of the jailer. "i am come for neither purpose," replied ipgreve; "i pity your condition, and have brought you a priest of your own faith, who, like yourself, is a prisoner in the tower. i will leave him with you, but he cannot remain long, so make the most of your time." and with these words, he retired. when he was gone, the supposed priest, who spoke in feeble and faltering accents, desired to hear tresham's confession, and having listened to it, gave him absolution. the wretched man then drew from his bosom a small packet, and offered it to the confessor, who eagerly received it. "this contains the letters of the earl of salisbury and lord mounteagle, which i have just mentioned," he said. "i pray you lay them before the privy council." "i will not fail to do so," replied the confessor. and reciting the prayer for one _in extremis_ over the dying man, he departed. "i have obtained the letters from him," said mounteagle, throwing back his hood as he quitted the chamber, and addressing the jailer. "and now you need give yourself no further concern about him, he will be dead before morning." jasper ipgreve locked the door upon the prisoner, and proceeded to the well tower. when he returned, he found mounteagle's words had come to pass. tresham was lying on the floor quite dead--his collapsed frame and distorted countenance showing the agonies in which he must have expired. chapter xiii. the trial. the trial of the conspirators, which had been delayed in order that full evidence might be procured against them, was, at length, appointed to take place in westminster hall, on monday, the th of january, . early on the morning of this day, the eight surviving confederates (garnet and oldcorne being at this time secreted at hendlip) were conveyed in two large covered wherries from the fortress to the place of trial. in spite of the severity of the weather,--it was snowing heavily, and the river was covered with sheets of ice,--they were attended by a vast number of boats filled with persons anxious to obtain a sight of them. such was the abhorrence in which the actors in the conspiracy were held by the populace, that, not content with menaces and execrations, many of these persons hurled missiles against the wherries, and would have proceeded to further violence if they had not been restrained by the pikemen. when the prisoners landed, a tremendous and fearful shout was raised by the mob stationed at the head of the stairs, and it required the utmost efforts of the guard to protect them from injury. two lines of soldiers, with calivers on their shoulders, were drawn out from the banks of the river to the entrance of the hall, and between them the conspirators marched. the melancholy procession was headed by sir william waad, who was followed by an officer of the guard and six halberdiers. then came the executioner, carrying the gleaming implement of death with its edge turned from the prisoners. he was followed by sir everard digby, whose noble figure and handsome countenance excited much sympathy among the beholders, and ambrose rookwood. next came the two winters, both of whom appeared greatly dejected. next, john grant and robert bates,--catesby's servant, who had been captured at holbeach. and lastly, keyes and fawkes. bitterly and justly incensed as were the multitude against the conspirators, their feelings underwent some change as they beheld the haggard countenance and shattered frame of guy fawkes. it was soon understood that he was the individual who had been found in the vault near the parliament house, with the touchwood and matches in his belt ready to fire the train; and the greatest curiosity was exhibited to see him. just as the foremost of the conspirators reached the entrance of the hall, a terrific yell, resembling nothing human, except the roar of a thousand tigers thirsting for blood, was uttered by the mob, and a tremendous but ineffectual attempt was made to break through the lines of the guard. never before had so large an assemblage been collected on the spot. the whole of the space extending on one hand from westminster hall to the gates of whitehall, and on the other to the abbey, was filled with spectators; and every roof, window, and buttress was occupied. nor was the interior of the hall less crowded. not an inch of room was unoccupied; and it was afterwards complained in parliament, that the members of the house had been so pressed and incommoded, that they could not hear what was said at the arraignment. the conspirators were first conveyed to the court of the star-chamber, where they remained till the lords commissioners had arrived, and taken their seats. the commissioners were the earl of nottingham, lord high admiral of england; the earl of suffolk, steward of the household; the earl of worcester, master of the horse; the earl of devonshire, master of the ordnance; the earl of northampton, warden of the cinque-ports; the earl of salisbury, principal secretary of state; sir john popham, lord chief justice; sir thomas fleming, lord chief baron of the exchequer; and sir thomas walmisley and sir peter warburton, knights, and both justices of the common pleas. summoned by an usher, the conspirators were conducted to a platform covered with black cloth, which had been erected at the lower end of the hall. a murmur of indignation, vainly sought to be repressed by the grave looks of the commissioners, burst from the immense assemblage, as they one by one ascended the steps of the platform. guy fawkes was the last to mount, and his appearance was followed by a deep groan. supporting himself against the rail of the scaffold, he surveyed the assemblage with a stern and undaunted look. as he gazed around, he could not help marvelling at the vast multitude before him. the whole of the peers and all the members of the house of commons were present, while in a box on the left, though screened by a lattice, sat the queen and prince henry; and in another on the right, and protected in the same way, the king and his courtiers. silence being peremptorily commanded, the indictment was read, wherein the prisoners were charged with conspiring to blow up the king and the peers with gunpowder, and with attempting to incite the papists, and other persons, to open rebellion; to which all the conspirators, to the no small surprise of those who heard them, and were aware that they had subscribed their confessions, pleaded not guilty. "how, sir!" cried the lord chief justice, in a stern tone to fawkes. "with what face can you pretend to deny the indictment, when you were actually taken in the cellar with the powder, and have already confessed your treasonable intentions?" "i do not mean to deny what i have confessed, my lord," replied fawkes. "but this indictment contains many matters which i neither can nor will countenance by assent or silence. and i therefore deny it." "it is well," replied the lord chief justice. "let the trial proceed." the indictment being opened by sir edward philips, sergeant-at-law, he was followed by sir edward coke, the attorney-general, who in an eloquent and elaborate speech, which produced an extraordinary effect upon the assemblage, expatiated upon the monstrous nature of the plot, which he characterised as "the greatest treason that ever was plotted in england, and against the greatest king that ever reigned in england;" and after narrating the origin and progress of the conspiracy, concluded by desiring that the confessions of the prisoners should be openly read. this done, the jury were ordered by the lord chief justice to retire, and the injunction being obeyed, they almost instantly returned with a verdict of guilty. a deep, dread silence then prevailed throughout the hall, and every eye was bent upon the conspirators, all of whom maintained a composed demeanour. they were then questioned by the lord chief justice whether they had anything to say why judgment of death should not be pronounced against them. "all i have to crave of your lordships," said thomas winter, "is, that being the chief offender of the two, i may die for my brother and myself." "and i ask only that my brother's request may not be granted," said robert winter. "if he is condemned, i do not desire to live." "i have nothing to solicit--not even pardon," said keyes, carelessly. "my fortunes were always desperate, and are better now than they have ever been." "i desire mercy," said rookwood, "not from any fear of death, but because so shameful an ending will leave a perpetual stain upon my name and blood. i humbly submit myself to the king, and pray him to imitate our supreme judge, who sometimes punishes corporally, but not mortally." "i have been guilty of a conspiracy, intended but never effected," said john grant, "and solicit forgiveness on that plea." "my crime has been fidelity to my master," said bates. "if the king will let me live, i will serve him as faithfully as i did mr. catesby." "i would not utter a word," said fawkes, looking sternly round; "if i did not fear my silence might be misinterpreted. i would not accept a pardon if it were offered me. i regard the project as a glorious one, and only lament its failure." "silence the vile traitor," said the earl of salisbury, rising. and as he spoke two halberdiers sprang up the steps of the scaffold, and placing themselves on either side of fawkes, prepared to gag him. "i have done," he said, contemptuously regarding them. "i have nothing to say save this," said sir everard digby, bowing to the judges. "if any of your lordships will tell me you forgive me, i shall go more cheerfully to the scaffold." "heaven forgive you, sir everard," said the earl of nottingham, returning his reverence, "as we do." "i humbly thank your lordship," replied digby. sentence was then passed upon the prisoners by lord chief justice popham, and they were removed from the platform. as they issued from the hall, and it became known to the assemblage without that they were condemned, a shout of fierce exultation rent the air, and they were so violently assailed on all sides, that they had great difficulty in reaching the wherries. the guard, however, succeeded, at length, in accomplishing their embarkation, and they were conveyed back in safety to the tower. chapter xiv. the last meeting of fawkes and viviana. up to this time, viviana had not been allowed another interview with guy fawkes. she was twice interrogated by the privy-council, but having confessed all she knew of the conspiracy, excepting what might implicate garnet and oldcorne, neither of whom she was aware had been apprehended, she was not again subjected to the torture. her health, however, rapidly sank under her confinement, and she was soon reduced to such an extreme state of debility that she could not leave her bed. the chirurgeon having been called in by dame ipgreve to attend her, reported her condition to sir william waad, who directed that every means should be adopted for her restoration, and that ruth ipgreve should remain in constant attendance upon her. ascertaining all particulars relative to guy fawkes from the jailer's daughter, it was a sad satisfaction to viviana to learn that he spent his whole time in devotion, and appeared completely resigned to his fate. it had been the earl of salisbury's purpose to bring viviana to trial at the same time as the rest of the conspirators, but the chirurgeon reporting that her removal at this juncture would be attended with fatal consequences, he was compelled to defer it. when the result of the trial was made known to viviana by ruth, though she had anticipated the condemnation of guy fawkes, she swooned away, and on her recovery, observed to ruth, who was greatly alarmed at her looks, "i feel i am going fast. i should wish to see my husband once more before i die." "i fear it is impossible, madam," replied ruth; "but i will try to accomplish it." "do so," rejoined viviana; "and my blessing shall rest ever on your head." "have you any valuable?" inquired ruth. "my heart bleeds to make the demand at such a moment. but it is the only way to produce an effect on the avaricious nature of my father." "i have nothing but this golden crucifix," said viviana; "and i meant to give it to you." "it will be better employed in this way," rejoined ruth, taking it from her. quitting the cell, she hurried to the well tower, and found her father, who had just returned from locking up the conspirators in their different dungeons, sitting down to his evening meal. "what is the matter with the wench?" he cried, staring at her. "you look quite distracted. is viviana radcliffe dead?" "no; but she is dying," replied ruth. "if that is the case i must go to her directly," observed dame ipgreve. "she may have some valuable about her which i must secure." "you will be disappointed, mother," rejoined ruth, with a look of irrepressible disgust. "she has nothing valuable left but this golden crucifix, which she has sent to my father, on condition of his allowing guy fawkes to see her before she dies." "give it me, wench," cried jasper ipgreve; "and let her die in peace." "she will _not_ die in peace unless she sees him," replied ruth. "nor shall you have it, if you do not comply with her request." "how!" exclaimed her father, "do you dare----" "think not to terrify me, father," interrupted ruth; "i am resolute in this. hear me," she cried, seizing his arm, and fixing a look upon him that seemed to pierce his soul,--"hear me," she said, in a tone so low as to be inaudible to her mother; "she _shall_ see him, or i will denounce you as the murderer of tresham. now will you comply?" "give me the cross," said ipgreve. "not till you have earned it," replied his daughter. "well, well," he rejoined; "if it must be, it must. but i may get into trouble in the matter. i must consult master forsett, the gentleman jailer, who has the charge of guy fawkes, before i dare take him to her cell." "consult whom you please," rejoined ruth, impatiently; "but lose no time, or you will be too late." muttering imprecations on his daughter, ipgreve left the well tower, and ruth hurried back to viviana, whom she found anxiously expecting her, and related to her what she had done. "oh, that i may hold out till he comes!" cried viviana; "but my strength is failing fast." ruth endeavoured to comfort her; but she was unequal to the effort, and bursting into tears, knelt down, and wept upon the pillow beside her. half an hour had now elapsed. it seemed an age to the poor sufferers, and still the jailer came not, and even ruth had given up all hope, when a heavy tread was heard in the passage; the door was opened; and guy fawkes appeared, attended by ipgreve and forsett. "we will not interrupt your parting," said forsett, who seemed to have a touch of humanity in his composition. and beckoning to ruth to follow him, he quitted the cell with ipgreve. guy fawkes, meanwhile, had approached the couch, and gazed with an expression of intense anguish at viviana. she returned his glance with a look of the utmost affection, and clasped his hand between her thin fingers. "i am now standing on the brink of eternity," she said in a solemn tone, "and i entreat you earnestly, as you hope to insure our meeting hereafter, to employ the few days left you in sincere and hearty repentance. you have sinned--sinned deeply, but not beyond the power of redemption. let me feel that i have saved you, and my last moments will be happy. oh! by the love i have borne you--by the pangs i have endured for you--by the death i am now dying for you--let me implore you not to lose one moment, but to supplicate a merciful providence to pardon your offence." [illustration: _death of viviana_] "i will--i will," rejoined fawkes, in broken accents. "you have opened my eyes to my error, and i sincerely repent it." "saved! saved!" cried viviana, raising herself in the bed. opening her arms, she strained him to her bosom; and for a few moments they mingled their tears together. "and now," she said, sinking backwards, "kneel by me--pray for forgiveness--pray audibly, and i will join in your prayer." guy fawkes knelt by the bedside, and addressed the most earnest supplications to heaven for forgiveness. for a while he heard viviana's gentle accents accompany him. they grew fainter and fainter, until at last they totally ceased. filled with a dreadful apprehension, he sprang to his feet. an angelic smile illumined her countenance; her gaze was fixed on him for one moment--it then grew dim and dimmer, until it was extinguished. guy fawkes uttered a cry of the wildest despair, and fell to the ground. alarmed by the sound, forsett and ipgreve, who were standing outside, rushed into the cell, and instantly raised him. but he was now in a state of distraction, and for the moment seemed endowed with all his former strength. striving to break from them, he cried, in a tone of the most piercing anguish, "you shall not tear me from her! i will die with her! let me go, i say, or i will dash out my brains against these flinty walls, and balk you of your prey." but his struggles were in vain. they held him fast, and calling for further assistance, conveyed him to his cell, where, fearing he might do some violence to himself, they placed him in irons. ruth entered the cell as soon as fawkes and the others had quitted it, and performed the last sad offices for the departed. alternately praying and weeping, she watched by the body during the whole of the night. on the following day, the remains of the unfortunate viviana were interred in the chapel of saint peter on the green, and the sole mourner was the jailer's daughter. "peace be with her!" cried ruth, as she turned away from the grave. "her sorrows at last are over." chapter xv. saint paul's churchyard. guy fawkes was for some time wholly inconsolable. his stoical nature seemed completely subdued, and he wept like an infant. by degrees, however, the violence of his grief abated, and calling to mind the last injunctions of her whose loss he mourned, he addressed himself to prayer, and acknowledging his guilt, besought her intercession with heaven for his forgiveness. it will not seem strange, when his superstitious character is taken into consideration, that he should fancy he received an immediate proof that his prayers were heard. to his excited imagination it appeared that a soft unearthly strain of music floated in the air over his head; that an odour like that of paradise filled his cell; while an invisible finger touched his brow. while in this entranced state, he was utterly insensible to his present miserable situation, and he seemed to have a foretaste of celestial happiness. he did not, however, desist from prayer, but continued his supplications throughout the day. on that night, he was visited by the lieutenant, who announced to him that the execution of four of the conspirators was fixed for thursday (it was then tuesday), while his own and that of the three others would not take place till the following day. "as you are the greatest traitor of all, your execution will be reserved to the last," pursued waad. "no part of the sentence will be omitted. you will be dragged to old palace yard, over against the scene of your intended bloody and damnable action, at a horse's tail, and will be there turned off the gallows, and hanged, _but not till you are dead_. you will then be embowelled; your vile heart, which conceived this atrocious design, will be torn beating from your breast; and your quarters will be placed on the palace gates as an abhorrent spectacle in the eyes of men, and a terrible proof of the king's just vengeance." guy fawkes heard the recapitulation of his dreadful sentence unmoved. "the sole mercy i would have craved of his majesty would have been permission to die first!" he said. "but heaven's will be done! i deserve my doom." "what! is your stubborn nature at length subdued?" cried the lieutenant in surprise. "do you repent of your offence?" "deeply and heartily," returned fawkes. "make the sole amends in your power for it, then, and disclose the names of all who have been connected with the atrocious design," rejoined waad. "i confess myself guilty," replied fawkes, humbly. "but i accuse no others." "then you die impenitent," rejoined the lieutenant, "and cannot hope for mercy hereafter." guy fawkes made no answer, but bowed his head upon his breast, and the lieutenant, darting a malignant look at him, quitted the cell. on the following day, the whole of the conspirators were taken to st. john's chapel, in the white tower, where a discourse was pronounced to them by doctor overall, dean of st. paul's, who enlarged upon the enormity of their offence, and exhorted them to repentance. the discourse over, they were about to be removed, when two ladies, clad in mourning habits, entered the chapel. these were lady digby and mrs. rookwood, and they immediately flew to their husbands. the rest of the conspirators walked away, and averted their gaze from the painful scene. after an ineffectual attempt to speak, lady digby swooned away, and was committed by her husband, while in a state of insensibility, to the care of an attendant. mrs. rookwood, however, who was a woman of high spirit, and great personal attractions, though the latter were now wasted by affliction, maintained her composure, and encouraging her husband to bear up manfully against his situation, tenderly embraced him, and withdrew. the conspirators were then taken back to their cells. at an early hour on the following morning the four miserable persons intended for death, namely, sir everard digby, the elder winter, john grant, and bates, were conducted to the beauchamp tower. bates would have stood aloof from his superiors; but sir everard digby took him kindly by the hand, and drew him towards them. "no distinctions must be observed now," he said. "we ought to beg pardon of thee, my poor fellow, for bringing thee into this strait." "think not of me, worshipful sir," replied bates. "i loved mr. catesby so well, that i would have laid down my life for him at any time; and i now die cheerfully in his cause." "mr. lieutenant," said robert winter to sir william waad, who stood near them with forsett and ipgreve, "i pray you commend me to my brother. tell him i die in entire love of him, and if it is possible for the departed to watch over the living, i will be with him at his last hour." at this moment, a trampling of horses was heard on the green, and the lieutenant proceeding to the grated window, saw four mounted troopers, each having a sledge and hurdle attached by ropes to his steed, drawn up before the door. while he was gazing at them, an officer entered the room, and informed him that all was in readiness. sir william waad then motioned the prisoners to follow him, and they descended the spiral staircase. the green was thronged with horse and foot soldiers, and as the conspirators issued from the arched door of the fortification, the bell of saint peter's chapel began to toll. sir everard digby was first bound to a hurdle, with his face towards the horse, and the others were quickly secured in the same manner. the melancholy cavalcade was then put in motion. a troop of horse-soldiers in their full accoutrements, and with calivers upon their shoulders, rode first; then came a band of halberdiers on foot; then the masked executioner mounted on a led horse, then the four prisoners on the hurdles, one after the other; then the lieutenant on horseback; while another band of horse-soldiers, equipped like the first, brought up the rear. they were met by the recorder of london, sir henry montague, and the sheriffs, at the gate of the middle tower, to the latter of whom the lieutenant, according to custom, delivered up the bodies of the prisoners. after a short delay, the train again set forward, and emerging from the bulwark gate, proceeded through an enormous concourse of spectators towards tower-street. aware that a vast crowd would be assembled in the city, and apprehensive of some popular tumult, the lord mayor had issued precepts to the aldermen of every ward, commanding them "to cause one able and sufficient person, with a halbert in his hand, to stand at the door of every dwelling-house in the open street in the way that the traitors were to be drawn towards the place of execution, there to remain from seven in the morning until the return of the sheriffs." but these were not the whole of the arrangements made to preserve order. the cavalcade, it was fixed, was to proceed along tower-street, gracechurch street, lombard-street, cheapside, and so on to the west end of saint paul's cathedral, where the scaffold was erected. along the whole road, on either side, a line of halberdiers was drawn up, while barriers were erected against the cross streets. nor were these precautions needless. such a vast concourse was collected, that nothing but the presence of a strong armed force could have prevented confusion and disorder. the roofs of all the houses, the towers of the churches, the steps of the crosses were covered with spectators, who groaned and hooted as the conspirators passed by. the scaffold, as has just been stated, was erected in front of the great western entrance of the cathedral. the mighty valves of the sacred structure were thrown open, and disclosed its columned aisles crowded with spectators, as was its roof and central tower. the great bell, which had begun to toll when the melancholy procession came in sight, continued to pour forth its lugubrious sounds during the whole of the ceremonial. the rolling of muffled drums was likewise heard above the tumultuous murmurs of the impatient multitude. the whole area from the cathedral to ludgate-hill was filled with spectators, but an open space was kept clear in front of the scaffold, in which the prisoners were one by one unbound from the hurdles. during this awful pause, they had sufficient time to note the whole of the dreadful preparations. at a little distance from them was a large fire, on which boiled a caldron of pitch, destined to receive their dismembered limbs. a tall gallows, approached by a double ladder, sprung from the scaffold, on which the hangman was already mounted with the rope in his hand. at the foot of the ladder was the quartering-block, near which stood the masked executioner with a chopper in his hand, and two large sharp knives in his girdle. his arms were bared to the shoulder; and a leathern apron, soiled by gory stains, and tied round his waist, completed his butcherly appearance. straw was scattered upon the scaffold near the block. sir everard digby was the first to receive the fatal summons. he mounted with a firm footstep, and his youth, his noble aspect, and undaunted demeanour, awakened, as before, the sympathy of the beholders. looking round, he thus addressed the assemblage:-- "good people, i am here about to die, ye well know for what cause. throughout the matter, i have acted according to the dictates of my conscience. they have led me to undertake this enterprise, which, in respect of my religion, i hold to be no offence, but in respect of the law a heinous offence, and i therefore ask forgiveness of god, of the king, and of the whole realm." crossing himself devoutly, he then knelt down, and recited his prayers in latin, after which he arose, and again looking round, said in an earnest voice, "i desire the prayers of all good catholics, and of none other." "then none will pray for you," replied several voices from the crowd. heedless of the retort, sir everard surrendered himself to the executioner's assistant, who divested him of his cloak and doublet, and unfastened his collar. in this state, he mounted the ladder, and the hangman fulfilled his office. robert winter was next summoned, and ascended the scaffold with great firmness. everything proclaimed the terrible tragedy that had just been enacted. the straw was sprinkled with blood, so was the block, so were the long knives of the executioner, whose hands and arms were dyed with the same crimson stain; while in one corner of the scaffold stood a basket, containing the dismembered limbs of the late unfortunate sufferer. but these dreadful sights produced no effect on robert winter. declining to address the assemblage, he at once surrendered himself to the assistant, and shared the fate of his friend. grant was the next to follow. undismayed as his predecessor, he looked round with a cheerful countenance, and said,-- "i am about to suffer the death of a traitor, and am content to die so. but i am satisfied that our project was so far from being sinful, that i rely entirely on my merits in bearing a part in it, as an abundant satisfaction and expiation for all the sins i have at other times of my life committed." this speech was received by a terrific yell from the multitude. wholly unmoved, however, grant uttered a few prayers, and then crossing himself, mounted the ladder and was quickly despatched. the bloody business was completed by the slaughter of bates, who died as resolutely as the others. these executions, being conducted with the utmost deliberation, occupied nearly an hour. the crowd then separated to talk over the sight they had witnessed, and to keep holiday during the remainder of the day; rejoicing that an equally-exciting spectacle was in store for them on the morrow. chapter xvi. old palace yard. guy fawkes's tranquillity of mind did not desert him to the last. on the contrary, as his term of life drew near its close, he became more cheerful and resigned; his sole anxiety being that all should be speedily terminated. when ipgreve took leave of him for the night, he threw himself on his couch and soon fell into a gentle slumber. his dreams were soothing, and he fancied that viviana appeared to him clad in robes of snowy whiteness, and regarding him with a smiling countenance, promised that the gates of eternal happiness would be opened to him on the morrow. awaking about four o'clock, he passed the interval between that time and his summons by the jailer in earnest prayer. at six o'clock, ipgreve made his appearance. he was accompanied by his daughter, who had prevailed on him to allow her to take leave of the prisoner. she acquainted fawkes with all particulars of the interment of viviana, to which he listened with tearful interest. "would my remains might be laid beside her!" he said. "but fate forbids it!" "truly, does it," observed ipgreve, gruffly; "unless you would have her body removed to the spikes of whitehall gates." disregarding this brutal speech, which called a blush of shame to the cheeks of ruth, fawkes affectionately pressed her hand, and said, "do not forget me in your prayers, and sometimes visit the grave of viviana." "doubt it not," she replied, in accents half suffocated by grief. fawkes then bade her farewell, and followed the jailer through various intricate passages, which brought them to a door opening upon one of the lower chambers of the beauchamp tower. unlocking it, ipgreve led the way up the circular staircase, and ushered his companion into the large chamber where rookwood, keyes, and thomas winter were already assembled. the morning was clear, but frosty, and bitterly cold; and when the lieutenant appeared, rookwood besought him to allow them a fire as their last earthly indulgence. the request was peremptorily refused. a cup of hot spiced wine was, however, offered them, and accepted by all except fawkes. at the same hour as on the previous day, the hurdles were brought to the entrance of the fortification, and the prisoners bound to them. the recorder and sheriffs met them at the middle tower, as they had done the other conspirators, and the cavalcade set forth. the crowd was even greater than on the former occasion; and it required the utmost exertion on the part of the guard to maintain order. some little delay occurred at ludgate; and during this brief halt, rookwood heard a cry, and looking up, perceived his wife at the upper window of one of the habitations, waving her handkerchief to him, and cheering him by her gestures. he endeavoured to answer her by signs; but his hands were fast bound, and the next moment, the cavalcade moved on. at temple bar another halt occurred; and as the train moved slowly forward, an immense crowd, like a swollen stream, swept after it. the two gates at whitehall, then barring the road to westminster, were opened as the train approached, and a certain portion of the concourse allowed to pass through. the scaffold, which had been removed from saint paul's, was erected in the middle of old palace yard, in front of the house of lords. around it were circled a band of halberdiers, outside whom stood a dense throng. the buttresses and pinnacles of the abbey were covered with spectators; so was the roof of the parliament house, and the gallery over the entrance. the bell of the abbey began to toll as the train passed through the gates of whitehall, and its deep booming filled the air. just as the conspirators were released from the hurdles, topcliffe, who had evidently from his disordered attire arrived from a long journey, rode up, and dismounted. "i am just in time," he cried, with an exulting glance at the conspirators; "this is not the last execution i shall witness. fathers garnet and oldcorne are prisoners, and on their way to london. i was a long time in unearthing the priestly foxes, but i succeeded at last." at this moment an officer approached, and summoned thomas winter to mount the scaffold. he obeyed, and exhibited no symptom of quailing, except that his complexion suddenly turned to a livid colour. being told of this by the lieutenant, he tried to account for it by saying that he thought he saw his brother precede him up the steps. he made a brief address, protesting he died a true catholic, and in that faith, notwithstanding his offences, hoped to be saved. rookwood followed him, and indulged in a somewhat longer oration. "i confess my offence to god," he said, "in seeking to shed blood, and implore his mercy. i likewise confess my offence to the king, of whose majesty i humbly ask forgiveness; and i further confess my offence to the whole state, of whom in general i entreat pardon. may the almighty bless the king, the queen, and all their royal progeny, and grant them a long and happy reign! may he turn their hearts to the catholic faith, so that heresy may be wholly extirpated from the kingdom!" the first part of this speech was well received by the assemblage, but the latter was drowned in groans and hootings, amid which rookwood was launched into eternity. keyes came next, and eyeing the assemblage disdainfully, went up the ladder, and threw himself off with such force that he broke the rope, and was instantly despatched by the executioner and his assistants. guy fawkes now alone remained, and he slowly mounted the scaffold. his foot slipped on the blood-stained boards, and he would have fallen, if topcliffe, who stood near him, had not caught his hand. a deep silence prevailed as he looked around, and uttered the following words in a clear and distinct voice:-- "i ask forgiveness of the king and the state for my criminal intention, and trust that my death will wash out my offence." he then crossed himself and knelt down to pray, after which his cloak and doublet were removed by the executioner's assistant and placed with those of the other conspirators. he made an effort to mount the ladder, but his stiffened limbs refused their office. "your courage fails you," sneered topcliffe, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "my strength does," replied fawkes, sternly regarding him. "help me up the ladder, and you shall see whether i am afraid to die." seeing how matters stood, the executioner who stood by, leaning upon his chopper, tendered him his blood-stained hand. but fawkes rejected it with disgust, and exerting all his strength, forced himself up the ladder. as the hangman adjusted the rope, he observed a singular smile illumine the features of his victim. "you seem happy," he said. "i _am_ so," replied fawkes, earnestly,--"i see the form of her i loved beckoning me to unfading happiness." with this, he stretched out his arms and sprang from the ladder. before his frame was exposed to the executioner's knife, life was totally extinct. chapter xvii. the last execution. little more remains to be told, and that little is of an equally painful nature with the tragical events just related. fathers garnet and oldcorne, together with mr. abingdon and their servants, arrived in london on the th of february, about a fortnight after the execution of the other conspirators. they were first taken to the gate-house at westminster, and were examined on the following day by the earl of salisbury and the privy-council at the star-chamber. nothing could be elicited from them, and garnet answered the earl's interrogatories with infinite subtlety and address. the examination over, they were ordered to be removed to the tower. topcliffe accompanied them to the stairs. as they proceeded thither, he called garnet's attention to a ghastly object stuck on a spike over the palace gates. "do you recognise those features?" he asked. "no," replied garnet, shudderingly averting his gaze. "i am surprised to hear it," rejoined topcliffe, "for they were once well known to you. it is the head of guy fawkes. of all the conspirators," he added, with a bitter laugh, "he was the only one who died truly penitent. it is reported that this happy change was wrought in him by viviana radcliffe." "heaven have mercy upon his soul!" muttered garnet. "i will tell you a strange tale about catesby," pursued topcliffe. "he was buried in the garden at holbeach with percy, but an order was sent down by the earl of salisbury to have their bodies disinterred and quartered. when catesby's head was severed from the trunk, to be set on the gates of warwick, fresh blood spouted forth, as if life were in the veins." "you do not expect me to believe this idle story?" said garnet, incredulously. "believe it or not, as you please," returned topcliffe, angrily. on arriving at the fortress, garnet was lodged in the large chamber of the beauchamp tower, and allowed the attendance of his servant, nicholas owen, while oldcorne was equally well accommodated in the constable tower. this leniency was the result of the policy of the earl of salisbury, who hoped to obtain disclosures from the two jesuit priests which would enable him to strike the decisive blow he meditated against the papists. but he was unsuccessful. they refused to make any confessions which would criminate themselves, or implicate others; and as none of the conspirators, not even tresham, had admitted their connexion with the plot, it was difficult to find proof against them. garnet underwent daily examinations from the earl of salisbury and the commissioners, but he baffled all their inquiries. "if we cannot wring the truth from you by fair means, mr. garnet," said salisbury, "we must have recourse to torture." "_minare ista pueris_," replied garnet, contemptuously. "leave these two priests to me, my lord," observed sir william waad, who was present at the examination, which took place at the council-chamber in his lodgings,--"leave them to me," he said in a low voice to the earl, "and i will engage to procure a full confession from their own lips, without resorting to torture." "you will render the state an important service by doing so," replied salisbury, in the same tone. "i place the matter entirely in your hands." the lieutenant set to work without loss of time. by his directions, garnet and oldcorne were removed from their present places of confinement to two subterranean cells immediately adjoining each other, but between which a secret recess, contrived in the thickness of the wall, and built for the purpose it was subsequently put to, existed. two days after they had been so immured, ipgreve, who had received his instructions, loitered for a moment in oldcorne's cell, and with affected hesitation informed him that for a trifling reward he would enable him to hold unreserved communication with his fellow-prisoner. oldcorne eagerly caught at the bait, but required to be satisfied that the jailer could make good his words. ipgreve immediately proceeded to the side of the cell, and holding a lamp to the wall, showed him a small iron knob. "touch this spring," he said, "and a stone will fall from its place, and enable you to converse with father garnet, who is in the next cell. but you must take care to replace the stone when any one approaches." promising to observe the utmost caution, and totally unsuspicious of the deceit practised upon him, oldcorne gave ipgreve the reward, and as soon as he was gone, touched the spring, and found it act precisely as the jailer had stated. garnet was greatly surprised to hear the other's voice, and on learning how the communication was managed was at first suspicious of some stratagem, but by degrees his fears wore off, and he became unreserved in his discourse with his companion, discussing the fate of the conspirators, their own share in the plot, the probability of their acquittal, and the best means of baffling their examiners. all these interlocutions were overheard and taken down by the lieutenant and two other witnesses, forsett and lockerson, private secretary to the earl of salisbury, who were concealed in the recess. having obtained all the information he desired, sir william waad laid his notes before the council, and their own confessions being read to the priests, they were both greatly confused, though neither would admit their authenticity. meanwhile, their two servants, owen and chambers, had been repeatedly examined, and refusing to confess, were at last suspended from a beam by the thumbs. but this producing no result, they were told that on the following day they would be placed on the rack. chambers then offered to make a full confession, but owen, continuing obstinate, was conveyed back to his cell. ipgreve brought him his food as usual in the evening, and on this occasion, it consisted of broth, and a small allowance of meat. it was the custom of the jailer to bring with him a small blunt-pointed knife, with which he allowed the prisoner to cut his victuals. having got possession of the knife, owen tasted the broth, and complaining that it was quite cold, he implored the jailer to get it warmed for him, as he felt extremely unwell. somewhat moved by his entreaties, and more by his appearance, ipgreve complied. on his return, he found the unfortunate man lying in one corner of the cell, partially covered by a heap of straw which ordinarily formed his bed. "here is your broth," he said. "take it while it is hot. i shall give myself no further trouble about you." "it will not be needed," gasped owen. alarmed by the sound of his voice, ipgreve held the light towards him, and perceived that his face was pale as death. at the same time, he remarked that the floor was covered with blood. instantly divining the truth, the jailer rushed towards the wretched man, and dragging away the blood-stained straw, found he had inflicted a frightful wound upon himself with the knife which he still held in his grasp. "fool that i was, to trust you with the weapon!" cried ipgreve. "but who would have thought it could inflict a mortal wound?" "any weapon will serve him who is resolved to die," rejoined owen. "you cannot put me on the rack now." and with a ghastly expression of triumph, he expired. soon after this, oldcorne and abingdon were sent down to worcester, where the former was tried and executed. stephen littleton suffered death at the same time. on friday, the rd of march, full proofs being obtained against him, garnet was arraigned of high treason at guildhall. the trial, which excited extraordinary interest, was attended by the king, by the most distinguished personages, male and female, of his court, and by all the foreign ambassadors. garnet conducted himself throughout his arraignment, which lasted for thirteen hours, with the same courage and address which he had displayed on his examinations before the commissioners. but his subtlety availed him little. he was found guilty and condemned. the execution of the sentence was for some time deferred, it being hoped that a complete admission of his guilt would be obtained from him, together with disclosures relative to the designs of the jesuit party. with this view, the examinations were still continued, but the rigour with which he had been latterly treated was relaxed. a few days before his execution, he was visited by several eminent protestant divines,--doctor montague, dean of the chapel royal; doctor neile, dean of westminster; and doctor overall, dean of saint paul's; with whom he had a long disputation on points of faith and other spiritual matters. at the close of this discussion, doctor overall remarked, "i suppose you expect, mr. garnet, that after your death, the church of rome will declare you a martyr?" "i a martyr!" exclaimed garnet, sorrowfully. "o what a martyr i should be! if, indeed, i were really about to suffer death for the catholic religion, and had never known of this project, except by means of sacramental confession, i might perhaps be accounted worthy the honour of martyrdom, and might deservedly be glorified in the opinion of our church. as it is, i acknowledge myself to have sinned in this respect, and deny not the justice of the sentence passed upon me." satisfied, at length, that no further disclosures could be obtained from him, the king signed the warrant for his execution on the nd of may. the scaffold was erected at the west end of saint paul's cathedral, on the spot where digby and the other conspirators had suffered. a vast assemblage was collected as on the former occasion, and similar precautions were taken to prevent tumult and disturbance. the unfortunate man's torture was cruelly and unnecessarily prolonged by a series of questions proposed to him on the scaffold by doctor overall and the dean of westminster, all of which he answered very collectedly and clearly. he maintained his fortitude to the last. when fully prepared, he mounted the ladder, and thus addressed the assemblage:-- "i commend myself to all good catholics. i grieve that i have offended the king by not revealing the design entertained against him, and that i did not use more diligence in preventing the execution of the plot. i commend myself most humbly to the lords of his majesty's council, and entreat them not to judge too hardly by me. i beseech all men that catholics may not fare the worse for my sake, and i exhort all catholics to take care not to mix themselves with seditious or traitorous designs against the king's majesty, whom god preserve!" making the sign of the cross upon his forehead and breast, he continued: "_in nomine patris, filii, et spiritûs sancti! jesus maria! maria, mater gratiæ! mater misericordiæ! tu me ab hoste protege, et horâ mortis suscipe! in manus tuas, domine, commendo spiritum meum, quia tu redimisti me, domine, deus veritatis._" again crossing himself, he added,--"_per crucis hoc signum fugiat procul omne malignum! infige crucem tuam, domine, in corde meo!_" and with this last pathetic ejaculation he threw himself from the ladder. garnet obtained, after death, the distinction he had disclaimed while living. he was enrolled, together with oldcorne, among the list of catholic martyrs. several miracles are affirmed by the jesuits to have been performed in his behalf. father more relates that on the lawn at hendlip, where he and oldcorne last set foot, "a new and hitherto unknown species of grass sprang up into the exact shape of an imperial crown, and remained for a long time without being trodden down by the feet of passengers, or eaten up by the cattle." it was further asserted that a spring of oil burst forth at the west end of saint paul's cathedral on the precise spot where he suffered. but the most singular prodigy is that recounted by endæmon joannes, who affirms that in a straw which had been sprinkled with garnet's blood, a human countenance, strangely resembling that of the martyr, was discovered. this legend of the miraculous straw, having received many embellishments and improvements as it travelled abroad, obtained universal credence, and was conceived to fully establish garnet's innocence. anne vaux, the jesuit's devoted friend, retired with her sister, mrs. brooksby, to a nunnery in flanders, where she ended her days. so terminated the memorable and never-to-be-forgotten gunpowder treason, for deliverance from which our church still offers thanksgivings, and in remembrance of which, on the anniversary of its discovery, fagots are collected and bonfires lighted to consume the effigy of the arch-conspirator, guy fawkes. the end. transcriber's note: passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. any text appearing in smallcaps font were shifted to uppercase. the following corrections were made to text which did not seem to reflect the spelling of the period, but were rather printer's errors, or characters that either did not 'ink' properly, or did not survive, mostly on either margin. p. typo: "command" -> "command[ed] him to surrender" p. typo: "theref[e]re" -> "theref[o]re" p. typo "saint winfred's well" -> "saint winifred's well" p. typo: "singlar" -> "sing[u]lar circumstance occurred" p. typo: "delirous" -> "delir[i]ous" p. sir william['s] waad's (spurious 's removed) p. petrone -> petrone[l]. (supplied missing 'l') p. typo: "yo[n]" -> "yo[u] are yourself again" p. "ann vaux" -> "ann[e] vaux" (final e missing) p. typo: "exetioner" -> "exe[cu]tioner" (hyphenation error corrected) p. "... commendo [s]piritum meum" (missing 's' provided) the following is a list of punctuation errors, especially unclosed quotations, which have been corrected. the corrections are noted with []'s. p. ["]yours was a... p. ... if he knew who they were[.] p. ... than treble our number.["] p. ... passage under the house[.] p. ... secrecy with your life[.] p. ... pointing towards hampstead[.] p. replied viviana, firmly[;] p. ... reverentially upwards[.] p. ["]i _do_ remember... p. "i admit nothing,["] p. muttered the old woman[.] p. replied the jailer's daughter[.] p. eluding the obligation[.] p. procure viviana's liberation.["] p. ... rejoined guy fawkes[,] p. ... shunning the regards of catesby[,] p. ...ever require from you[.]" p. ...the residence of sir henry bromley[.] p. but i was wofully deceived[.]" p. ["]for sir henry had... p. said viviana[;] "and i... p. replied ruth[.] "nor shall you... ...comply with her request.["] p. ... raising herself in the bed[.] the following words are spelled both with and without hyphens, and have been left as printed: pick-axe(s)/pickaxe(s) out-building/outbuilding by-ward/byward by-standers/bystanders loop-hole/loophole re-appeared/reappeared up-stairs/upstairs fainted-hearted/fainthearted foot-path/footpath transcriber's note: a letter or letters contained within curly brackets was a superscript in the original text. example: exam{t} macron diacritical marks above a letter are indicated in the following manner: [=a], [=i], etc. text enclosed by underscores is in italics. example: _criminal trials_ another transcriber's note is at the end of this text. the life of a conspirator [illustration: sir everard digby _from a portrait belonging to w. r. m. wynne, esq. of peniarth, merioneth_] the life of a conspirator being a biography of sir everard digby by one of his descendants by the author of "a life of archbishop laud," by a romish recusant, "the life of a prig, by one," etc. with illustrations london kegan paul, trench, trübner & co., ltd. paternoster house, charing cross road preface the chief difficulty in writing a life of sir everard digby is to steer clear of the alternate dangers of perverting it into a mere history of the gunpowder plot, on the one hand, and of failing to say enough of that great conspiracy to illustrate his conduct, on the other. again, in dealing with that plot, to condemn all concerned in it may seem like kicking a dead dog to protestants, and to catholics like joining in one of the bitterest and most irritating taunts to which they have been exposed in this country throughout the last three centuries. nevertheless, i am not discouraged. the gunpowder plot is an historical event about which the last word has not yet been said, nor is likely to be said for some time to come; and monographs of men who were, either directly or indirectly, concerned in it, may not be altogether useless to those who desire to make a study of it. however faulty the following pages may be in fact or in inference, they will not have been written in vain if they have the effect of eliciting from others that which all students of historical subjects ought most to desire--the truth. i wish to acknowledge most valuable assistance received from the right rev. edmund knight, formerly bishop of shrewsbury, as well as from the rev. john hungerford pollen, s.j., who was untiring in his replies to my questions on some very difficult points; but it is only fair to both of them to say that the inferences they draw from the facts, which i have brought forward, occasionally vary from my own. my thanks are also due to that most able, most courteous, and most patient of editors, mr kegan paul, to say nothing of his services in the very different capacity of a publisher, to mr wynne of peniarth, for permission to photograph his portrait of sir everard digby, and to mr walter carlile for information concerning gayhurst. the names of the authorities of which i have made most use are given in my footnotes; but i am perhaps most indebted to one whose name does not appear the oftenest. the back-bone of every work dealing with the times of the stuarts must necessarily be the magnificent history of mr samuel rawson gardiner. contents chapter i. page the portrait of sir everard digby--genealogy--his father a literary man--his father's book--was sir everard brought up a protestant?--at the court of queen elizabeth--persecution of catholics--character of sir everard--gothurst--mary mulsho--marriage--knighthood - chapter ii. hospitality at gothurst--roger lee--sir everard "catholickly inclined"--country visiting years ago--an absent host--a good hostess--wish to see a priest--priest or sportsman?--father gerard--reception of lady digby--question of underhandedness--illness of sir everard--conversion--second illness--impulsiveness of sir everard - chapter iii. the wrench of conversion--position of converts at different periods--the digbys as converts--their chapel--father strange--father percy--chapels in the days of persecution--luisa de carvajal--oliver manners--pious dodges--stolen waters--persecution under elizabeth - chapter iv. the succession to the crown--accession of james--the bye plot--guy fawkes--father watson's revenge on the jesuits--question as to the faithlessness of james--martyrdoms and persecutions--a protestant bishop upon them - chapter v. catholics and the court--queen anne of denmark--fears of the catholics--catesby--chivalry--tyringham--the spanish ambassador--attitude of foreign catholic powers--indictments of catholics--pound's case--bancroft--catesby and garnet--thomas winter--william ellis--lord vaux--elizabeth, anne, and eleanor vaux--calumnies - chapter vi. roger manners--a pilgrimage--harrowden--catesby informs sir everard of the conspiracy--scriptural precedents--other gunpowder plots--mary queen of scots, bothwell and darnley--pretended jesuit approval - chapter vii. a latin book--immoderate friendships--principles--second-hand approval--how catesby deceived garnet--he deceived his fellow-conspirators--a liar - chapter viii. garnet's unfortunate conversation with sir everard--garnet's weakness--how garnet first learned about the plot--secresy of the confessional--catesby and the sacraments--catesby a catholic on protestant principles--could garnet have saved sir everard?--were the conspirators driven to desperation?--did cecil originate the plot? - chapter ix. financial aspects of the gunpowder plot--sir everard's relations to his wife--little john--secret room at gothurst--persecution of catholics in wales--the plan of campaign--coughton--guy fawkes--his visit to gothurst - chapter x. white webbs--baynham's mission--all-hallows at coughton--all souls at gothurst--an unwelcome guest--the remains of feudalism--start from gothurst--arrival at dunchurch--what was going on in london--tresham--the hunting-party--a card-party--arrival of the fugitives--the discovery in london--the flight - chapter xi. catesby lies to sir everard--expected help from talbot--the hunting-party repudiates the conspirators--the future earl of bristol--the start--warwick--norbrook--alcester--coughton-- huddington--talbot refuses to join in the insurrection--father greenway--father oldcorne--whewell grange--shadowed--no catholics will join the conspirators--don quixote - chapter xii. holbeche house--sir everard deserts--sir fulke greville--the hue-and-cry--hunted--in cover--caught--journey to london--confiscation--the fate of the conspirators at holbeche--the archpriest--denunciations--letter of sir everard--confession - chapter xiii. threats of torture--search at mrs vaux's house--lady digby's letters to salisbury--sir everard to his wife--sir everard writes to salisbury--death of tresham--poem--examinations - chapter xiv. father gerard's letter to sir everard--sir everard exonerates gerard--sir everard's letter to his sons - chapter xv. the trial--appearance of the prisoners from different points of view--sir edward philips--sir edward coke--his description of the punishment for high treason--sir everard's speech--coke's reply--earl of northampton--lord salisbury--sentence - chapter xvi. waiting for death--poem--kind words for sir everard--the injury he did to the catholic cause--two happy days--procession to the scaffold--sir everard's last speech--execution--epilogue - chapter i. nothing is so fatal to the telling of an anecdote as the prelude:--"i once heard an amusing story," &c., and it would be almost as unwise to begin a biography by stating that its subject was a very interesting character. on the other hand, perhaps i may frighten away readers by telling them at starting, this simple truth, that i am about to write the history of a young man of great promise, whose short life proved a miserable failure, who terribly injured the cause he had most at heart, for which he gave his life, a man of whom even his enemies said, when he had met his sad fate:--"poor fellow. he deserved it. but what a pity!" if the steady and unflinching gaze of one human being upon another can produce the hypnotic state, it may be that, in a much lesser degree, there is some subtle influence in the eternal stare of the portrait of an ancestor. there is no getting away from it unless you leave the room. if you look at your food, talk to a friend, or read a book, you know and feel that his eyes are still rivetted upon you; and if you raise your own, again, towards his, there he is, gravely and deliberately gazing at you, or, you are half inclined to think, _through_ you at something beyond and behind you, until you almost wish that you could be thrown into some sort of cataleptic condition, in which a series of scenes could be brought before your vision from the history of the long-dead man, whose representation seems only to exist for the purpose of staring you out of countenance. in a large country house, near the west coast of wales, and celebrated for its fine library, hangs a full-length portrait which might well impel such a desire. it represents a tall man, with long hair and a pointed beard, in a richly-chased doublet, a lace ruff and cuffs, very short and fringed trunk hose, and a sword by his side. he has a high forehead, rather raised and arched eyebrows, a long nose, hollow cheeks, and a narrow, pointed chin. his legs are thin; his left hand is placed upon his hip; and with his right he holds a cane, which is resting on the ground. at the bottom of the picture is painted, in roman characters, "sir everard digby, knight, ob. ." few people care for genealogies unless their own names are recorded in them. the keenest amateur herald in matters relating to his own family, will exhibit an amazing apathy when the pedigree of another person is offered for his inspection; the shorter, therefore, my notice of sir everard digby's descent, the better. he was descended from a distinguished family. it had come over from normandy with william the conqueror, who had granted it lands at tilton, which certainly were in its possession in the sixteenth century, though whether the subject of my biography inherited them, i am not quite sure. the first sir everard digby lived in the reigns of henry i. and stephen.[ ] this powerful family sided with henry vii. against richard iii.; and on one occasion, king henry vii.[ ] "did make knights in the field seven brothers of his house at one time, from whom descended divers houses of that name, which live all in good reputation in their several countries. but this sir everard digby was the heir of the eldest and chiefest house, and one of the chiefest men in rutlandshire, where he dwelt, as his ancestors had done before him, though he had also much living in leicestershire and other shires adjoining." he was the fourteenth in direct eldest male descent from almar, the founder of the family in the eleventh century. five of his forefathers had borne the name of everard digby, one of whom was killed at the battle of towton in . sir everard's father had also been an everard, and done honour to the name; but literature and not war had been the field in which he had succeeded. he published four books.[ ] the only one of these in my possession is his _dissuasive from taking the goods and livings of the church_. it is dedicated "to the right honourable sir christopher hatton, lord high chancellor of england, &c." [ ] harleian mss., . [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, father gerard, p. . _n.b._--"the narrative of the gunpowder plot," and "the life of father john gerard," are both published in one volume, entitled _the condition of catholics under james i._, edited by father john morris, s.j.: longmans, green & co., . it will be to this edition that i shall refer, when i quote from either of these two works. [ ] see _bibliographia britannica_, vol. iii. p. . the books were:--i. _theoria analytica ad monarchiam scientiarum demonstrans._ ii. _de duplici methodo, libri duo, rami methodum refutantes._ iii. _de arte natandi; libri duo._ iv. _a dissuasive from taking the goods and livings of the church, &c._ the author's style may be inferred from the opening of his preface:--"if my pen (gentle reader) had erst bin dipped in the silver streames flowing from parnassus hill, or that apollo with his sweet-sounding harp would vouchsafe to direct the passage thereof unto the top of the high olympus; after so general a view of great varietie far and neere, i might bouldly begin with that most excellent poet cicelides mus[e[ogonek]] paulo maiora canamus." i leave my readers to judge how many modern publishers would read any further, if such a book were offered to them in these days! still, it is interesting as showing the style of the times. father gerard, an intimate friend of the sir everard digby whose life i am writing, mentions[ ] "the piety of his parents," and that "they were ever the most noted and known catholics in that country" (rutlandshire); and mr gillow, in his _bibliographical dictionary of english catholics_[ ], states that they "had ever been the most staunch and noted catholics in the county of rutland." but here i am met with a difficulty. would a catholic have written such a passage as the following, which i take from the _dissuasive_? it refers to that great champion of protestantism and anglicanism, queen elizabeth. [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, p. . [ ] p. . "i cannot but write truely," he says, "that which the clergie with the whole realme confesse plainely: that we render immortell thankes unto almightie god, for preserving her most roiall majestie so miraculouslie unto this daie, giving her a most religious heart (the mirror of all christian princes) once and ever wholly consecrated to the maintaining of his divine worship in his holy temple. from this cleare christall fountaine of heavenlie vertue, manie silver streames derive their sundrie passages so happelie into the vineyarde of the lorde, that neither the flaming fury of outward enimies, nor the scorching sacrilegious zeale of domesticall dissimulation, can drie up anie one roote planted in the same, since the peaceable reigne of her most roial majestie." the writer of the notice of sir everard digby in the _biographia britannica_[ ] appears to have believed his father to have been a protestant; but on what grounds he does not state. so familiar a friend as father gerard is unlikely to have been mistaken on this point. possibly, however, in speaking of his "parents," he may have meant his forefathers rather than his own father and mother. this seems the more likely because, after his father's death, when he was eleven years old, sir everard was brought up a protestant. in those times wards were often, if not usually, educated as protestants, even if their fathers had been catholics; but if sir everard's mother had been remarkable for her "piety" as a catholic, and one of the "noted and known catholics" in her county, we might expect to find some record of her having endeavoured to induce her son to return to the faith of his father, as she lived until after his death. the article in the _biographia_ states that sir everard was "educated with great care, but under the tuition of some popish priests": father gerard, on the contrary, says that he "was not brought up catholicly in his youth, but at the university by his guardians, as other young gentlemen used to be"; and in his own _life_,[ ] he speaks of him as a protestant after his marriage. lingard also says[ ] that "at an early age he was left by his father a ward of the crown, and had in consequence been educated in the protestant faith." i can see no reason for doubting that this was the case. [ ] vol. iii. p. . [ ] _life of father john gerard_, p. clii. [ ] _history of england_, vol. vii. chap. i. at a very early age, everard digby was taken to the court of queen elizabeth, where he became "a pensioner,"[ ] or some sort of equivalent to what is now termed a queen's page. he must have arrived at the court about the time that essex was in the zenith of his career; he may have witnessed his disgrace and elizabeth's misery and vacillation with regard to his trial and punishment. he would be in the midst of the troubles at the court, produced by the rivalry between sir walter raleigh and sir charles blount; he would see his relative, cecil, rapidly coming into power; he could scarcely fail to hear the many speculations as to the successor of his royal mistress. [ ] s. p. james i., gun. p. book, part ii. no. , exam, of sir e. digby--"he confesseth that he was a pencon to quene elizabeth about six yeres, and tooke the othe belonging to the place of a pencioner and no other." he may have accompanied her[ ] "hunting and disporting" "every other day," and seen her "set upon jollity"; he may have enjoyed the[ ] "frolyke" in "courte, much dauncing in the privi chamber of countrey daunces befor the q. m."; very likely he may have been in attendance upon the queen when she walked on[ ] "richmond greene," "with greater shewes of ability, than" could "well stand with her years." during the six years that he was at court, he probably came in for a period of brilliancy and a period of depression, although there is nothing to show for certain whether he had retired before the time thus described in an old letter[ ]:--"thother of the counsayle or nobilitye estrainge themselves from court by all occasions, so as, besides the master of the horse, vice-chamberlain, and comptroller, few of account appeare there." if lingard is right, however,[ ] he gave up his appointment at court the year before elizabeth's death, and thus luckily escaped the time when, as he describes her, she was[ ] "reduced to a skeleton. her food was nothing but manchet bread and succory pottage. her taste for dress was gone. she had not changed her clothes for many days. nothing could please her; she was the torment of the ladies who waited on her person. she stamped with her feet, and swore violently at the objects of her anger." [ ] lord henry howard to worcester. [ ] letter of lord worcester, lodge iii. p. . [ ] ms. letter. see lingard, vol. vi. chap. ix. [ ] ms. letter. see lingard, vol. vi. chap. ix. [ ] history, vol. vii. chap. i. [ ] _ib._, vol. vi. chap. ix. one thing that may have had a subsequent influence upon digby, while he was at the court of elizabeth, was the violence shown towards catholics. in the course of the fourteen years that followed the defeat of the spanish armada before the death of the queen,[ ] "the catholics groaned under the presence of incessant persecution. sixty-one clergymen, forty-seven laymen, and two gentlemen, suffered capital punishment for some or other of the spiritual felonies and treasons which had been lately created." although he had been brought up a protestant, "this gentleman," says gerard,[ ] "was always catholicly affected," and the severe measures dealt out to catholics whilst he was at court may have disgusted him and induced him to leave it. [ ] lingard, vol. vi. chap. iii. [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, p. . i have shown how father gerard states[ ] that sir everard digby was educated "at the university by his guardians, as other young gentlemen used to be." it is to be wished that he had informed us at what university and at what college; when he went there and when he left; as his attendance at court, together with a very important event, to be noticed presently, which took place, or is said to have taken place, when he was fifteen, make it difficult to allot a vacant time for his university career. [ ] _ib._ the young man,--he did not live to be twenty-five,--whose portrait we have been looking at, is described in the _biographia britannica_[ ] as having been "remarkably handsome," "extremely modest and affable," and "justly reputed one of the finest gentlemen in england." his great personal friend, the already-quoted father gerard,[ ] says that he was "as complete a man in all things that deserved estimation, or might win him affection, as one should see in a kingdom. he was of stature about two yards high," "of countenance" "comely and manlike." "he was skilful in all things that belonged to a gentleman, very cunning at his weapon, much practised and expert in riding of great horses, of which he kept divers in his stable with a skilful rider for them. for other sports of hunting or hawking, which gentlemen in england so much use and delight in, he had the best of both kinds in the country round about." "for all manner of games which are also usual for gentlemen in foul weather, when they are forced to keep house, he was not only able therein to keep company with the best, but was so cunning in them all, that those who knew him well, had rather take his part than be against him." "he was a good musician, and kept divers good musicians in his house; and himself also could play well of divers instruments. but those who were well acquainted with him"--and no one knew him better than father gerard himself--"do affirm that in gifts of mind he excelled much more than in his natural parts; although in those also it were hard to find so many in one man in such a measure. but of wisdom he had an extraordinary talent, such a judicial wit and so well able to discern and discourse of any matter, as truly i have heard many say they have not seen the like of a young man, and that his carriage and manner of discourse were more like to a grave councillor of state than to a gallant of the court as he was, and a man of about twenty-six years old (which i think was his age, or thereabouts)." in this father gerard was mistaken. sir everard digby did not live to be twenty-six, or even twenty-five. gerard continues:--"and though his behaviour were courteous to all, and offensive to none, yet was he a man of great courage and of noted valour." [ ] vol. iii. p. . [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, p. . [illustration: gothurst the home of sir everard digby; now called gayhurst _dawsons ph. sc._] we began by examining a portrait: let us now take a look at an old country-house. turning our backs on wales, a country which has little to do with my subject, we will imagine ourselves in buckinghamshire, about half way between the towns of buckingham and bedford, and about three miles from newport pagnell, a little way from the high road leading in a north-westerly direction. there stands the now old, but at the time of which i am writing, the comparatively new house, known then as gothurst. perhaps one of the chief attractions in elizabethan architecture is that, by combining certain features of both classical and gothic architecture, it is a result, as well as an example, of that spirit of compromise so dear to the english nation. if somewhat less picturesque, and less rich and varied in colour, than the half-timbered houses of elizabethan architecture, the stone buildings of the same style are more massive and stately in their appearance, and the newly-hewn stone of gothurst[ ] presented a remarkably fine front, with its pillared porch, its lengthy series of mullioned windows, and its solid wings at either side. it was built upon rising ground, which declined gradually to the rich, if occasionally marshy, meadows bordering on the river ouse.[ ] it was a large house, although, like many others built in the same style, the rooms were rather low in proportion to their size.[ ] the approach was through a massive gateway,[ ] from which an avenue of yews--which had existed in the time of the older house that formerly stood on the same site--led up to the square space in front of the door. near the gateway was the old church, which was then in a very indifferent state of repair,[ ] and below this were three pieces of water. beyond them ran the river ouse, and on the opposite side stood the old tower and church of tyringham. if the house was new, it was very far from being the pretentious erection of a newly-landed proprietor. yet the estate on which it stood had more than once been connected with a new name, owing to failures in the male line of its owners and the marriages of its heiresses, since it had been held by a de nouers, under the earl of kent, half-brother to william the conqueror. it had passed[ ] by marriage to the de nevylls in ; it had passed in the same way to the mulshos in the reign of henry viii., and i am about to show that, at the end of the sixteenth century, it passed again into another family through the wedding of its heiress. [ ] "antiently gaythurst," says pennant in his _journey_. it is now called gayhurst. [ ] see pennant's _journey from chester to london_, p. , _seq._ also lipscomb's _history and antiquities of bucks_, vol. iv. , _seq._ [ ] the house is still standing, and is the residence of mr carlile. the further side was enlarged, either in the eighteenth or very early in the nineteenth century, in the style of queen anne; but this in no way spoils the effect of the remarkably fine old elizabethan front. [ ] this has disappeared. [ ] poem on _everard digby_, written by the present owner of gothurst, and privately printed. [ ] see pennant's _journey_, p. . mary mulsho, the sole heiress of gothurst, was a girl of considerable character, grace, and gravity of mind, and she was well suited to become the bride of the young courtier, musician, and sportsman excelling "in gifts of mind," described at the beginning of this chapter. it can have been no marriage for the sake of money or lands; for everard digby was already a rich man, possessed of several estates, and he had had a long minority; moreover, there is plenty of evidence to show that they were devotedly attached to one another. the exact date of their marriage i am unable to give. jardine says[ ] that sir everard "was born in ," and that "in the year he married"; and, if this was so, he can have been only fifteen on his marriage. certainly he was very young at the time, and jardine may be right; for, at the age of twenty-four, he said that a certain event, which is known to have taken place some time after their marriage, had happened seven or eight years earlier than the time at which he was speaking.[ ] i have made inquiries in local registers and at the herald's college, without obtaining any further light upon the question of the exact date of his wedding. one thing is certain, that his eldest son, kenelm, was born in the year . in that same year everard digby was knighted by the new king, james i. he may have been young to receive that dignity; but, as a contemporary writer[ ] puts it, "at this time the honour of knighthood, which antiquity preserved sacred, as the cheapest and readiest jewel to preserve virtue with, was promiscuously laid on any head belonging to the yeomandry (made addle through pride and contempt of their ancestors' pedigree), that had but a court-friend, or money to purchase the favour of the meanest able to bring him into an outward room, when the king, the fountain of honour, came down, and was uninterrupted by other business; in which case it was then usual for the chamberlain or some other lord to do it." it is said that, during the first three months of the reign of james i., the honour of knighthood was conferred upon seven hundred individuals.[ ] [ ] _criminal trials_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] s. p. dom. james i., gunpowder plot book, part ii. no , b. [ ] osborne's _traditional memorials_, p. . i quote from a footnote on page of the _somers tracts_, vol. ii. [ ] see lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. we find sir everard and lady digby, at this period of our story, possessed of everything likely to insure happiness--mutual affection, youth, intelligence, ability, popularity, high position, favour at court, abundance of wealth, and a son and heir. how far this brilliant promise of happiness was fulfilled will be seen by and bye. chapter ii. young as he was, sir everard digby's acquaintance was large and varied, and gothurst was a very hospitable house. its host's tastes enabled him thoroughly to enjoy the society of his ordinary country neighbours, whose thoughts chiefly lay in the direction of sports and agriculture; but he still more delighted in conversing with literary and contemplative men, and when his guests combined all these qualities, he was happiest. one such, who frequently stayed at gothurst, is thus quaintly described by father gerard.[ ] roger lee "was a gentleman of high family, and of so noble a character and such winning manners that he was a universal favourite, especially with the nobility, in whose company he constantly was, being greatly given to hunting, hawking, and all other noble sports. he was, indeed, excellent at everything, &c." in short, he appears to have been exactly the kind of man to make a congenial companion for sir everard.[ ] [ ] _life of father john gerard_, p. cxxxvi. [ ] i write of sir everard and lady digby; but it is improbable that he had received knighthood at the period treated of in this chapter. so intimate was he at gothurst, even during the life of lady digby's father, who had died at the time of which i am about to write, that, on his visits there, he frequently took with him a friend, who, like himself, was an intelligent, highly-educated, and agreeable man, of good family, fond of hawking, hunting, and other sports, and an excellent card-player. both lee and his companion were catholics, and, as i explained in the last chapter, sir everard digby, although brought up a protestant, was "catholickly inclined, and entertained no prejudice whatever against those of the ancient faith"; indeed, in one of his conversations with lee he went so far as to ask him whether he thought his friend would be a good match for his own sister, observing that he would have no objection to her marrying a catholic; "for he looked on catholics as good and honourable men." considering the pains, penalties, and disabilities to which recusants, as they were called, were then exposed, this meant very much more than a similar remark would mean in our times. and not only was he unprejudiced, for he took a keen interest in the religion of catholics, and the three men talked frequently on that subject, the speakers being usually lee and digby, the friend putting in a word occasionally, but for the most part preferring to stand by as a listener. none of lady digby's family were catholics;[ ] her father had been an ardent protestant, and possibly, as is not uncommonly the case, the long conversations about catholicism would have more interest to one who had been brought up in an extreme protestant atmosphere, than to those who had been accustomed to mix among people of both religions. at any rate, it is pretty evident that the young wife often sat by while her husband and his guests talked theology, and that she had gradually begun to form her own ideas upon the subject. [ ] _life of father john gerard_, p. cl. in considering life at a hospitable country house, nearly three hundred years ago, it is well to try to realise the difference between the conditions under which guests can now be obtained and those then existing. visitors, and letters to invite them, are now conveyed by railway, and our postal arrangements are admirable; then, the public posts were very slow and irregular, many of the roads were what we should call mere cart-tracks, and it took weeks to perform journeys which can now be accomplished in twenty-four hours. our present system of filling our country houses just when we please, and then taking a quiet time alone, or visiting at other country houses, or betaking ourselves to some place for amusement, was impossible early in the seventeenth century; at that period, the only chance of seeing friends, except those living close at hand, was to receive them whenever they found it convenient to come, and to make country houses, as it were, hotels for such acquaintances who chanced to be passing near them on their journeys. people who were on visiting terms not uncommonly rode or drove up to each other's houses, without special invitation; and, even when invited, if the distance were great, owing to the condition of the roads and the frequent breakdowns in the lumbersome vehicles, it rarely could be foreseen when a destination would be reached. yet a welcome was generally pretty certain, for, before the days of newspapers, to say nothing of circulating libraries, hosts and hostesses were not hypercritical of the guests who might come to relieve their dulness, and the vestiges still remaining of the feudal hospitality of the baron's great halls made them somewhat liberal and unfastidious as to the social standing of those whom they received; nor was it very rare for unknown travellers, who asked leave to take a short rest at a strange house, to meet with a cordial welcome and liberal entertainment. there was nothing out of the common, therefore, in guests so well known at gothurst as roger lee and his favourite companion riding up to that house unexpected, yet certain of being gladly received; but, on a certain occasion, they were both disappointed on reaching its arched and pillared doorway, at being told that their host had gone to london. the kind and graceful reception given by their hostess, however, did much to make up for his absence. the long, if rather low rooms, with their wide, mullioned windows, the good supply, for those times, of books, and the picturesque grounds, with the river flowing through them, made gothurst a charming house to stay at, and sir everard's man-cook[ ] no doubt made the creature comforts all that could be desired. for those who cared for sport, there was plenty of agreeable occupation, for there were hawks and hounds and well-filled stables. the young hostess, who had been brought up among men who spent their lives in country amusements, could converse about horses, dogs, and hunting if required; most probably, too, she often carried a hawk on her wrist; and, as she shared her husband's tastes for literature and serious reflection, she could suit herself to almost any company. [ ] even his under-cook was a man. cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . her two guests were prepared to talk about any topic that might seem most pleasing to their hostess, and it was soon clear that she wished to renew the conversations about religion which she had listened to with so much attention when her friends had been last in her house in the company of her husband. they were no less ready to discuss the same subject with her, and the more she listened to them, the more she questioned them, and the more she thought over their replies to her difficulties, doubts, and objections, the more inclination did she feel towards the creed they professed. she was well aware that her husband, at the very least, had a high respect for it; that he already admitted the truth of a great part of it, and that, in discussing it with lee and his friend, he had propounded arguments against it rather as those of others than as his own; and when, after considerable solitary reflection while her visitors were out of doors, she felt very nearly assured that the almighty could not approve of people professing a variety of creeds; that of several religions, all teaching different doctrines, only one could be right; that if god had revealed a right religion, he must have ordained some one body of men to teach it, and that there was only one body which seemed to have any claim to such tremendous authority, and that the roman catholic church. these thoughts made her earnestly wish to talk the matter over with one of its priests, and consult him on the question of her own position in respect to so all-important a subject. to meet with a priest was not easy in those times. such priests as there were in england rarely, if ever, declared themselves, except to catholics or would-be catholics; for to make such a declaration, in this country, amounted to self-accusation of the crime of high treason. her two guests were catholics, and would undoubtedly know several priests, and where they could be found; but to reveal their names or their whereabouts would be dangerous, both to those priests and to themselves, and lady digby felt some hesitation in interrogating them on such points. at last, rather than place one of her husband's favourite companions in a position which might be unwelcome or even compromising, she determined to consult, not roger lee, but the friend he had brought with him. when she had delicately and nervously told him of her wish to see a priest, she was far from reassured by observing that he was with difficulty repressing a smile.[ ] could it be that he thought her a silly woman, hurriedly contemplating a change of religion on too scanty consideration? or was the finding of a priest so difficult a thing just then as to make a wish to attempt it absurd? his expression, however, soon changed, and he told her, gravely enough, that he thought her desire might very possibly be fulfilled; at any rate, he promised to speak to roger lee about it. "in the meantime," he added, "i can teach you the way to examine your conscience, as i myself was taught to do it by an experienced priest." she was inclined to smile, in her turn, at such an offer from a mere sportsman; so, thanking him, she allowed the subject to drop. [ ] _life of gerard_, p. cli. he had not left her very long before roger lee entered the room, and, as he immediately told her that he had heard of her wish to have some conversation with a priest, it was clear that his friend had lost no time in informing him of it. her surprise may be imagined when lee proceeded to tell her that his companion was himself a priest! at first she refused to believe it.[ ] "how is it possible he can be a priest?" she asked, "has he not lived rather as a courtier? has he not played cards with my husband, and played well too, which is impossible for those not accustomed to the game? has he not gone out hunting, and frequently in my hearing spoken of the hunt, and of hawks in proper terms, without tripping, which no one could but one who has been trained to it?" [ ] _life of father john gerard_; p. cli. she gave many other reasons for disbelieving that he could be a cleric; and, finally, only accepted the fact on roger lee's reiterated and solemn assurances. "i pray you," she then said, "not to be angry with me, if i ask further whether any other catholic knows him to be a priest but you. does ... know him?" "yes," replied lee, "and goes to confession to him." then she asked the same question concerning several other catholics living in the county, or the adjoining counties--among others, a lady who lived about ten miles from gothurst. "why," said lee, "she not only knows him as a priest, but has given herself, and all her household, and all that she has, to be directed by him, and takes no other guide but him." at this, she admitted that she was thoroughly satisfied. whereupon lee remarked of his friend-- "you will find him, however, quite a different man when he has put off his present character." "this," wrote the priest himself, who was father john gerard, second son of[ ] sir thomas gerard,[ ] a lancashire knight, and an ancestor of the present lord gerard. "this she acknowledged the next day, when she saw me in my soutane and other priestly garments, such as she had never before seen. she made a most careful confession, and came to have so great an opinion of my poor powers, that she gave herself entirely to my direction, meditated great things, which, indeed, she carried out, and carries out still." [ ] this sir t. gerard was committed to the tower on an accusation "of a design to deliver mary queen of scots out of her confinement."--_burke's peerage_, , p. . [ ] _life of gerard_, p. clii. i can fancy certain people, on reading all this, saying, "how very underhand!" i would ask them to bear in mind that for father gerard to have acted otherwise, and to have gone about in "priestly garments," under his own name, would have been the same thing as to have gone to the common hangman and to have asked him to be so obliging as to put the noose round his neck, and then to cut him down as quickly as possible in order that he might relish to the full the ghastly operation of disembowelling and quartering. to this it may be replied that to conceal his identity might be all very well, but that it was quite another thing to stay at the house of a friend under that concealment, and, in the character of a layman and a guest, to decoy his host's wife from her husband's religion, in that host's and husband's absence, thus betraying his friendship and violating his hospitality. my counter-reply would be, that his host had frequently discussed religious questions with both himself and lee, and had shown, at least, a very friendly feeling towards catholics in general and their religion; that, as has already been proved, he had in so many words declared himself free from any objection to the marriage of his own sister with a catholic; nay, that he wished to see her[ ] "married well, and to a catholic, for he looked on catholics as honourable men;" and that lady digby had determined to become a catholic after due consideration and without any unfair external influence. as to his revealing his priestly character to her and exercising his priestly functions on her behalf, it must be observed that she had expressed a particular wish to see and to converse with a priest, without any such action on her part having been suggested to her by either gerard or lee, and that, if gerard had continued to conceal his own priesthood, she would have simply been put to the trouble, and possibly the dangers, of searching for some other priest. if it be further objected that he ought at least to have waited until her husband's return, i must so far repeat myself as to point out that a man who had stated that he would have no objection whatever to his sister's being married to a catholic, might be fairly assumed to have no objection to finding himself also married to a catholic. again, since lady digby was convinced that her soul would only be safe when in the fold of the church, it would be natural that she should not like to admit of any delay in her reception into it. this being the case, the guests had their duties to their hostess, as well as to their host. it is unnecessary to enter here into the question whether wives should inform their husbands, and grown-up sons and daughters their parents, before joining the roman catholic church; i may, however, be allowed to say that i believe it to be the usual opinion of priests, as well as laymen, as it certainly is of myself, that in most cases, although possibly not absolutely in every case, their doing so is not only desirable, but a duty, provided no hindrance to the following of the dictates of their consciences will result from so doing. where it would have such an effect, our lord's teaching is plain and unmistakeable--"he that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me." [ ] _life of father john gerard_, p. cli. some protestants are under the impression that a conversion like lady digby's, in which she consulted, and was received into the church by, a "priest in disguise" is "just the sort of thing that roman catholics like." there could be no greater mistake! it is just what they do not like. the secrecy of priests in the reign of james i. was rendered necessary by persecution: so was that of the laity in housing and entertaining them: so also were the precautions to conceal the fact that mass was said in private houses, and that rooms were used as chapels. now i would not pretend for a moment that such a condition of things was wholesome for either priests, jesuits, laymen, or laywomen. there are occasions on which secrecy may be a dire necessity, but it is, at best, a necessary evil, and its atmosphere is unnatural, cramping, dangerous, and demoralising, although the persecution producing it may lead to virtue, heroism, and even martyrdom. the persecutions of the early christians by the romans gave the church hundreds of saints and martyrs; yet surely those persecutions did not directly tend to the welfare of christianity; and i suppose that the authorities of the established church in this country would scarcely consider that anglicanism would be in a more wholesome condition if every diocese and cure were to be occupied by a bishop or priest of the church of rome under the authority of the pope, although the privations of the dispossessed anglican clergy, and the inconveniences of the anglican laity, might be the means of bringing about many individual instances of laudable self-denial, personal piety, and religious zeal. on the same principle, i think that a catholic student, with an elementary knowledge of the subject, when approaching the history of his co-religionists in england during the reign of james i., would have good grounds for expecting that, while many cases of valiant martyrdom and suffering for the faith would embellish the pages he was about to read, those pages would also reveal that the impossibility of priests and religious living a clerical life, and the necessity of their joining day by day in the pursuits and amusements of laymen--laymen, often, of gaiety and fashion, if nothing more--had led to serious irregularities in discipline; that the frequent intervals without mass, or any other religious service or priestly assistance, had had the effect of rendering the laity deficient in the virtues which religious exercises and sacraments are supposed to inculcate; that the constant and inevitable practice of secrecy and concealment had induced a habit of mind savouring of prevarication, if not of deception, and that in the embarrassing circumstances and among the harassing surroundings of their lives, clergy as well as laity had occasionally acted with neither tact nor discretion. no one is more alive to the sufferings or the injustices endured by english catholics in the early part of the seventeenth century, or more admires the courage and patience shown by many, if not most, of those who bore them, than myself; and it is only in fairness to those sufferers, and with a desire to look at their actions honestly, and, as much as may be, impartially, that i approach the subject in this spirit. i have laid the more emphasis on the dangers of secrecy, be it ever so unavoidable or enforced, because of their bearing upon a matter which will necessarily figure largely in the forthcoming pages. lady digby had no sooner been received into the church than she became exceedingly anxious for the conversion of her husband, but news now arrived which made her anxious about him on another account. a messenger brought the tidings that sir everard was very seriously ill in london, and lady digby at once determined to start on the journey of some forty-five or fifty miles in order to nurse him. her guests volunteered to go to him also, and they were able to accomplish the distance, over the bad roads of that period, much more rapidly than she was. i will let father gerard give an account of his own proceedings with digby for himself.[ ] "i spoke to him of the uncertainty of life, and the certainty of misery, not only in this life, but especially in the next, unless we provided against it; and i showed him that we have here no abiding city, but must look for one to come. as affliction often brings sense, so it happened in this case, for we found little difficulty in gaining his goodwill. [ ] _life of father john gerard_, p. cliii. "he prepared himself well for confession after being taught the way; and when he learnt that i was a priest, he felt no such difficulty in believing as his wife had done, because he had known similar cases, but he rather rejoiced at having found a confessor who had experience among persons of his rank of life, and with whom he could deal at all times without danger of its being known that he was dealing with a priest. after his reconciliation he began on his part to be anxious about his wife, and wished to consult with us how best to bring her to the catholic religion. we both smiled at this, but said nothing at the time, determining to wait till his wife came up to town, that we might witness how each loving soul would strive to win the other." when digby had recovered and had returned to gothurst with his wife, they both paid a visit to father gerard at the country house, some distance from their own home, at which he lived as chaplain. this was probably mrs vaux's house at stoke pogis, of which we shall have something to say a little later. while there, he was taken ill even more seriously than before. his life became in danger, and the best doctors in oxford were sent for to his assistance. they despaired of curing him, and "he began to prepare himself earnestly for a good death." his poor young wife, being told that her husband could not recover, began "to think of a more perfect way of life," in case she should be left a widow. it may be thought that she might at least have waited to do this until after the death of her husband, but it is possible, and even probable, although not mentioned by father gerard, that sir everard himself desired her to consider what manner of life she would lead when he should be gone. she would be a very young widow with a large property, and sir everard would doubtless feel anxious as to what would become of her.[ ] "for some days," says father gerard, "she gave herself to learn the method of meditation, and to find out god's will with regard to her future life, how she might best direct it to his glory. this was her resolution, but god had otherwise arranged, and for that time happily." [ ] _life of father john gerard_, p. cliii. gerard himself was, humanly speaking, the means of prolonging digby's life, for, in spite of the verdict of the great physicians from oxford, that nothing could save him, father gerard refused to give up all hope, and persuaded him to send for a certain doctor of his own acquaintance from cambridge. "by this doctor, then, he was cured beyond all expectation, and so completely restored to health that there was not a more robust or stalwart man in a thousand." not very long after he had become a catholic, digby was roughly reminded of the illegality of his position, by a rumour that his friend, father gerard, who had gone to a house to visit, as a priest, a person who was dying, was either on the point of being, or was actually, in the hands of pursuivants. this news distressed him terribly. he immediately told his wife that, if father gerard were arrested, he intended to take a sufficient number of friends and servants to rescue him, and to watch the roads by which he would probably be taken to london; and that "he would accomplish" his "release one way or another, even though he should spend his whole fortune in the venture." the danger of such an attempt at that period was obvious. certainly his desire to set free father gerard was most praiseworthy, but whether, had he attempted it in the way he proposed, he would have benefitted or injured the catholic cause in england, may be considered at least doubtful. a rescue by an armed force would have meant a free fight, probably accompanied by some bloodshed, with this result, that, if successful, the perpetrators would most likely have been discovered, and sooner or later very severely dealt with as aggressors against the officers of the law in the execution of their duty, and that, if unsuccessful, the greater proportion of the rescuing party would have met their deaths either on the field at the time, or on the gallows afterwards. to attempt force against the whole armed power of the crown seemed a very quixotic undertaking, and the idea of dispersing the whole of his wealth, whether in the shape of armed force or other channels, in a chimerical effort to set free his friend, however generous in intent, scarcely recommends itself as the best method of using it for the good of the cause he had so much at heart. this incident shows digby's hastiness and impetuosity. fortunately, the report of father gerard's arrest turned out to be false; so, for the moment, any excited and unwise action on sir everard's part was avoided. chapter iii. a change of religion causes, to most of those who make it, a very forcible wrench. it may be, probably it usually is, accompanied by great happiness and a sensation of intense relief; no regrets whatever may be felt that the former faith, with its ministers, ceremonies, and churches have been renounced for ever; on the contrary, the convert may be delighted to be rid of them, and in turning his back upon the religion of his childhood, he may feel that he is dismissing a false teacher who has deceived him, rather than that he is bidding farewell to a guide who has conducted him, however unintentionally, unwittingly, or unwillingly, to the gate of safety. yet granting, and most emphatically granting, all this, we should not forget that there is another view of his position. let his rejoicing be ever so great at entering that portal and leaving the land of darkness for the regions of light, be the welcome he receives from his future co-religionists as warm as it may, and be his confidence as great as is conceivable, the convert is none the less forsaking a well-known country for one that is new to him, he is leaving old friends to enter among strangers, and he is exchanging long-formed habits for practices which it will take him some time to understand, to acquire, and to familiarize. a convert, again, is not invariably free from dangers. let us take the case of sir everard digby. a man with his position, popularity, wealth, intellect, and influence, was a convert of considerable importance from a human point of view, and he must have known it. if he lost money and friends by his conversion, much and many remained to him, and among the comparatively small number of catholics he might become a more leading man than as a unit in the vast crowd professing his former faith; and although, on the whole, the step which he had taken was calculated to be much against his advancement in life, there are certain attractions in being the principal or one of the principal men of influence in a considerable minority. i am not for a moment questioning digby's motives in becoming a catholic; i believe they were quite unexceptionable; all that i am at the moment aiming at is to induce the reader to keep before his mind that the position of an influential english convert, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, like most other positions, had its own special temptations and dangers, and my reasons for this aim will soon become obvious. in comparing the situation of a convert to catholicism in the latter days of elizabeth or the early days of james i., with one in the reign of victoria, we are met on the threshold with the fact that terrible bodily pains, and even death itself, threatened the former, while the latter is exposed to no danger of either for his religion. in the matter of legal fines and forfeitures, again, the persecution of the first was enormous, whereas the second suffers none. but of these pains and penalties i shall treat presently. just in passing i may remark that many a convert now living has reason for doubting whether any of his forerunners in the times of elizabeth or james i. suffered more pecuniary loss than he. one parent or uncle, by altering a will, can cause a romish recusant more loss than a whole army of pursuivants. looking at the positions of converts at the two periods from a social point of view, we find very different conditions. instead of being regarded, as he is now, in the light of a fool who, in an age of light, reason, and emancipation from error, has wilfully retrograded into the grossest of all forms of superstition, the convert, in the reigns of elizabeth and james, was known to be returning to the faith professed by his fathers, one, two, or, at most, three generations before him. it was not then considered a case of "turning roman catholic," but of returning to the old religion, and even by people who cared little, if at all, about such matters, he was rather respected than otherwise. now it is different. during the two last generations, so many conversions have apparently been the result of what is known as the oxford movement, or of ritualism, that converts are much associated in men's minds with ex-clergymen, or with clerical families; and to tell the truth, at least a considerable minority of anglicans of good position, while they tolerate, invite to dinner, and patronise their parsons, in their inmost hearts look down upon and rather dislike the clergy and the clergy-begotten. at present, again, a prejudice is felt in england against an old catholic, _prima facie_, on the ground that he is probably either an irishman, of irish extraction, or of an ancient catholic english family rendered effete by idleness, owing to religious disabilities, or by a long succession of intermarriages. it would be easy to prove that these prejudices, if not altogether without foundation in fact, are immensely and unwarrantably exaggerated, but my object, at present, is merely to state that they exist. three hundred years ago, whatever may have been the prejudices against catholics, old or new, they cannot have arisen on such grounds as these, and if protestants attributed the tenacity of the former and the determined return of the latter to their ancient faith rather to pride than to piety, there is no doubt which motive would be most respected in the fashionable world. the conduct of the digbys, immediately after their conversion, was most exemplary. they threw themselves heart and soul into their religion, and father gerard, who had received them into the church, writes[ ] of sir everard in the highest terms, saying:--"he was so studious a follower of virtue, after he became a catholic, that he gave great comfort to those that had the guiding of his soul (as i have heard them seriously affirm more than once or twice), he used his prayers daily both mental and vocal, and daily and diligent examination of his conscience: the sacraments he frequented devoutly every week, &c." "briefly i have heard it reported of this knight, by those that knew him well and that were often in his company, that they did note in him a special care of avoiding all occasions of sin and of furthering acts of virtue in what he could." [ ] _a narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . he read a good deal in order to be able to enter into controversy with protestants, and he was the means of bringing several into the church--"some of great account and place." as to his conversation, "not only in this highest kind, wherein he took very great joy and comfort, but also in ordinary talk, when he had observed that the speech did tend to any evil, as detraction or other kind of evil words which sometimes will happen in company, his custom was presently to take some occasion to alter the talk, and cunningly to bring in some other good matter or profitable subject to talk of. and this, when the matter was not very grossly evil, or spoken to the dishonour of god or disgrace of his servants; for then, his zeal and courage were such that he could not bear it, but would publicly and stoutly contradict it, whereof i could give divers instances worth relating, but am loth to hold the reader longer." finally, in speaking of those "that knew him" and those "that loved him," father gerard says, "truly it was hard to do the one and not the other." like most catholics living in the country, and inhabiting houses of any size, the digbys made a chapel in their home, "a chapel with a sacristy," says father gerard,[ ] "furnishing it with costly and beautiful vestments;" and they "obtained a priest of the society" (of jesus) "for their chaplain, who remained with them to sir everard's death." of this priest, gerard says[ ] that he was a man "who for virtue and learning hath not many his betters in england." this was probably father strange,[ ] who usually passed under the _alias_ of hungerford. he was the owner of a property, some of which, in gloucestershire, he sold,[ ] and "£ thereof is in the jesuites' bank" said a witness against him. he was imprisoned, after sir everard digby's death, for five or six years.[ ] in an underground dungeon in the tower[ ] "he was so severely tortured upon the rack that he dragged on the rest of his life for thirty-three years in the extremest debility, with severe pains in the loins and head." once when he was in agony upon the rack, a protestant minister began to argue with him about religion; whereupon, turning to the rack-master, father strange[ ] "asked him to hoist the minister upon a similar rack, and in like fetters and tortures, otherwise, said he, we shall be fighting upon unequal terms; for the custom everywhere prevails amongst scholars that the condition of the disputants be equal." [ ] _life of father john gerard_, p. clv. [ ] _a narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] _father h. garnet and the gunpowder plot_, by father pollen, p. . [ ] _records of the english province._ s.j. series, ix. x. xi., p. . [ ] _ib._, p. , and stoneyhurst mss. [ ] _ib._, p. . [ ] _ib._, p. . another jesuit father, at one time private chaplain to sir everard digby, was father john percy,[ ] who afterwards, under the _alias_ of fisher, held the famous controversy with archbishop laud in the presence of the king and the countess of buckingham, to whom he acted as chaplain for ten years. he also had been fearfully tortured in prison, in the reign of elizabeth; and if he recounted his experiences on the rack to sir everard digby, the hot blood of the latter would be stirred up against the protestant governments that could perpetrate or tolerate such iniquities. [ ] _records_, s.j. series, i., p. . in trying to picture to himself the "chapel with a sacristy" made by the digbys at gothurst, a romantic reader may imagine an ecclesiastical gem, in the form of a richly-decorated chamber filled with sacred pictures, figures of saints, crucifixes, candles, and miniature shrines. before taking the trouble of raising any such representation before the mind, it would be well to remember that, in the times of which we are treating, that was the most perfect and the best arranged chapel in which the altar, cross, chalice, vestments, &c., could be concealed at the shortest possible notice, and the chamber itself most quickly made to look like an ordinary room. the altar was on such occasions a small slab of stone, a few inches in length and breadth, and considerably less than an inch in thickness. it was generally laid upon the projecting shelf of a piece of furniture, which, when closed, had the appearance of a cabinet. some few remains of altars and other pieces of "massing stuff," as protestants called it, of that date still remain, as also do many simple specimens used in france during the revolution of last century, which have much in common with them. to demonstrate the small space in which the ecclesiastical contents of a private chapel could be hidden away in times of persecution, i may say that, even now, for priests who have the privilege of saying mass elsewhere than in churches or regular chapels--for instance, in private rooms, on board ship,[ ] or in the ward of a hospital--altar, chalice, paten, cruets, altar-cloths, lavabo, alb, amice, girdle, candlesticks, crucifix, wafer-boxes, wine-flask, missal, missal-stand, bell, holy-oil stocks, pyx, and a set of red and white vestments (reversible)--in fact, everything necessary for saying mass, as well as for administering extreme unction to the sick, can be carried in a case inches in length, inches in width, and inches in depth. occasionally, as we are told of the digbys, rich people may have had some handsome vestments; but a private chapel early in the sixteenth century must have been a very different thing from what we associate with the term in our own times, and however well furnished it may have been as a room, it must have been almost devoid of "ecclesiastical luxury." [ ] in his _mores catholici_ (cincinnati, , vol. ii. p. ), kenelm h. digby says that "portable altars were in use long before the eleventh century. st wulfran, bishop of sens, passing the sea in a ship, is said to have celebrated the sacred mysteries upon a portable altar." here and there were exceptions, in which catholics were very bold, but they always got into trouble. for instance, when luisa de carvajal came to england, she was received at a country house--possibly scotney castle, on the borders of kent and sussex--the chapel of which[ ] "was adorned with pictures and images, and enriched with many relics. several masses were said in it every day, and accompanied by beautiful vocal and instrumental music." it was "adorned not only with all the requisites, but all the luxuries, so to speak, of catholic worship;" and luisa could walk "on a spring morning in a pleached alley, saying her beads, within hearing of the harmonious sounds of holy music floating in the balmy air." what was the consequence? "the beautiful dream was rudely dispelled. one night, after she had been at this place about a month, a secret warning was given to the master of this hospitable mansion, that he had been denounced as a harbourer of priests, and that the pursuivants would invade his house on the morrow. on the receipt of this information, measures were immediately taken to hide all traces of catholic worship, and a general dispersion took place." i only give this as a typical case to show how necessary it then was to make chapels and catholic worship as secret as possible. [ ] _the life of luisa de carvajal_, by lady g. fullerton, p. , _seq._ sir everard digby was anxious that others, as well as himself, should join the body which he believed to be the one, true, and only church of god, and of this i have nothing to say except in praise. an anecdote of his efforts in this direction, however, is interesting as showing, not only the necessities of the times, but also something of the character and disposition of the man. in studying a man's life, there may be a danger of building too much upon his actions, as if they proved his inclinations, when they were in reality only the result of exceptional circumstances, and i have no wish to force the inferences, which i myself draw from the following facts, upon the opinions of other people; i merely submit them for what they are worth. father gerard says[ ] that sir everard "had a friend for whom he felt a peculiar affection," namely, oliver manners, the fourth son of john, fourth earl of rutland, and said by father j. morris[ ] to have been knighted by king james i. "on his coming from scotland," on april nd, , but by burke,[ ] "at belvoir castle, rd april ." he was very anxious that this friend should be converted to the catholic faith, and that, to this end, he should make the acquaintance of father gerard; "but because he held an office in the court, requiring his daily attendance about the king's person, so that he could not be absent for long together," this "desire was long delayed." at last sir everard met manners in london at a time when he knew that father gerard was there also, "and he took an opportunity of asking him to come at a certain time to play at cards, for these are the books gentlemen in london study both night and day." instead of inviting a card-party, digby invited no one except father gerard, and when manners arrived, he found gerard and digby "sitting and conversing very seriously." the latter asked him "to sit down a little until the rest should arrive." after a short silence sir everard said:-- [ ] _life of father john gerard_, p. clxvi. _seq._ [ ] _ib._, footnote to p. cciii. [ ] _peerage_, , p. . "we two were engaged in a very serious conversation, in fact, concerning religion. you know that i am friendly to catholics and to the catholic faith; i was, nevertheless, disputing with this gentleman, who is a friend of mine, against the catholic faith, in order to see what defence he could make, for he is an earnest catholic, as i do not hesitate to tell you." at this he turned to father gerard and begged him not to be angry with him for betraying the fact of his being a romish recusant to a stranger; then he said to manners, "and i must say he so well defended the catholic faith that i could not answer him, and i am glad you have come to help me." manners "was young and confident, and trusting his own great abilities, expected to carry everything before him, so good was his cause and so lightly did he esteem" his opponent, "as he afterwards confessed." after an hour's sharp argument and retort on either side, father gerard began to explain the catholic faith more fully, and to confirm it with texts of scripture, and passages from the fathers. manners listened in silence, and "before he left he was fully resolved to become a catholic, and took with him a book to assist him in preparing for a good confession, which he made before a week had passed." he became an excellent and exemplary christian, and his life would make an interesting and edifying volume. all honour to sir everard digby for having been the human medium of bringing about this most happy and blessed conversion! it might have been difficult to accomplish it by any other method. in those days of persecution, stratagem was absolutely necessary to catholics for their safety sake, even in everyday life, and still more so in evangelism. as to the particular stratagem used by digby in this instance, i do not go so far as to say that it was blame-worthy; i have often read of it without mentally criticising it; i have even regarded it with some degree of admiration; but, now that i am attempting a study of sir everard digby's character, and seeking for symptoms of it in every detail that i can discover of his words and actions, i ask myself whether, in all its innocence, his conduct on this occasion did not exhibit traces of a natural inclination to plot and intrigue. could he have induced manners to come to his rooms by no other attraction than a game of cards, which he had no intention of playing? was it necessary on his arrival there to ask him to await that of guests who were not coming, and had never been invited? was he obliged, in the presence of so intimate a friend, to pretend to be only well-disposed towards catholics instead of owning himself to be one of them? need he have put himself to the trouble of apologising to father gerard for revealing that he was a catholic? in religious, as in all other matters, there are cases in which artifice may be harmless or desirable, or even a duty, but a thoroughly straightforward man will shrink from the "pious dodge" as much as the kind-hearted surgeon will shrink from the use of the knife or the cautery. necessary as they may have been, nay, necessary as they undoubtedly were, the planning, and disguising, and hiding, and intriguing used as means for bringing about the conversions of lady digby, sir everard digby, and oliver manners, though innocent in themselves, placed those concerned in them in that atmosphere of romance, adventure, excitement, and even sentiment, which i have before described, and it is obvious that such an atmosphere is not without its peculiar perils. it is certainly very comfortable to be able to preach undisturbed, to convert heretics openly, and to worship in the churches of the king and the government; yet even in religion, to some slight degree, the words of a certain very wise man may occasionally be true, that[ ] "stolen waters are sweeter, and hidden bread is more pleasant." nothing is more excellent than missionary work; but it is a fact that proselytism, when conducted under difficulties and dangers, whether it be under the standard of truth or under the standard of error, is not without some of the elements of sport; at any rate, if it be true, as enthusiasts have been heard to assert, that even the hunted fox is a partaker in the pleasures of the chase, the jesuits had every opportunity of enjoying them during the reigns of elizabeth and james i. [ ] proverbs ix. . besides a consideration of the personal characteristics of sir everard digby, and the position of converts to catholicism in his times, it will be necessary to take a wider view of the political, social, and religious events of his period. otherwise we should be unable to form anything like a fair judgment either of his own conduct, or of the treatment which he received from others. the oppression and persecution of catholics by queen elizabeth and her ministers was extreme. it was made death to be a priest, death to receive absolution from a priest, death to harbour a priest, death even to give food or help of any sort to a priest, and death to persuade anyone to become a catholic. very many priests and many laymen were martyred, more were tortured, yet more suffered severe temporal losses. and, what was most cruel of all, while statutes were passed with a view to making life unendurable for catholics in england itself, english catholics were forbidden to go, or to send their children, beyond the seas without special leave. the actual date of the digbys' reception into the catholic church is a matter of some doubt. it probably took place before the death of elizabeth. that was a time when english catholics were considering their future with the greatest anxiety. politics entered largely into the question, and where politics include, as they did then, at any rate, in many men's minds, some doubts as to the succession to the crown, intrigue and conspiracy were pretty certain to be practised. chapter iv. the responsibility of the intrigues in respect to the claims to the english throne, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, rests to some extent upon queen elizabeth herself. as mr gardiner puts it:--[ ] "she was determined that in her lifetime no one should be able to call himself her heir." it was generally understood that james would succeed to the throne; but, so long as there was the slightest uncertainty on the question, it was but natural that the catholics should be anxious that a monarch should be crowned who would favour, or at least tolerate them, and that they should make inquiries, and converse eagerly, about every possible claimant to the throne. fears of foreign invasion and domestic plotting were seriously entertained in england during the latter days of elizabeth, as well as immediately after her death. "wealthy men had brought in their plate and treasure from the country, and had put them in places of safety. ships of war had been stationed in the straits of dover to guard against a foreign invasion, and some of the principal recusants had, as a matter of precaution, been committed to safe custody."[ ] [ ] _history of england_, from the accession of james i. to the outbreak of the civil war, - , vol. i. p. . [ ] gardiner's _history of england_, vol. i. p. . when james vi. of scotland, the son of the catholic mary queen of scots, ascended the throne, rendered vacant by the death of elizabeth, as james i. of england, no voice was raised in favour of any other claimant, and[ ] "the catholics, flattered by the reports of their agents, hailed with joy the succession of a prince who was said to have promised the toleration of their worship, in return for the attachment which they had so often displayed for the house of stuart." king james owed toleration, says lingard, "to their sufferings in the cause of his unfortunate mother;" and "he had bound himself to it, by promises to their envoys, and to the princes of their communion." [ ] lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. the opinion that the new king would upset and even reverse the anti-catholic legislation of elizabeth was not confined to the catholic body: many protestants had taken alarm on this very score, as may be inferred from a contemporary tract, entitled[ ]_advertisements of a loyal subject to his gracious sovereign, drawn from the observation of the people's speeches_, in which the following passage occurs:--"the plebes, i wotte not what they call them, but some there bee who most unnaturally and unreverentlie, by most egregious lies, wound the honour of our deceased soveraigne, not onlie touching her government and good fame, but her person with sundry untruthes," and after going on in this strain for some lines it adds:--"suerlie these slanders be the doings of the papists, ayming thereby at the deformation of the gospell." [ ] on the other hand, there were both catholics and puritans who were distrustful of james. sir everard cannot have been long a catholic, when a dangerous conspiracy was on foot. sir griffin markham, a catholic, and george brooke, a protestant, and a brother of lord cobham's, hatched the well-known plot which was denominated "the bye," and, among many others who joined it, were two priests, watson and clarke, both of whom were eventually executed on that account. its object appears to have been to seize the king's person, and wring from him guarantees of toleration for both puritans and catholics. father gerard acquired some knowledge of this conspiracy, as also did father garnet, the provincial of the jesuits, and blackwell, the archpriest; and they insisted upon the information being laid instantly before the government. before they had time to carry out their intention, however, it had already been communicated, and the complete failure of the attempt is notorious. the result was to injure the causes of both the catholics and the puritans, and james never afterwards trusted the professions of either. [ ] somers tracts, vol. ii. p. . from the cotton library, faustina, c. , , fol. . [ ] "james was an alien." "supposing that on such principles king james was rejected, who would come next? the lady arabella stuart, descended from margaret, daughter of henry vii. in the same manner as king james, save that her father was a second son, and king james's father was the eldest. but she had the fact of her birth and domiciliation within the kingdom of england as a counter-poise to her father's want of primogeniture." "without openly professing roman catholicism, she was thought to be inclined that way, and to be certainly willing to make favourable terms with the roman catholics." introduction by j. bruce to _correspondence of king james vi. of scotland with cecil and others_. so far as the catholics were concerned, the "bye" conspiracy unfortunately revealed another; for father watson, in a written confession which he made in prison, brought accusations of disloyalty against the jesuits. it was quite true that, two years earlier, catesby, tresham, and winter--all friends of sir everard digby's--had endeavoured to induce philip of spain to invade england, and had asked father garnet to give them his sanction in so doing; but garnet had "misliked it," and had told them that it would be as much "disliked at rome."[ ] [ ] dodds' _church history of england_, vol. iv. p. . tierney's notes. winter had arranged that if queen elizabeth should die before the invasion, the news should be at once sent to the spanish court. for this purpose, a yorkshire gentleman, named christopher wright, and one guy, or guido, faukes, or fawkes, "a soldier of fortune," of whom we shall have more to say by-and-bye, were sent to the court of spain in . although father garnet disapproved of the plan, he had given wright a letter of introduction to a jesuit at the spanish court. neither wright nor fawkes were able to rouse king philip, who said that he had no quarrel with his english brother, and that he had just appointed an ambassador to the court of st james's to arrange the terms of a lasting peace with the english nation. knowing something of this, father watson used it as an instrument of revenge against the jesuits, who, he knew, had intended to warn king james against his own attempt to entrap him.[ ] "it is well known to all the world," he wrote, "how the jesuits and spanish faction had continually, by word, writing, and action, sought his majesty's destruction, with the setting up of another prince and sovereign over us; yea, and although it should be revealed what practises they had, even in this interim betwixt the proclaiming and crowning of his majesty." and then he enumerated some of these "practises," among others, "levying , men to be in a readiness for the spaniard or archduke; by buying up all the great horses, as gerard doth; by sending down powder and shot into staffordshire and other places, with warning unto catholics to be in a readiness; by collection of money under divers pretences, to the value of a million;" "by affirming that none might yield to live under an heretic (as they continually termed his majesty);" "and by open speech that the king and all his royal issue must be cut off and put to death." in making these bitter and, for the most part, untrue accusations against the jesuits, he complained that he was "accounted for no better than an infidel, apostate, or atheist, by the jesuitical faction," and that he was never likely "to receive any favour" from his majesty "so long as any jesuit or spaniard" remained "alive within this land." [ ] dodds' _church history of england_, appendix i. p. xxxv. undoubtedly, during the cruel persecutions of elizabeth, jesuits, as well as secular priests, and catholic laymen too, for that matter, had hoped that her successor on the english throne might be of their own religion; they had good cause for doing so; the pope himself had urged the enthronement of a catholic monarch for their country, and in fairness, it must be admitted that not a few englishmen, who considered themselves royalist above all others, had at one time refused to regard elizabeth herself as the legitimate possessor of the british crown; but, when james had been established upon the throne, with the exception of a few discontents, such as the conspirators in the "bye" plot and the diminutive spanish party, the english catholics, both lay and clerical, acknowledged him as their rightful king. pope clement viii.[ ] "commanded the missionaries" in england "to confine themselves to their spiritual duties, and to discourage, by all means in their power, every attempt to disturb the tranquillity of the realm;" he also ordered "the nuncio at paris to assure james of the abhorrence with which he viewed all acts of disloyalty," and he despatched "a secret messenger to the english court with an offer to withdraw from the kingdom any missionary who might be an object of suspicion to the council." [ ] lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. unfortunately, the discovery of the two conspiracies above mentioned, in which catholics were implicated, weighed more with james than any assurances of goodwill from the pope or his emissaries. had not watson given king's evidence? had not foreign invasion been implored by catholics? had they not intended "the lady arabella" as a substitute for his own royal majesty upon the throne? and had they not treasonably united with their extreme opposites, the puritans, in a design to capture his precious person, with a view to squeezing concessions out of him, if not to putting him to death? to some extent he did indeed endeavour to conciliate the higher classes among his catholic subjects, by inviting them to court, by conferring upon them the honour--such as it was--of knighthood, as in the case of sir everard digby, and by promising to protect them from the penalties of recusancy, so long as by their loyalty and peaceable behaviour they should show themselves worthy of his favour and his confidence, but he absolutely and abruptly refused all requests for toleration of their religious worship, and more than once, he even committed to the tower catholics who had the presumption to ask for it. the times were most trying to a recent convert like sir everard digby. i will again quote lingard[ ] to show how faithless was james to the promises he had made of relief to his catholic subjects:--"the oppressive and sanguinary code framed in the reign of elizabeth was re-enacted to its full extent; it was even improved with additional severities." [ ] vol. vii. chap. i. and then, after describing the severe penalties inflicted upon those who sent children "beyond the seas, to the intent that" they "should reside or be educated in a catholic college or seminary," as well as upon "the owners or masters of ships who" conveyed them, and adding that "every individual who had already resided or studied, or should hereafter reside or study in any such college or seminary, was rendered incapable of inheriting or purchasing or enjoying lands, annuities, chattels, debts, or sums of money within the realm, unless at his return to england, he should conform to the established church, he says:--"moreover, as missionaries sometimes eluded detection under the disguise of tutors in gentlemen's houses, it was provided that no man should teach even the rudiments of grammar without a license of the diocesan, under the penalty of forty shillings per day, to be levied on the tutor himself, and the same sum on his employer." and again, when james had been a year on the throne, the execution of the penal laws enabled the king "... to derive considerable profit," says lingard.[ ] "the legal fine of £ per lunar month was again demanded; and not only for the time to come, but for the whole period of the suspension; a demand which, by crowding thirteen separate payments into one of £ , exhausted the whole annual income of men in respectable but moderate circumstances. nor was this all. by law, the least default in these payments subjected the recusant to the forfeiture of all his goods and chattels, and of two-thirds of his lands, tenements, hereditaments, farms, and leases. the execution of this severe punishment was intrusted to the judges at the assizes, the magistrates at the sessions, and the commissioners for causes ecclesiastical at their meetings. by them warrants of distress were issued to constables and pursuivants; all the cattle on the lands of the delinquent, his household furniture, and his wearing apparel, were seized and sold; and if, on some pretext or other, he was not thrown into prison, he found himself and family left without a change of apparel or a bed to lie upon, unless he had been enabled by the charity of his friends to redeem them after the sale, or to purchase with bribes the forbearance of the officers. within six months the payment was again demanded, and the same pauperizing process repeated." [ ] vol. vii. chap. i. it may be only fair to say, however, that mr gardiner thinks lingard was guilty of exaggeration on one point; for he says[ ] "the £ men were never called upon for arrears, and, as far as i have been able to trace the names, the forfeitures of goods and chattels were only demanded from those from whom no lands had been seized." [ ] _history of england_, - , vol. i. p. , footnote. a letter in father garnet's handwriting to father persons on these topics should have a special interest for us, as it was pretty certainly written at gothurst, where he seems to have been staying at the time it is dated, october and , . it says[ ]:--"the courses taken are more severe than in bess's time.... if any recusant buy his goods again, they inquire diligently if the money be his own: otherwise they would have that too. in fine, if these courses hold, every man must be fain to redeem, once in six months, the very bed he lieth on: and hereof, of twice redeeming, besides other precedents, i find one here in nicolas, his lodging," _i.e._, in the house of sir everard digby. "the judges now openly protest that the king will have blood, and hath taken blood in yorkshire; and that the king hath hitherto stroked papists, but now will strike:--and this is without any desert of catholics. the execution of two in the north is certain:"--three persons, welbourn and fulthering at york, and brown at ripon, had in fact been executed in yorkshire that year for recusancy.[ ] father garnet continues:--"and whereas it was done upon cold blood, that is, with so great stay after their condemnation, it argueth a deliberate resolution of what we may expect: so that you may see there is no hope that paul," _i.e._ pope paul v., "can do anything; and whatsoever men give out there, of easy proceedings with catholics, is mere fabulous. and yet, notwithstanding, i am assured that the best sort of catholics will bear all their losses with patience: but how these tyrannical proceedings of such base officers may drive particular men to desperate attempts, that i cannot answer for;--the king's wisdom will foresee." [ ] i quote from _dodd and tierney_, vol. iv., appendix xvi., p. ciii. [ ] challoner, ii. , . mr gardiner, in noticing the fines levied on recusants, mentions[ ] one point in connection with them which would be peculiarly vexatious to a man of sir everard digby's temperament and position. "the catholics must have been especially aggrieved by the knowledge that much of the money thus raised went into the pockets of courtiers. for instance, the profits of the lands of two recusants were granted to a foot-man, and this was by no means an isolated case." [ ] _history of england_, - , vol i. p. . sir everard digby's great friend, father gerard, also testifies at great length to the persecutions under elizabeth and james.[ ] father southwell was put "nine times most cruelly upon the torture," and the law against the catholics "put to cruel death many and worthy persons," and "many persons of great families and estimation were at several times put to death under pretence of treason, which also was their cloak to cover their cruelties against such priests and religious as were sent into england by authority from his holiness to teach and preach the faith of christ, and to minister his sacraments." [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . _seq._ again, "their torturing of men when they were taken to make them confess their acquaintance and relievers, was more terrible than death by much, &c." "besides the spoiling and robbing laymen of their livings and goods, with which they should maintain their families, is to many more grievous than death would be, when those that have lived in good estate and countenance in their country shall see before them their whole life to be led in misery, and not only themselves, but their wives and children to go a-begging." "and to these the continual and cruel searches, which i have found to be more terrible than taking itself. the insolencies and abuses offered in them, and in the seizures of goods, the continual awe and fear that men are kept in by the daily expectance of these things, while every malicious man (of which heresy can want no plenty) is made an officer in these affairs, and every officer a king as it were, to command and insult upon catholics at their pleasure." it may be readily imagined how the writer of all this would discuss this bad state of affairs with sir everard at gothurst. i have no wish to exaggerate the sufferings endured by catholics during the reigns of elizabeth and the early stuarts. i willingly admit that in many cases the legal penalties were not enforced against them, nay, i would go further and frankly remind my catholic readers--protestants may possibly not require to have their memories thus stimulated--that half a century had not elapsed since protestants were burned at the stake in smithfield for their religion by catholics. besides all this, it is certain that toleration, as we understand it, is a comparatively modern invention, and that if mary queen of scots had ascended the english throne, or if it had fallen into the hands of spain, protestants in this country might not have had a very comfortable time of it, especially in the process of disgorging property taken from the church, and that, under certain circumstances, some of them might even have suffered death for their faith; but, while readily making this admission, i doubt whether any catholic government ever attempted to oblige a people to relinquish a religion, which it had professed for many centuries, with the persistency and cruelty which the governments of elizabeth and james i. exercised in endeavouring to oblige every british subject to reject the religion of his forefathers. instances are not wanting of catholics dealing out stern measures towards those who introduced a new religion into a country; this, on the contrary, was a case of punishing those who refused to adopt a new religion. nor was this the only ground on which the persecutions by james appeared unfair, tyrannical, and odious to catholics. during the reign of elizabeth they had endured their sufferings as the penalties of a religion contradicting that of their monarch. perhaps they did not altogether blame her so much for her persecutions, as for persecuting the right religion in mistake for the wrong; and, after all, they knew she had been persuaded by her council that, for purposes of state, it was necessary to break off relations with the apostolic see, and to maintain the newly-fangled anglican faith; they knew that the refusal of rome to acknowledge her legitimacy, threatened the very foundations of her throne, and consequently made every catholic seem a traitor in her eyes; they knew, too, that the holy see had favoured mary queen of scots, whom she had regarded as her most dangerous rival. under these circumstances, therefore, while they found their troubles and trials excessively bitter, they may not have been very profoundly astonished at them. but when james, after a brief respite, continued and even increased the persecutions of the previous reign, they looked at the matter in quite a different light. in the first place, they expected that the protestant son of so catholic a mother, who had suffered imprisonment and death because she was a catholic, could scarcely become the friend and accomplice of those who had betrayed and martyred his mother. i am not trenching on the question of the martyrdom of mary queen of scots; i am merely writing of the feeling respecting her death, prevalent at that time among members of her own religion in this country. secondly, unlike elizabeth, james had no cause for fearing the holy see; it never questioned his legitimacy; it had assisted him when king of scotland; its adherents in england had almost universally hailed his accession to the crown with loyalty and rejoicing; and, as i have already shown, the pope had sent messages to him, offering to assist in assuring the allegiance of the catholics by removing any priests who might be obnoxious to him. even goodman, the protestant bishop of gloucester, wrote[ ]:--"after sixtus quintus succeeded clement octavus, a man, according to his name, who was much given to mercy and compassion. now to him king james did make suit to favour his title to the crown of england, which as king james doth relate in his book, _triplici nodo triplex cuneus_, the pope did promise to do." james said that he would show favour to catholics[ ] "were it not that the english would take it ill, and it would much hinder him in his succession; and withall, that his own subjects in scotland were so violent against catholics, that he, being poor, durst not offend them. whereupon the pope replied, that if it were for want of means, he would exhaust all the treasures of the church and sell the plate to supply him." and again, says goodman of the english catholics and king james[ ]:--"and certainly they had very great promises from him." nevertheless,[ ] "he did resolve to run a course against the papists," and "at his discourses at table usually he did express much hatred to them." [ ] _the court of king james i._, vol. i. p. _seq._ [ ] _ib._, p. . [ ] _the court of king james i._, vol. i. p. . [ ] _ib._ p. . father gerard writes that[ ] there were "particular embassagies and letters from his majesty unto other princes, giving hope at least of toleration to catholics in england, of which letters divers were translated this year into french and came so into england, as divers affirmed that had seen them." he was also "well assured that immediately upon queen elizabeth's sickness and death, divers catholics of note and fame, priests also, did ride post into scotland, as well to carry the assurance of dutiful affection from all catholics unto his majesty as also to obtain his gracious favour for them and his royal word for confirmation of the same. at that time, and to those persons, it is certain he did promise that catholics should not only be quiet from any molestations, but should also enjoy such liberty in their houses privately as themselves would desire, and have both priests and sacraments with full toleration and desired quiet. both the priests that did kneel before him when he gave this promise (binding it with the word of a prince, which he said was never yet broken), did protest so much unto divers from whom i have it. and divers others, persons of great worth, have assured me the same upon the like promise received from his majesty, both for the common state of catholics and their own particular." [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . it is dangerous to make too much of evidence against which there may be the shadow of a suspicion. father gerard's personal testimony can be accepted without the smallest hesitation; but that of father watson, who was probably one of the priests he mentioned who "did kneel before" james when he made the solemn promise which father gerard heard of at second hand, should be received with more caution. lord northampton's statement in his speech at sir everard digby's trial should certainly obtain very careful consideration. "no man," said he,[ ] "can speak more soundly to the point than myself; for being sent into the prison by the king to charge him with this false alarm" (_i.e._, the report that james had promised toleration to catholics), "only two days before his death, and upon his soul to press him in the presence of god, and as he would answer it at another bar, to confess directly whether at either or both these times he had access unto his majesty at edinburgh, his majesty did give him any promise, hope, or comfort of encouragement to catholics concerning toleration; he did there protest upon his soul that he could never win one inch of ground or draw the smallest comfort from the king in those degrees, nor further than that he would have them apprehend, that as he was a stranger to this state, so, till he understood in all points how those matters stood, he would not promise favour any way; but did protest that all the crowns and kingdoms in this world should not induce him to change any jot of his profession, which was the pasture of his soul and earnest of his eternal inheritance. he did confess that in very deed, to keep up the hearts of catholics in love and duty to the king, he had imparted the king's words to many, in a better tune and a higher kind of descant than his book of plainsong did direct, because he knew that others, like sly bargemen, looked that way when their stroke was bent another way. for this he craved pardon of the king in humble manner, and for his main treasons, of a higher nature than these figures of hypocrisy, and seemed penitent, as well for the horror of his crime as for the falsehood of his whisperings." [ ] _criminal trials_, jardine, vol. ii. p. . probably northampton may have exaggerated, possibly he may have lied, in making this statement; but there is this to be remembered, that owing to his false testimony against the jesuits, already recorded in this chapter, father watson must be regarded as a somewhat discredited witness, and it will not do for us catholics to accept his verbal evidence against king james, and then to turn round and repudiate the evidence against the jesuits in his own handwriting,[ ] without some very strong reason for so doing. a reason of a certain strength does indeed exist; for watson's evidence against james was given freely and uninterestedly; whereas his evidence against the jesuits may very probably have been offered in the hope that it might be accepted as the price of pardon, or at least of some mitigation of the awful sufferings included in the form of death to which he had been sentenced. [ ] quoted above. i copied from dodd; but the original may be found in the s.p. dom., james i., vol. iii. n. . even if we altogether discard watson's evidence of james's promises, enough remains to satisfy my own mind that the new king had given the catholics more or less hope of toleration; and, if i am too easily satisfied on this point, there can be no sort of question that sir everard digby, who was often with father gerard, and that many other english catholics had been assured, rightly or wrongly, and believed, wrongly or rightly, that king james had solemnly promised to give them immunity from persecution, if not freedom of worship, and that he had basely and treacherously broken his faith with them and sold them for the price of popularity among his far more numerous protestant subjects: who, then, can blame them for considering themselves to have been most unjustly, perfidiously, and infamously treated by that monarch? it may be worth while to quote here again from goodman, the protestant bishop of gloucester, respecting the persecutions of the catholics in the reign of james.[ ] "now that they saw the times settled, having no hope of better days, but expecting that the uttermost rigour of the law should be executed, they became desperate; finding that by the laws of the kingdom their own lives were not secured, and for the coming over of a priest into england it was no less than high treason. a gentlewoman was hanged only for relieving and harbouring a priest; a citizen was hanged only for being reconciled to the church of rome: besides, the penal laws were such and so executed that they should not subsist:--what was usually sold in shops and openly bought, this the pursuivant would take away from them as being popish and superstitious. one knight did affirm that in one term he gave twenty nobles in rewards to the doorkeeper of the attorney-general; another did affirm, that his third part which remained to him of his estate did hardly serve for his expense in law to defend him from other oppressions, besides their children to be taken from home to be brought up in another religion. so they did every way conclude that their estate was desperate, etc." if objection should be taken to goodman as a witness on the protestant side, on the ground that he eventually became a catholic, i would reply that, at the time he wrote what i have quoted, he was, as the editor of his _court of james the first_ says,[ ] "an earnest and zealous supporter of the church," of england, and of james i., goodman himself writes[ ] in that very book:--"truly i did never know any man of so great an apprehension, of so great love and affection--a man so truly just, so free from all cruelty and pride, such a lover of the church, and one that had done so much good for the church." such an admirer of king james might certainly be trusted not to say a word that he could honestly avoid about the ill-treatment endured by any class of his subjects during his reign. [ ] _the court of king james i._, vol. i. pp. - . [ ] introduction, p. viii. [ ] vol. i. p. . chapter v. considering that the king had been led to distrust the catholics through the two lately discovered plots in which some of their number had taken part, the best policy for those who remained loyal, and these were by far the majority, would have been to have taken every opportunity of displaying their faithfulness to their sovereign, and, for those whose position so entitled them, to present themselves as often as they conveniently could at his court, even if their welcome was somewhat cold. digby chose to follow an exactly opposite course. he went to court on james's accession and received knighthood, and then he returned to the country, only visiting london occasionally, and then not going to court. like his fellow-catholics, he at first entertained hopes that the new king was about to exhibit toleration, and as much as any of them was he disappointed and embittered as time speedily began to prove the contrary. one cause of sir everard digby's disgust at the aspect of affairs, early in james the first's reign, may have been that, as a courtier, he had expected much from the queen's being a catholic,[ ] and that not only did no apparent good come of it, but her example gave the greatest discouragement, as well as grave scandal, to such of her subjects as professed her own religion. indeed, all that can safely be said of her catholicism, is that she was[ ] "a catholic, so far, at least, as her pleasure-loving nature allowed her to be of any religion at all." nevertheless, "she took great delight in consecrated,"--or, as catholics would say, blessed or sacred--"objects." she had allowed herself to be crowned by[ ] "a protestant archbishop; but when the time arrived for the reception of the communion, she remained immovable on her seat, leaving the king to partake alone." "enthusiastic catholics complained that she had no heart for anything but festivities and amusements, and during the rest of her life she attended the services of the church sufficiently to enable the government to allege that she was merely an enemy of puritanical strictness." on one occasion, the king,[ ] "with some difficulty," had actually "induced her to receive the communion with him at salisbury, but she had been much vexed with herself since, and had refused to do it again. on christmas day she had accompanied him to church, but since then he found it impossible to induce her to be present at a protestant service. at one time sir anthony standen, a catholic, was employed by james on a mission to some of the italian states, and he brought home with him some objects of devotion, as a present from the pope to the queen of england. these delighted her; yet, when the king heard of them, they were returned to the pope through the nuncio in paris." [ ] in his _history of the catholic church in scotland_, translated by father h. blair, canon bellesheim says (vol. iii. p. ) that she was probably received into the church in . but father forbes leith, in his _narrative_ (pp. _seq_.) gives an authority stating it to have taken place in . see also a very interesting article on "anne of denmark," by the rev. j. stevenson, in _the month_, vol. (xxxv.) pp. - . [ ] _history of england_, from - . by s. r. gardiner, vol. i. p. . also degli effetti to del bufalo, june / , / ; persons to aldobrandino, september / , _roman transcripts_, r.o. [ ] _history of england_, gardiner, vol. i, p. . also degli effetti to del bufalo, aug. , / , _roman transcripts_, r.o. [ ] _history of england_, gardiner, vol. i. p. . now to any good catholic, especially to an exceedingly zealous convert in his first fervour, like sir everard digby, a protestant king might be tolerable, provided he treated his catholic subjects properly; but a court presided over by a queen, herself a convert, who was a most indifferent catholic, if not an apostate,[ ] would be odious in the extreme. it was difficult enough, in any case, to make many simple catholics understand that there was anything very wrong in avoiding persecution by putting in an occasional appearance at the protestant churches, without joining in the service, if they heard mass when they could, and went regularly to confession and communion; but the difficulty was immensely increased when they heard that the greatest lady in the land, who was herself a catholic, did that very thing. again, the country-gentlemen of high estate, sir everard digby among them, suffered fines and penalties for their faith; yet here was the catholic queen herself, contently living in the greatest luxury, and yielding on the most important points of her religion, in order to obtain it.[ ] no wonder, therefore, that sir everard digby absented himself from court, however impolitic it may have been in him to do so. [ ] in her _queens of england_, miss strickland gives her authority for the statement that queen ann died "in edifying communion with the church of england." [ ] her practical concealment of her religion may have been chiefly on her husband's account. father abercromby, s.j., who received her into the church, wrote that james i. said to her:--"rogo te, mea uxor, si non potes sine hujusmodi (sacerdote) vivere, utaris quam poteris, secretissime, alias periclitabitur corona nostra." bellesheim's hist., p. . in his country home, at gothurst, he brooded, with much impatience, over the wrongs of his co-religionists, nor can it have been a pleasant reflection that at any moment his beautiful house might be broken into by pursuivants, who would hunt every recess and cupboard in it, in search of a priest, or of what anglicans then denominated "massing-stuff." should they suspect that the most richly carved pieces of oak-work concealed a hiding-place, the "officers of justice" would ruthlessly shatter them to pieces with axe or crowbar; his wife's private rooms would not be safe from the intrusion of the pursuivants, or the bevy of rough followers who might accompany them; and, if his house were filled with guests, even were they protestants, it would none the less necessarily be given up to the intruders for so long a time as they might choose to remain. the invasion would be as likely to be made by night as by day; no notice would be given of its approach, and, as its result, not only might the domestic chaplain be carried off a prisoner, with his face to a horse's tail and his legs tied together beneath its girths, but sir everard himself would be liable to be taken away in the same humiliating position, on a charge of high treason. the fine which catholics had to pay must have been sufficiently annoying even to a rich man like sir everard digby, and this annoyance would be greatly increased by the knowledge that to poorer men it meant ruin, as well as by the remarks of his less wealthy catholic friends that "after all, to him it was a mere nothing." the present was bad enough, and worse things were expected in the future. most of us know the fears with which we hear that a prime minister of opposite politics to our own is going to bring in a bill, in the coming session, directed against our personal interests; even the coming budget of a chancellor of the exchequer on our own side of the house, in a very bad year, is anticipated with serious misgivings. imagine, therefore, the terrors of the catholics whose lives would already have been rendered unendurable, had the laws existing against them been put into full force, when they not only observed a rapidly increasing zeal among magistrates and judges in their proceedings against romish recusants, but heard, on what appeared to be excellent authority, that additional, and most cruel, legislation against them was to be enacted in the parliament shortly to be opened. one of the most remarkable features in sir everard digby's character was his extreme susceptibility to the influence of others; and, for this reason, what may seem, at first sight, an undue proportion of a volume devoted to his biography, must necessarily be allotted to a description of the friends, and more especially one particular friend, under whose influence he fell; and, if my readers should sometimes imagine that i have forgotten sir everard digby altogether, or if they should feel inclined to accuse me of writing catesby's life rather than digby's, i can assure them that i am guiltless on both counts. for the moment, however, i must beg them to prepare themselves for an immediate and long digression, or rather an apparent digression, and warn them that it will be followed by many others. to an impetuous man, zealous to the last degree, but not according to knowledge, few things are more dangerous than an intimate friend of similar views and temperament. exactly such a friend had sir everard digby. here is a description of him by one who knew him well.[ ] he "grew to such a composition of manners and carriage, to such a care of his speech (that it might never be hurtful to others, but taking all occasions of doing good), to such a zealous course of life, both for the cause in general, and for every particular person whom he could help in god's service, as that he grew to be very much respected by most of the better and graver sort of catholics, and of priests, and religious also, whom he did much satisfy in the care of his conscience; so that it might plainly appear he had the fear of god joined with an earnest desire to serve him. and so no marvel though many priests did know him and were often in his company. he was, moreover, very wise and of great judgment, though his utterance was not so good. besides, he was so liberal and apt to help all sorts, as it got him much love. he was of person above two yards high, and, though slender, yet as well proportioned to his height as any man one should see. his age (i take it) at his death was about thirty-five, or thereabouts. and to do him right, if he had not fallen into"--one particular and exceedingly "foul action and followed his own judgment in it (to the hurt and scandal of many), asking no advice but of his own reasons deceived and blinded under the shadow of zeal; if, i say, it had not been for this, he had truly been a man worthy to be highly esteemed and prized in any commonwealth." [ ] father gerard's _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, pp. , . be his attractions and virtues what they might, this man, robert catesby, had not anything like such an unblemished past as his friend, sir everard digby. he was of an old warwickshire and northamptonshire family--he was the lineal descendant of william catesby, who was attainted and executed for high treason after the battle of bosworth field.[ ] robert catesby's father, who had been an ardent catholic, had suffered considerable losses in his estate, and been imprisoned on account of his religion; but robert himself, on his father's death, apostatized, became exceedingly dissolute, and still further impoverished the family property by his extravagance. goodman, bishop of gloucester, says of him:[ ] "for catesby, it is very well known that he was a very cunning, subtle man, exceedingly entangled in debts, and scarce able to subsist." [ ] dugdale's _warwickshire_, p. . jardine's _criminal trials_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] _court of king james i._, vol. i p. . some three or four years before sir everard digby's conversion, catesby had returned to the faith of his fathers. whatever may have been the love of his god manifested by the reformed reprobate, his hatred of his queen, and afterwards of his king, was unmeasured. i have no desire to say anything in disparagement of catesby's religious fervour; but, considering that he had once abjured the catholic faith, it may be no harm to remark that some people seem to like to profess the religion hated most by their enemies, and to exhibit zeal for it in proportion to that shown by their enemies against it. with several of his friends, catesby joined the ill-fated conspiracy of the earl of essex, in the course of which he was wounded, taken prisoner, and finally ransomed for £ in all. when fighting for essex, he greatly distinguished himself as a swordsman. later, as i have already said, he was implicated in the intrigue that sent christopher wright and guy fawkes to madrid in the hope of inducing philip of spain to depose james i. a modern jesuit, father j. hungerford pollen, has well said of him:[ ] "the owner of large estates in the counties of northampton, warwick, and oxford, honourably married, with issue to perpetuate the ancient family of which he was the only representative--such is not the sort of man we should have thought likely to engage in a desperate adventure, and this presumption might be further strengthened by the consideration of his moral qualities. he was brave and accomplished, attractive to that degree which makes even sober men risk life and fortune to follow where he should lead, honest of purpose and truthful, and, above all, exceedingly zealous for religion. these qualities should have, and would have, insured him from the frightful error into which he fell, had they not run to excess in more than one direction. full of the chivalry that characterised the elizabethan period, he was also infected with its worldliness, a failing which ill accorded with the patience every catholic had to practice, and, moreover, his force of character carried him into obstinate adherence to his own views and plans. this it was that worked such ruin upon himself and all those who came in contact with him. happy times may lead such men so to direct their energies, that the evil side of their character is never displayed, but times of great temptation often bring out the latent flaw in unexpected ways." [ ] _father h. garnet and the gunpowder plot_, pp. and . this is admirably put, except, perhaps, on one single point; and it is one of such importance that i will pause to consider it, especially as it applies to sir everard digby, almost, if not quite, as much as to catesby. in the reign of elizabeth, it was not chivalry but the decay and abolition of chivalry and the chivalrous spirit which occasionally led to deeds which a knight-errant would have despised. as sir walter scott says:--[ ] "the habit of constant and honourable opposition, unembittered by rancour or personal hatred, gave the fairest opportunity for the exercise of the virtues required from him whom chaucer terms a very perfect gentleman." again he says:--"we have seen that the abstract principles of chivalry were, in the highest degree, virtuous and noble, nay, that they failed by carrying to an absurd, exaggerated, and impracticable point, the honourable duties which they inculcated." chivalry, therefore, acted as a wholesome check upon the barbarity, the licentiousness, and the semi-civilisation of the middle ages, and when it was abolished, the knights and nobles, in spite of all the glamour of refinement and education in the reigns of henry viii., edward vi., mary, and elizabeth, still retained enough of the savage brutality of their forefathers to be occasionally very dangerous, when the discipline of chivalry had been withdrawn. "it is needless," says sir walter scott, "by multiplying examples, to illustrate the bloodthirsty and treacherous maxims and practices, which, during the sixteenth century, succeeded to the punctilious generosity exacted by the rules of chivalry. it is enough to call to the reader's recollection the bloody secret of the massacre of st bartholomew, which was kept by such a number of the catholic noblemen for two years,[ ] at the expense of false treaties, promises, and perjuries, and the execution which followed on naked, unarmed, and unsuspecting men, in which so many gallants lent their willing swords." now i am not going to enter here upon the question of sir walter scott's historical accuracy, or its contrary, on this horrible massacre; but might he not have extended his period "of treacherous maxims and practices," which "succeeded to the punctilious generosity exacted by the rules of chivalry," a few years later, and included, with the massacre of st bartholomew, the gunpowder plot? catesby was quite a man of the type contemplated by sir walter scott, gallant, charming, zealous, brave to a degree, and even pious, yet with something of the wild, lawless, and bloodthirsty spirit of the but partially-tamed savage, which every now and then asserted itself, until an even later period, unless it was kept under control by some such laws as those of chivalry. it was not, therefore, chivalry, but the _want_ of chivalry, which led to the spirit, habits, and actions of catesby and the other conspirators in the gunpowder plot. [ ] _essay on chivalry._ [ ] where sir walter obtained his authority for this statement i do not know. i hope this digression--a digression from a digression--may be pardoned. it is high time that i returned to robert catesby in his relations to sir everard digby. it was likely enough that sir everard digby should become intimate with a zealous catholic landowner in the neighbouring counties of northamptonshire, and warwickshire, especially as catesby's mother's house, at ashby st legers, was little more than twenty miles from gothurst; but probably the reason of his seeing so much of him was that catesby's first cousin, tyringham of tyringham, lived only three-quarters of a mile from gothurst, the two estates adjoining each other, either house lying within a short distance of the high road, on opposite sides of it. once on intimate terms, sir everard and catesby were constantly together. in speaking of his master, sir everard's page, william ellis, said in his examination[ ]:--"both at london and in the countrie mr robert catesby hath kept him companie." [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part i. no. . in this not altogether desirable "companie," sir everard digby spent much time "in cogitation deep" upon the treatment of his fellow-religionists and countrymen. both men were exasperated by the persecution which was going on around them, by the fickleness of their king, and by the dangers to which they, their wives, their families--for sir everard, as well as catesby, had a child now--and their estates were exposed. perhaps most irritating of all, to country-gentlemen of high position, was the then prevalent custom of sub-letting, or farming, the fines and penalties levyable upon catholics to men who squeezed every farthing out of them that was possible. to be persecuted and fined by an authorized public official was bad enough; but to be pestered and tormented by a pettifogging private person who had purchased the right of doing so, as a speculation, must have been almost unendurable. the subject, however, which digby and catesby discussed most would probably be the severe anti-catholic legislation which was apprehended from the new parliament. in this, said catesby, the great danger lay. his surmises as to the form it might take would give him and his friend, sir everard, ample scope for contemplation, speculation, and conversation. the words of scripture, "sufficient to the day is the evil thereof," do not appear to have occurred to their memories. in periods of trouble and danger, as indeed in all others, men of different dispositions and temperaments take different views and different lines of conduct; there are optimists and pessimists, men who counsel endurance, men who advocate active resistance, men who advise waiting a little to see what may turn up, and men who urge that not a moment is to be lost. and so it was among the persecuted catholics during the early years of the reign of james i. at the very time that men like digby and catesby were in the deepest depression of hopeless anxiety, the spanish ambassador was congratulating himself because he fancied he saw symptoms of the king's inclination to become[ ] a convert to the catholic church. on the other hand, among those who took the most gloomy view of the prospect, there were very distinct phases of thought and action. "england will witness with us," says father gerard,[ ] "that the greatest part by much did follow the example and exhortation of the religious and priests that were their guides, moving them and leading them by their own practice to make their refuge unto god in so great extremities.... this we found to be believed practically by most, and followed as faithfully, preparing themselves by more often frequentation of the sacraments, by more fervent prayer, and by perfect resignation of their will to god, against the cloud that was like to cover them, and the shower that might be expected would pour down upon them after the parliament, unto which all the chief puritans of the land were called, and only they or their friends selected out of every shire to be the framers of the laws, which thereby we might easily know were chiefly intended and prepared against us." [ ] _roman transcripts_, sep. th, , p.r.o., _father h. garnet and the gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . but he says all were not quite so perfect, and of these imperfect there were two leading divisions. the first[ ] "fainted in courage, and, as st cyprian noteth of his times, did offer themselves unto the persecutors before they felt the chief force of the blow that was to be expected." sir everard digby was not one of these. the second division were, as father gerard might most veraciously say, "much different from these, and ran headlong into a contrary error. for being resolved never to yield or forsake their faith, they had not patience and longanimity to expect the providence of god, etc." it is to be feared that he may have noticed this want of patience and longanimity in sir everard digby and his companions. "they would not endure to see their brethren so trodden upon by every puritan," he goes on to say of this class, "so made a prey to every needy follower of the court, or servant to a councillor, so presented and pursued by every churchwarden and minister, so hauled to every sessions when the justices list to meet, so wronged on every side by the process of excommunication or outlawry, and forced to seek for their own by law, and then also to be denied by law, because they were papists; finally both themselves and all others to be denounced traitors and designed to the slaughter. these things they would not endure now to begin afresh after so long endurance, and therefore began amongst themselves to consult what remedy they might apply to all these evils," &c., "so that it seems they did not so much respect what the remedy were, or how it might be procured, as that it might be sure and speedy--to wit, to take effect before the end of the parliament from whence they seemed to expect their greatest harm." [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . those who followed the latter course may have included some who were in other respects good christians; whether they showed the spirit of martyrs and confessors is another question. few things discouraged the english catholics more than the goodwill and peaceful disposition shown to the new king by foreign catholic kings and princes, notwithstanding that one final effort was made on their behalf by spain, just as the treaty was being concluded with england for peace and the renewal of commercial intercourse. velasco, the constable of castile, who negotiated that treaty on behalf of spain, was visited by winter, at catesby's suggestion, and urged to assist the english catholics. although he promised to speak on their behalf, he made it clear that his country would make no sacrifice to obtain toleration for them.[ ] so far as he had promised, he kept his word. he told james that whatever indulgence he might show to them would be regarded by philip as a personal act of friendship towards himself, and that they were prepared to make a voluntary offering annually in the place of the fines at that time imposed upon them by law; and he laid before him statistics of the distress to which very many respectable english families had been reduced by clinging to the faith of their forefathers. [ ] lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. james's reply was very decided. on any diplomatic question relating to the interests of england and spain he would be ready and glad to confer with the spanish representative, but the government of his own subjects was a domestic matter upon which he could not consent to enter with a foreigner. besides this, he informed velasco that, even were he himself inclined to better the condition of the catholics, his doing so would offend his protestant subjects to such an extent as to endanger his throne. it would almost seem as if velasco's endeavours on behalf of the catholics had a contrary effect to that which had been intended; for, instead of granting them the smallest relief, james issued a proclamation, ordering the judges and magistrates to enforce the penal laws, and to adopt measures calculated to insure the detection of catholic recusants. before the judges started on their circuits, he called them together and charged them "to be diligent and severe against recusants."[ ] accordingly, in the year , about recusants were indicted in yorkshire, in lancashire, and in the counties of oxford, berks, gloucester, monmouth, hereford, salop, stafford, and in wigorn, .[ ] of buckinghamshire, sir everard digby's county, i can find no return. in all, the number of catholic recusants convicted in the years - amounted to . in july, a priest named sugar was executed at warwick, simply and only because he was a priest, and a layman, named grissold, for "accompanying and assisting" him.[ ] in the star chamber, a man named pound accused sergeant phillips of injustice in condemning a neighbour of his to death, for no other crime except that he had entertained a jesuit. not only did the lords of the star chamber confirm and approve of this sentence of sergeant phillips, but they condemned pound himself to lose one ear in london and one "in the country where he dwelleth," and to be fined £ , unless he would impeach those who advised him to make the suit. fortunately this tremendous sentence was commuted, at the intercession of the french and venetian ambassadors, to standing for a whole day in the pillory.[ ] [ ] tierney's notes to dodd, vol. iv. p. . [ ] dodd and tierney, vol. iv., appendix xiv., pp. xciv., xcv. [ ] _ib._, vol. iv. pp. , . [ ] lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. bancroft had just ascended the archiepiscopal throne of canterbury, full of zeal against the papists. he urged his suffragan bishops to select the more wealthy and earnest among the catholics, and, after first trying "sweet" and "kind means," to excommunicate them if they should refuse to conform. forty days after their excommunication, the bishops were to certify their names in chancery, and then to sue out a writ _de excommunicato capiendo_, an instrument which subjected the delinquents to outlawry, forfeiture, and imprisonment, and deprived them of the right of recovering debts, of suing for damages, of effecting legal sales or purchases, and of conveying their properties either by will or otherwise.[ ] goodman, bishop of gloucester, writes[ ]:--"the spiritual court did not cease to molest them, to excommunicate them, then to imprison them; and thereby they were utterly unable to sue for their own." nor were the rumours of an approaching increase of severities, to be enacted in the ensuing parliament, mere exaggerated fancies. the denunciations of the chancellor in the star chamber, and of archbishop bancroft at st paul's cross, confirmed the reports that sterner legislation against recusants was impending in the coming session. on the other hand, it is just possible that these official threats may have been uttered only to terrify the catholics into submission, and with no very serious expectation of their fulfilment. [ ] tierney's notes to dodd, vol. iv. pp. , . [ ] _court of king james i._, vol. i. p. . during those distressing times, catesby's friends, among whom not the least was sir everard digby, observed a change in his manner. he looked anxious and careworn; he was moody and abstracted at one moment, unusually loquacious and excitable at another. his mysterious absences from home were another source of uneasiness to those most intimate with him; so, too, were his large purchases of horses, arms, and gunpowder, which also attracted the attention of people who were not his friends; but he took great trouble to inform everybody that he was about to raise horse, to join the english regiment which the spanish ambassador had prevailed upon king james to allow to be levied in england for the assistance of the archduke in flanders.[ ] [ ] jardine's _gunpowder plot_, pp. - . nevertheless, his friends were not satisfied. if he were really going to join the army in the low countries, why these long delays? great as was their intimacy, catesby was in the condition just described for many months without confiding the real reason of his activity to sir everard digby; although it is probable that he warned him to be prepared for any emergency which might arise for the use of men, arms, and horses. both digby and catesby were heartily tired of a state of passive endurance; the tyranny which was crushing the catholics was daily increasing, and sir everard might very naturally suppose that while catesby had no definite plan for resisting it, he wished to be ready in case foreign powers might come to their assistance, or the whole body of english catholics, goaded to desperation, might rise in rebellion against their oppressors. freely as he might appear to talk to digby, and satisfied as the latter may have felt that he had the confidence of his friend, catesby in reality feared to intrust a great secret, which was absorbing his attention, to the brave but straightforward master of gothurst. another of catesby's friends was less easy about him than sir everard digby. father garnet, the provincial of the jesuits, suspected that some mischief was brewing, and seized an opportunity, when sitting at catesby's own table, of inculcating the duty of patient submission to persecution. his host, who was his personal friend as well as a great respecter of his wisdom as a priest, showed considerable irritation. instead of treating the provincial of the jesuits with his usual reverence and courtesy, he flushed up and angrily exclaimed[ ]:--"it is to you, and such as you, that we owe our present calamities. this doctrine of non-resistance makes us slaves. no authority of priest or pontiff can deprive man of his right to repel injustice." [ ] lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. another friend and frequent guest of young sir everard's, after he became a catholic, should be noticed. a younger son of a worcestershire family, thomas winter had attractions for digby, in his profound zeal for the catholic church, his scholarship, his knowledge of foreign languages, his powers of conversation, and his military experiences, as he had served in flanders, france, and, says father gerard, "i think, against the turk." unlike catesby, he was "of mean stature, but strong and comely," and of "fine carriage." he was very popular in society, and "an inseparable friend to mr robert catesby." in age he was about ten years older than sir everard. whatever his zeal may have been for the catholic church, he did not always live in the odour of sanctity, and on one occasion he incurred the grave displeasure of father garnet by conveying a challenge to a duel from john wright, one of the earliest conspirators in the gunpowder plot, to an adversary who had offended him. the combatants met, and winter, as wright's second, measured the swords of both duellists to ascertain whether they were of equal length; but the actual encounter was somehow prevented at the last moment.[ ] father garnet says that he had a "hard conceit of him." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xix. n. . garnet's statement. in dealing with the subject of digby's friends, certainly his page, william ellis, ought not to be forgotten. i have been unable to discover any details of his birth, except that he was heir to £ a year--a much larger income, of course, in those days than in these--"if his father did him right." he entered sir everard's service at the age of seventeen, about may .[ ] how faithful he was to his master will appear by-and-bye. [ ] s. p. dom. james i., g. p. book, part i., n. . among sir everard's younger friends was lord vaux of harrowden, a cousin of catesby's. one reason of the intimacy is thus described by father gerard.[ ] "sir everard had many serious occasions to come to my lord vaux's; and then in particular, as i have learned since, being come from his [digby's] ancient house and chief living, which lay in rutlandshire, from whence he could not go unto the house where his wife and family lay [gothurst], but he must pass the door of lord vaux, his house, which also made him there an ordinary guest." to harbour priests, and to defend the catholic cause was no new thing in the family of vaux, for, some twenty or thirty years earlier, lord vaux's grandfather had been imprisoned and fined for sheltering father campian in his house.[ ] his grandmother had been a daughter of john tresham of rushton, and of his cousin, francis tresham, we shall hear something presently. his mother and his aunts, anne and elizabeth, were most pious catholics, but the religious atmosphere in which he was brought up does not seem to have led him to perfection; for, although as a young man he suffered imprisonment for his faith,[ ] he afterwards had two sons, who bore the name of vaux, by lady banbury during her husband's lifetime;[ ] and, although he married her after lord banbury's death, she never had another child. worse still, he left harrowden and the other family estates to his illegitimate children, instead of to his brother, who succeeded him in the title, although his wife, on her side, claimed for her son that, as he was born during her first husband's lifetime, he had a legal right to the title of banbury. accordingly, this son changed his surname to knollys, and once actually sat, as lord banbury, in the house of lords. as is well known, his descendants went on claiming and disputing the title until the year , when their right to it was finally disallowed. [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, p. . [ ] _records s.j._, series i. p. . [ ] _life of father gerard_, p. clxxxv. [ ] _burke's peerage_, . but what specially concerns my story is that sir everard digby was endeavouring to bring about a marriage for this (then) very young lord vaux, with the "lord chamberlain his daughter,"[ ] as father gerard writes; and, in a footnote, is added "earl of suffolk. erased in orig." if this footnote is right, sir everard was probably trying to make a match for the youth with the very girl whom he eventually married, as lady banbury had been elizabeth howard, the eldest daughter of lord suffolk. suffolk was lord chamberlain,[ ] and curiously enough (when we consider that he seems to have had negotiations with sir everard digby with respect to a match between his daughter and lord vaux), in his capacity of lord chamberlain, he suspected and led to the discovery of the gunpowder laid in the cellar beneath the houses of parliament.[ ] [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, p. . [ ] gardiner. _history of england_, vol. x. p. . [ ] gardiner's _history of england_, vol. i. p. . sir everard visited a good deal at the house of lord vaux's mother, mrs elizabeth vaux. this was a house in buckinghamshire at stoke poges, that had been built by sir christopher hatton,[ ] the lord chancellor, who had died childless. it was let for a term of years to mrs vaux, and she not only established father gerard in it as her chaplain, but had hiding-places and other arrangements made, so that he could receive priests and catholic laymen, as he might think well, for the good of the cause of religion. here sir everard was probably thrown a good deal with catesby and tresham, as they were both related to his young host. lord vaux's two aunts, miss anne vaux and eleanor, the wife of edward brooksby, lived with him and his mother, and miss anne was one of those who had serious misgivings as to the mysterious conduct of her cousin, robert catesby.[ ] "seeing at winter's and grant's"--grant was a popular warwickshire squire, a catholic, and celebrated for his undaunted courage--"their fine horses in the stable, she told mr garnet that she feared these wild heads had something in hand, and prayed him to talk to mr catesby and to hinder anything that possibly he might, for if they should attempt any foolish thing, it would redound to his discredit. whereupon he said he would talk to mr catesby." [ ] it was to this sir christopher hatton, that sir everard's father had dedicated his book _a dissuasive from taking away the livings of the church_. [ ] _father h. garnet and the gunpowder plot_, pollen, p. . p.r.o., march . another account of what was probably the same interview was given by father garnet himself, in his examination of march th, . [ ] "he sayth that mrs vaux came to him, eyther to harrowden or to sir everard digby's at gothurst, and tould this exam{t}. that she feared that some trouble or disorder was towards [them], that some of the gentlewomen had demanded of her where they should bestow themselves until the burst[ ] was past in the beginning of the parliament. and this exam{t}. asking her who tould her so, she said that she durst not tell who tould her so: she was [choked] with sorrow." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xix. n . see _records s.j._, vol. iv. p. . [ ] this could not mean the projected "burst" of gunpowder, of which she could have known nothing, but an attempt of some sort, about that time, to obtain relief for the catholics by force of arms, which she appears to have expected, or rather, to have feared. an attempt was made, later, to represent the name of vaux to be the same as that of fawkes:--[ ] "mrs anne vaux, or fawkes, probably a relative of the conspirator;" for which there seems to be no foundation, and certainly there is none for the base imputation, in the same paragraph, of immorality between anne vaux and father garnet. even the protestant historian, jardine, repudiates this calumny at considerable length.[ ] [ ] _somers tracts_, vol. ii. p. , footnote. [ ] _gunpowder plot_, pp. - . chapter vi. in the summer of the year , sir everard digby spent a week in london, and stayed at the lodgings in the savoy of his friend roger manners,[ ] the eldest brother of sir oliver manners, whose conversion to the catholic faith has been already noticed. this roger manners married the daughter and heir of the famous sir philip sydney, and eventually succeeded his father, as fifth earl of rutland. although sir everard stayed with roger manners, he "commonlie dieted at the mearmaid in bred streete."[ ] he spent much of his time with the excellent sir oliver manners, which was all very well; but, unfortunately, robert catesby also "kept him companie" a great deal; without, however, letting him know what was chiefly occupying him in london just at that time. thomas winter also came to see sir everard whilst he was in london, and his friendship with men who were conspiring to an evil end was endangering digby without his knowing it. at that time he had no idea that any plot was in existence, although he was doubtless aware that many catholics were considering what steps could be taken to relieve their condition; and the fact of his staying with roger manners proves that he had not come to london with any design of conferring with restless catholics in a secret or underhand fashion. [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part i, no. . [ ] _ib._ after his visit to london, sir everard seems to have returned to gothurst and to have continued his usual innocent country life, with its duties and pleasures. a letter among the hatfield ms., written to him on the eleventh of june--his eldest boy's birthday by the way[ ]--treats of otter-hunting, and it is likely enough that sir everard practised this sport in the ouse as well as in the other rivers and brooks of buckinghamshire. [ ] so it is usually believed, and so wrote ben jonson--"upon his birthday, the eleventh of june";--so, too, richard farrar--"born on the day he died, the eleventh of june." but some authorities give a different date, and the question has been fiercely disputed. about the end of august, or perhaps early in september, , a large party met at gothurst, as guests of sir everard and lady digby, but with an ulterior purpose. to pray for the much-oppressed cause of the catholic religion in england, for their suffering fellow-religionists, and for themselves, they had agreed to make a pilgrimage together to the famous shrine of st winefride at holywell, in flintshire,[ ] which would entail a journey of a hundred and fifty miles.[ ] sir everard does not appear to have accompanied it; but, among those assembled at gothurst who were to go on the pilgrimage were his young wife, miss anne vaux, brooksby and his wife, thomas digby, sir everard's brother, who had evidently followed his example and become a catholic, sir francis lacon and his daughter, father garnet, the provincial of the jesuits, a lay-brother named nicholas owen, who usually accompanied him, and father strange, sir everard's chaplain, making, with their servants and others, a party of pilgrims numbering little short of thirty. later on, father darcy and father fisher also joined them.[ ] [ ] _father h. garnet and the gunpowder plot_, by j. h. pollen, s. j., p. . [ ] a party, including ladies, would not be likely to travel faster than thirty miles a day over the bad roads, therefore it would take more than four times as long to go, then, from gothurst to holywell, as it would now take to go from gothurst to the famous shrine at lourdes, in the pyrenees. [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . if, as it seems, sir everard did not go with the pilgrimage, the reason may have been that he was engaged in endeavouring to negotiate the proposed marriage between young lord vaux and a daughter of the earl of suffolk, although it seemed early to do so, as the boy was then only about fourteen. "riding westward,[ ] the party of pilgrims would stop for the night at some catholic friend's house, and in the morning the two priests would say mass. even at shrewsbury, when they had to put up at an inn, and at 'a castle in a holt at denbighshire,' the daily masses were said without interruption, and even the servants were present. at st winefride's well, too, though the inn must have been small for so large a number, the holy sacrifice was again offered, and then the ladies went barefoot to the well.[ ] at holywell they stopped but one night. returning next day, they slept at a farmhouse seven miles from shrewsbury, and after that they were again in the circle of their friends."[ ] [ ] _father garnet and the gunpowder plot_, pollen, p. . [ ] jardine, in his _narrative of the gunpowder plot_ (p. ), says that the ladies walked barefoot from holt, that is to say, a distance of about twenty miles. [ ] _father garnet and the gunpowder plot_, pp. , . about the end of september ( ) sir everard digby went to stay at harrowden with young lord vaux. while he was there, his host's mother, her sister-in-law, anne vaux, and father garnet came thither on their return from the pilgrimage. his friend catesby also arrived from a visit to lord mordaunt[ ] at turville. anne vaux, who, as i have said, had been uneasy about catesby's proceedings, was in a hurry for his departure to flanders, where he was to command an english regiment. father garnet wrote a letter of introduction for him to a jesuit priest in that country, and catesby himself showed this letter to his nervous cousin, assuring her that he was so anxious to start that he would spend £ in obtaining a license[ ] to go abroad with his men and horses, about which, he pretended, there was some difficulty. [ ] henry, fourth baron mordaunt, was suspected of being concerned in the gunpowder plot. he was committed to the tower, and fined by the star chamber. see burke's _dormant and extinct peerages_, p. . [ ] _father garnet and the g. p._, pollen, p. . after a few days' visit at harrowden, the family seat of the vaux's, which was then in a rather dilapidated condition,[ ] sir everard digby invited catesby, mrs vaux, and father garnet to stay with him at gothurst; and he started with catesby to ride home, leaving his other guests to follow them. the distance between harrowden and gothurst was something like fifteen miles, and digby and his friend became very confidential in the course of it. [ ] _life of father gerard_, p. cxxxv. perhaps there are few occasions on which it is easier to converse freely than a long ride with a single companion; in most cases, no one can possibly be within earshot, therefore the voice need not be unnaturally lowered; the speakers are not confronting each other, and this prevents any nervous dread lest the mention of subjects on which either feels strongly should raise a tell-tale blush or a quiver of a lip or eyelid; and, if the topic should become embarrassing, the surroundings of those on horseback enable them to change it more easily, and with less apparent effort or intention, than under almost any other conditions. lastly, the fresh country air, as it is inhaled in the easy exercise of riding, clears the brain and invigorates the energies, and when is it fresher or pleasanter than on a fine day at the end of september, such as we can imagine sir everard digby and robert catesby to have enjoyed on their ride from harrowden to gothurst? both of them, as we read, were fine men, fine horsemen on fine horses, and old friends; and they must have made a handsome and well-assorted pair, as they went their way along the roads, through the woods, and over the commons of northamptonshire and buckinghamshire. early in their ride, when they were well clear of the outskirts of the little market town of wellingborough,[ ] beside the famous red well of which, some twenty years later, charles i. and his queen were to dwell in tents, in order to drink its medicinal waters, catesby told his companion that he had a communication of the greatest importance to make to him; that he was only at liberty to convey it upon an oath of secresy; and that from all others intrusted with the subject of this communication, the oath had not been accepted unless sealed and confirmed by holy communion--which alone would demonstrate its sacred and religious nature--but that, in the case of so honourable a man as digby, a simple oath would suffice. this was paying a very flattering compliment, and, when catesby drew a small poignard, handed it to him, and asked him to swear secresy upon it,[ ] sir everard, thinking that the matter would concern some "stirres in wales" on behalf of the persecuted catholics, of which catesby had talked at gothurst during the summer, took the oath without much hesitation, and returned the little weapon. [ ] s. p. dom. james i., g. p. bk., part , no. . [ ] s. p. dom. james i., g. p. bk., part , no. . then catesby began a long, earnest, and serious discourse. there can be little doubt that he would first dwell upon the desperate condition of their co-religionists in great britain, the hopelessness of redress or any improvement in their state, and the likelihood of their persecution becoming still more intolerable under the incoming parliament. at last, he told his patient and sympathetic listener that the time had come for action. they could expect no help from the king, no help from the parliament, no help from foreign catholic princes or powers, no help from a general, an ordinary, and a legitimate rising among their catholic fellow-countrymen; there was nothing for it, therefore, but to help themselves. it was plain enough where, and from whom, their greatest danger lay. the few must be sacrificed to save the many. he had been reading his bible[ ]--the very protestants who so cruelly oppressed them would commend that--and there he found instances in which the deliberate assassination of tyrants appeared to be not only tolerated but commended. [ ] lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. i cannot guarantee that catesby said exactly all these things to digby; i merely enumerate the arguments which he is stated, on good authority, to have used in persuading those who joined in his plot; and it is well known that he found no other of his adherents so difficult to convince as sir everard; therefore it is most unlikely that he omitted one of his pleas in this case. between the catholics and the protestants, catesby considered that there was a regular warfare; no war could be conducted without bloodshed, and in war all was fair. it might even be maintained that the righteous catholics were in the position of executioners, who should carry out the extreme sentence of death upon the iniquitous and murderous villains who, under the names of princes and rulers, were persecuting and slaying god's innocent people. who were these princes and rulers? king james and his parliament. they richly deserved to die the death, and unless they were destroyed they would work even greater evils. let the sword of justice fall upon them. were the catholics to rise and invade the houses of parliament with drawn sabres? no. such a thing would be impossible. resort must be had to stratagem, a method to which holy men had often resorted in ancient times, as might be read in the sacred pages of the old testament. but, unlike the warriors of israel, the modern christian soldier fought less with the sword than with that much more powerful medium known as gunpowder. it had already been the principal agent of destruction in many great battles; let it be used in the strife between the oppressed english catholics and the king with his parliament. before entering into details of the proposed attack, it would be well to consider that the end aimed at was not any private revenge or personal emolument.[ ] the sole object was to suppress a most unjust and barbarous persecution by the only expedient which offered the least prospect of success. there could be no doubt as to its being lawful, since god had given to every man the right of repelling force by force. if digby should consider the scheme cruel, let him contrast it with the cruelties exercised during so many years against the english catholics; let him calculate the number of innocent martyrs who had been butchered by the public executioner, or had died from ill-treatment or torture in prisons; let him estimate the thousands who had been reduced by the penal laws against recusants, from wealth or competence, to poverty or beggary; and then let him judge whether the sudden destruction of the rulers who had been guilty of such fearful persecutions, and avowedly intended persecutions yet more atrocious, could be condemned on the charge of cruelty. nay, more; unless a decisive blow were delivered very shortly, something like a massacre of catholics might be expected, and,[ ] "mr catesby tould him that the papistes throate should have been cutte." [ ] lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xviii. n. . catesby would then tell his friend and companion, as they rode through the peaceful midland scenery, with its horse-chestnuts and its beeches in their rich autumn colouring, on that september afternoon, how he must be a man, and nerve himself to hear the means which it was proposed to employ for carrying out the judgment of god upon their wicked oppressors.[ ] every catholic peer was to be warned, or enticed from the house of lords on a certain day, and then, by the sudden explosion of a large quantity of gunpowder, previously placed beneath the houses of parliament, the king and his councillors, his lords and his commons, were to be prevented from doing any further mischief in this world. as soon as the execution was over, the catholics would[ ] "seize upon the person of the young prince, if he were not in the parliament house, which they much desired. but if he were," in which case, of course, he would be dead, "then upon the young duke charles, who then should be the next heir, and him they would erect, and with him and by his authority, the catholic religion. if that did also fail them, then had they a resolution to take the lady elizabeth, who was in the keeping of the lord harrington in warwickshire; and so by one means or other, they would be certain to settle in the crown one of the true heirs of the same." how loyal they were! [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvi., no. , nov. , b, c, and d. [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . on first hearing of this inhuman, detestable, and diabolical scheme, sir everard was overcome with horror, as well he might be, and it was with the greatest difficulty that catesby induced him to consider it any further.[ ] if sir everard had been a man of firm will and determination of character, he would have obeyed his conscience and resolutely followed his own good instincts; but instead of doing so, he was weak enough to listen with attention and interest to the arguments of catesby. to a man of a religious mind like sir everard digby, those of a scriptural character would be some of the most persuasive, and his companion would hardly fail to point out the wholesale massacres and cruelties apparently sanctioned in the old testament. [ ] lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. if he so pleased, he could quote plenty of biblical precedents for slaying and maiming, on a far larger scale than was proposed in the gunpowder plot, which would be a mere trifle in comparison with some of the following butcheries:--"they warred against the midianites," "and they slew all the males. and they slew the kings of midian."[ ] "they slew of them in bezek ten thousand men." "and they slew of moab at that time ten thousand men, all lusty, and all men of valour; and there escaped not a man."[ ] "david slew of the syrians two and twenty thousand."[ ] "the other jews," "slew of their foes seventy and five thousand."[ ] "pekah the son of remaliah slew in juda an hundred and twenty thousand in one day, which were all valiant men, because they had forsaken the lord god of their fathers,"[ ] just as king james and the english government had forsaken him, in catesby's and sir everard's opinions. [ ] numbers xxxi. , . for the benefit of my protestant readers, i quote my scripture from the anglican version, to show them that there is nothing "apocryphal" in it. [ ] judges iii. . [ ] samuel viii. . [ ] esther viii. . [ ] chron. xxviii. . if it were objected that all these fell in battle, and that it was quite a different thing to murder people by stealth in cold blood, could not catesby have replied that "jael heber's wife took a nail of the tent, and took an hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him [sisera], and smote the nail into his temple, and fastened it into the ground: for he was fast asleep and weary. so he died."[ ] jael heber's wife was acting as hostess to a friend who had come into her tent for shelter and protection, and had fallen asleep. yet deborah and barak sang in honour of this performance:--[ ] "blessed above women shall jael the wife of heber the kenite be, blessed shall she be above women in the tent. he asked water, and she gave him milk; she brought forth butter in a lordly dish. she put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the workman's hammer; and with the hammer she smote sisera, she smote off his head, when she had pierced and stricken through his temples. at her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell: where he bowed, there he fell down dead." "so let all thine enemies perish, o lord."[ ] might not, and ought not, the english catholics to sing much such a song in honour of catesby, digby, and their fellow-conspirators, when the king and the parliament should be blown up, and fall, and lie down, at their feet, where they should fall down dead? was there not something biblical and appropriate, again, in destroying the enemies of the lord with fire? "behold, they shall be as stubble; the fire shall burn them."[ ] "thou shalt be fuel for the fire; thy blood shall be in the midst of the land."[ ] and had not the very gentlest of men, even the god-man, said, "i am come to send fire on the earth?" surely, too, if holy writ did not specially mention gunpowder, it constantly threatened one of its ingredients, namely brimstone, to the wicked! [ ] judges iv. . [ ] judges v. _seq._ [ ] judges v. . [ ] isaiah xlvii. . [ ] ezekiel xxi. . under the old dispensation, it was considered a religious duty to fall upon the enemies of the lord and slay them; under the new, it would be as religious a duty to get under them and slay them. this was merely a detail, a simple reversal of the process, conducing to exactly the same results, and quite as scriptural in its character. a massacre by means of an explosion of gunpowder was neither a novel nor an exclusively catholic notion. persons observed, "there be recounted in histories many attempts of the same kynds, and some also by protestants in our days: as that of them who at antwerp placed a whole barke of powder in the great street of that citty, where the prince of parma with his nobility was to passe: and that of him in the hague that would have blown up the whole councel of holland upon private revenge."[ ] [ ] _lingard_, vol. vii. chap, i., footnote. within the last half century, had not great earls and statesmen, in scotland, conspired together to blow up with gunpowder the queen's own husband, as he lay ill in bed, in his house; had not four men been destroyed by this means,[ ] and had not the principal conspirator "declared," with how much truth or falsehood it is not necessary to pause here to inquire,[ ] "that the queen"--the very pious martyr-queen, mary, herself,--"was a consenting party to the deed,"[ ] and had not that very pious queen married that very conspirator after he had brought about the murder of her first husband? [ ] _ib._, vol. vi. chap. ii. [ ] recent historical research tends to absolve mary queen of scots from all imputation of complicity in this horrible crime. [ ] bellesheim's hist. cath. ch. of scot., trans. h. blair, vol. iii. p. . it would be scarcely too much to say that, early in the seventeenth century, the ethics of explosives were not properly understood. catesby might argue that gunpowder was a destructive agent, the primary and natural use of which was to kill directly, and that its indirect use, by exploding it in a tube, thereby propelling a missile, was a secondary, less natural, and possibly less legitimate use. and, if it were objected that to employ it in either way would be right in war, but wrong in peace, he could bring forward the exceedingly dangerous theory (which has been made use of by irish-american dynamitards in the nineteenth century), that oppressed people, who do not acknowledge the authority of those who rule over them, may consider themselves at war with those authorities, a theory which catesby's jesuit friends would have negatived instantly, if he had asked their opinion about it. any attempt to prove the iniquity of catesby's conspiracy is so unnecessary that i will not waste time in offering one. i have only to endeavour to imagine the condition of mind in which he and his friends were able to look upon it with approval, and the arguments they may have used in its favour. next to passages and precedents from scripture in support of his diabolical scheme, catesby would be well aware that its approval by authorities of the church, and especially by fathers of the society of jesus, would have most influence with his friend sir everard. to the surprise of the latter, he informed him that he had laid the matter before the provincial of the society, and had obtained his consent to the scheme. he admitted that the jesuits were not fully aware of all the particulars; it was not intended to put them to the dangers of responsibility for the deed itself, or anything connected with it; already their very priesthood was high treason, and the last thing that catesby and his friends desired was to add to their perils; but their approval of the design in general was of such importance that neither catesby himself, nor any of those admitted into the secret, would have acted without it, and this catesby declared he had obtained. upon a zealous convert, like sir everard digby, such an assurance would exercise a great influence. nor was it only of sacerdotal approval that catesby boasted; he was able to add that he had obtained the consent, as well as the assistance, of john wright, a catholic layman and a yorkshire squire; of sir everard's own friend, thomas winter; of his eldest brother, robert winter,[ ] "an earnest catholic," at whose house the pilgrims to st winefride's well had stayed for a night on their way thither; of ambrose rookwood, a catholic,[ ] "ever very devout," who had actually been one of the pilgrims; of john grant,[ ] "a zealous roman catholic," who, like his brother-in-law, robert winter, had entertained the st winifride's pilgrims for a night in his walled and moated house, and of thomas percy, a relative of the earl of northumberland's, and a very recent and earnest convert to the church. [ ] _narrative_, g. p., gerard, p. . [ ] _ib._, p. . [ ] jardine's _gunpowder plot_, p. . chapter vii. believing that his principal friends, and the priests for whom he felt the greatest veneration, had either joined in or expressed their approval of the scheme, sir everard began to be half inclined to consent to it. was there to be a great enterprise, entailing personal activity and danger for the good of the catholic cause, and was he to shrink from taking part in it? was he alone, among the most zealous catholic laymen of england, to show the white feather in a time of peril? could he call himself a man if he trembled at the very thought of bloodshed? yet, in truth, the idea of the cold-blooded massacre which was proposed appalled him; fair fighting he would rather rejoice in, but wholesale assassination was to the last degree repulsive to his nature. hesitating and miserable, he reached gothurst with his guest without giving any definite answer to the question whether he would join in the conspiracy. when they were in the house, catesby showed him a book justifying proceedings which he claimed to be similar to the proposed plot. "i saw," he wrote afterwards to his wife,[ ] "i saw the principal point of the case, judged by a latin book of m. d., my brother's father-in-law." what book it may have been we have no means of knowing; but we do know that the perils of comparing parallel cases are notorious: and, unfortunately, the production of this book had the effect of turning the scale, and inducing digby to join in the infamous plot. [ ] "letters of sir everard digby" in _gunpowder treason_, p. . necessary as it is for a biographer of sir everard digby carefully to consider all the arguments that are likely to have influenced him in consenting to the gunpowder plot, it is all-important to keep before the mind the cause which, on his own admission,[ ] was the first and most potent of his assent to the conspiracy. this was[ ] "the friendship and love he bare to catesby, which prevailed so much, and was so powerful with him, as that for his sake he was ever contented and ready to hazard himself and his estate." [ ] speech at his trial. [ ] _gunpowder treason_, by thomas, bishop of lincoln, p. . sir everard was a man of what may be termed violent friendship. we have already seen his almost immoderate attachment to father gerard. it was an excellent thing that he should have such a man for a firm friend; but his feeling towards him was something much more than that. father gerard was "his brother." the jesuits make a rule of avoiding what they term "particular friendships," and the great aggression of affection would certainly not come from father gerard's side. and now we find him loving catesby to such an extent as to be "ready to hazard himself and his estate" "for his sake." there is such a thing as an undue admiration for "the man who thinks as i do." it proceeds from a combination of pride and weakness. the man in question is the embodiment of "my" principles, and therefore to be worshipped, and, holding "my" principles, his decisions, which are presumably formed upon those principles, must be right, and "my" adoption of them will save me the trouble of forming any for myself. such is the line of argument which men of sir everard digby's type mentally follow. when, again, some difficulty presents itself, concerning which they have never thought at all, they argue to themselves after this fashion. "my friend agrees with me about a, b, and c, topics on which we are both well informed; therefore i may safely follow his advice about d, a subject of which i at present know nothing, but about which, when i have studied it, i may logically assume that i shall agree with him." few men act on principle at first hand. to a vast majority, it is too invisible, intangible, difficult to define, and difficult to realise, to serve as either a guide or a support. yet some of those who are least able, coolly, logically, and consistently to understand and adhere to a principle in the abstract, are the most enthusiastic in advocating, the most vigorous in defending, and the most extravagant in extending to the most extreme limits, its reflection, or supposed reflection, in the person and behaviour of a friend; and they are apt, in their devotion to the friend, to forget the principle. it was thus in the case of sir everard digby and robert catesby. in his friendship with catesby, sir everard was eager to be one of the most pronounced champions of the catholic religion, yet when catesby acted in direct opposition to the fundamental principles of that religion, sir everard clung to the visible friend to the neglect of the invisible principle, which, theoretically, he held to be more precious than life itself. when one idea takes too forcible possession of the mind, although the objections to it may collectively be overpowering, if taken one by one, it is easy to dispose of them, and then to blind the eyes, to stifle the conscience, and to imagine a glamour of righteousness, unselfishness, and heroism, in iniquity, self-pleasing, and even cruelty. digby experienced this fatal facility. he did not at once consent to catesby's request without the least pretence of considering its merits; but he combatted the objections to it one by one, and thus easily defeated them. he endeavoured to regard the matter from catesby's point of view, and he found the process simple, if not agreeable. and here let me say that i wish i could honestly represent sir everard as having consented hurriedly to the plot in a hot-headed love of adventure. the evidence, unfortunately, all points the other way. he was persuaded with great difficulty by catesby. he disliked the look of the whole thing, and he finally consented to it after cool and deliberate reflection. i admit that he was impulsive; i do not deny that, in this instance, he may have acted on sudden impulse at particular stages of his lengthened agony of doubt and indecision, or that, after being too slow in obeying his first impulse to refuse to hear another word about the atrocious project, he may have yielded too hurriedly to his later impulse to throw in his lot with the friend whom he trusted; but i cannot excuse him on the ground that his adhesion to the conspiracy was the result of a momentary convulsion of enthusiastic folly. he objected; he feared the destruction of catholic peers; he talked over the pretended opinions of the jesuit fathers; he read a so-called authority in a book shown to him by catesby; he calculated the chances of success and failure; he thought over the question of men, money, arms, and horses; and then, with false conclusions, on false premises, in a sort of spasm of wrongheadedness, he, who had been depending excessively on clerical direction--even jesuits admit that there is such a thing as being over-directed--suddenly acted, upon a question involving an enormous issue, without any advice whatever except that of the man who was tempting him to what, he must have seen, had, _prima facie_, the colour of a most odious crime. i am not forgetting that catesby vaunted jesuit approval; but what good catholic would take clerical advice upon an intricate point at second hand from another layman? or, to put it in another form, what prudent man would commit himself to a lawsuit simply because a friend told him that his lawyer recommended him to sue an adversary under very similar circumstances? digby had good reason for knowing that the jesuit father, whose opinion he most valued--father gerard--would strongly object to what was proposed; but he fancied that he himself knew better what was for the good of the church; so, after meekly wavering in a state of great uncertainty, like the weak man that he was, he suddenly yielded and agreed to partake in what he persuaded himself to be a pious act on behalf of his religion, but was in reality a piece of unprecedented pious folly; and few things are more certain than that, be his personal virtues ever so exalted, and his intentions ever so pure, the pious fool can do, and often does, more to injure the cause of religion than even the scientific fool to injure that of science, which is saying much. it is now my duty to explain how grossly sir everard was deceived by catesby, when he was assured that any jesuit fathers had approved of the conspiracy "in general, though they knew not the particulars." what i am about to write may appear a long digression; but it should be remembered that it was chiefly upon catesby's assurance of the approval of the fathers of the society of jesus that sir everard consented to join in the conspiracy; therefore the amount of consent actually obtained from them, if any, is of the utmost importance to my story. here is father gerard's account of the so-called approval of the plot, which catesby had extracted from father garnet, and on the strength of which he persuaded sir everard digby and others to join in it.[ ] "having a great opinion both of the learning and virtue of the fathers of the society, mr catesby desired to get, by cunning means, the judgment of their superior, so as he should never perceive to what end the question were asked." this makes father gerard's opinion of catesby's shameful dishonesty in the affair unmistakably clear. "therefore," he continues, "coming to father garnet, after much ordinary talk, and some time passed over after his arrival" (at a house in essex, in june , that is to say, about three months before he revealed the plot to sir everard) "one time he took occasion (upon some speech proposed about the wars in the low countries or such like)"--observe the fraud of this! catesby was to have command of a regiment in the "low countries," so he clearly intended to lead father garnet to suppose that he was contemplating a position in which he might very probably find himself when _there_--"to ask how far it might be lawful for the party that hath the just quarrel to proceed in sacking or destroying a town of the enemy's, or fortress, when it is holden against them by strong hands. the father answered that, in a just war, it was lawful for those that had right to wage battle against the enemies of the commonwealth, to authorise their captains or soldiers, as their officers, to annoy or destroy any town that is unjustly holden against them, and that such is the common doctrine of all divines: in respect that every commonwealth must, by the law of nature, be sufficient for itself, and therefore as well able to repel injuries as to provide necessaries; and that, as a private person may _vim vi repellere_, so may the commonwealth do the like with so much more right, as the whole is of more importance than a part; which, if it were not true, it should follow that nature had provided better for beasts than for men, furnishing them with natural weapons as well to offend as to defend themselves, which we see also they have a natural instinct to use, when the offence of the invader is necessary for their own defence. and therefore that it is not fit to think that god, who, by natural reason, doth provide in a more universal and more noble manner for men than by natural instinct for beasts, hath left any particular person, and much less a commonwealth, without sufficient means to defend and conserve itself; and therefore not without power to provide and use likely means to repel present injuries, and to repress known and hurtful enemies. and that, in all these, the head of the commonwealth may judge what is expedient and needful for the body thereof." much of all this was useless to catesby's purpose; but he waited patiently, and when father garnet had finished speaking, he answered, "that all this seemed to be plain in common reason, and the same also practised by all well-governed commonwealths that ever have been, were they never so pious or devout. but, said he, some put the greatest difficulty in the sackage of towns and overthrowing or drowning up (_sic_) of forts, which, in the low countries"--the low countries again! mark his deceitfulness--"and in all wars is endeavoured, when the fort cannot otherwise be surprised, and the same of great importance to be taken. how, then, those who have right to make the war may justify that destruction of the town or fort, wherein there be many innocents and young children, and some perhaps unchristened, which must needs perish withal? unto this the father answered, that indeed therein was the greatest difficulty; and that it was a thing could never be lawful in itself, to kill an innocent, for that the reason ceaseth in them for which the pain of death may be inflicted by authority, seeing the cause why a malefactor and enemy to the commonwealth may be put to death is in respect of the common good, which is to be preferred before his private (for otherwise, considering the thing only in itself, it were not lawful to put any man to death); and so because the malefactor doth _in re gravi_ hinder the common good, therefore by the authority of the magistrate that impediment may be removed. but now, as for the innocent and good, their life is a help and furtherance to the common good, and therefore in no sort it can be lawful to kill or destroy an innocent." [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. _seq._ determined as catesby was to twist father garnet's words into "a parallel case," he wanted something more tangible than this to work upon. accordingly he said:--"that is done ordinarily in the destruction of the forts i spake of." "it is true, said the father, it is there permitted, because it cannot be avoided; but is done as _per accidens_, and not as a thing intended by or for itself, and so it is not unlawful. as if we were shot into the arm with a poisoned bullet, so that we could not escape with life unless we cut off our arm; then _per accidens_ we cut off our hand and fingers also which were sound, and yet being, at that time of danger, inseparably joined to the arm, lawful to be cut off, which it were not lawful otherwise to do without mortal sin. and such was the case of the town of gabaa, and the other towns of the tribe of benjamin, wherein many were destroyed that had not offended. with which mr catesby, seeming fully satisfied, brake presently into other talk, the father at that time little imagining at what he aimed, though afterwards, when the matter was known, he told some friends what had passed between mr catesby and him about this matter, and that he little suspected then he would so have applied the general doctrine of divines to the practice of a private and so perilous a case, without expressing all particulars, which course may give occasion of great errors, as we see it did in this." if sir everard digby had heard the conversation on which the vaunted "consent" of the jesuits had been founded, there can be little doubt that he would have refused to have anything to do with the conspiracy on such grounds. father gerard probably heard the account of the interview, after the failure of the plot, from father garnet himself. father garnet's own much shorter account of the conversation may be given here.[ ] mr catesby "asked me whether, in case it were lawful to kill a person or persons, it were necessary to regard the innocents, which were present, lest they also should perish withal. i answered that in all just wars it is practised and held lawful to beat down houses and walls and castles, notwithstanding innocents were in danger, so that such battering were necessary for the obtaining of victory, and that the multitude of innocents, or the harm which might ensue by their death, were not such that it might countervail the gain and commodity of the victory. and in truth i never imagined anything of the king's majesty, nor of any particular, and thought it, as it were, an idle question, till i saw him, when we had done, make solemn protestation that he would never be known to have asked me any such question as long as he lived." [ ] hatfield ms., , . father garnet and the gunpowder plot, p. . that father garnet believed catesby to have deceived him and to have told untruths about him is evident from one of his letters written in orange juice in the tower. he says[ ] "master catesby did me much wrong, and hath confessed that he tould them that he said he asked me a question in q. eliz. time of the powder action, and that it was unlawfull. all which is most untrew. he did it to draw in others." again he writes[ ] "i doubt not mr catesby hath fained many such things for to induce others," sir everard digby, of course, among the rest. [ ] _records, s. j._, vol. iv., p. . [ ] _history of the gunpowder plot_, jardine, appendix, p. . some of the modern admirers of father garnet have maintained that the worse catesby, the worse garnet; the better catesby, the better garnet. without suggesting the exact converse, i would venture to point out the danger to garnet's memory in anything that might tend to show some sort of co-partnership in spirit and intention between himself and catesby. all the facts lead me to a very different conclusion, and one which is much more to the interest of garnet's memory, namely, that catesby deceived him from first to last, and that he was, in fact, the innocent dupe of catesby. to begin with, catesby, when, during the first half year of james's reign, garnet desired him not to join in "some stirring, seeing the king kept not his promise," deceived garnet by assuring him "he would not."[ ] he deceived him in , when, on garnet's urging him not to take up arms, etc., against the king,[ ] "he promised to surcease." he deceived him when he put a case before him on the question of slaying "innocents together with nocents," as if it concerned his projected campaign in flanders, when it really concerned the gunpowder plot. he deceived him at the[ ] "house in essex," when he "assured" him "that all his plans were unexceptionable." he deceived him when he[ ] "promised" "to do nothing before the pope was informed by" "messenger." he deceived him at white webbs, when he told him that what he had in hand was quite "lawfull." he deceived him at harrowden when he said that he was going to start for the war in the low countries as soon as he possibly could. [ ] examination, march . _records, s. j._, vol. iii., p. . [ ] _ib._ [ ] _father garnet and the gunpowder plot_, pollen, p. . [ ] _ib._, p. . in other places i either have shown, or will show, that he deceived all his fellow-conspirators, that he induced them to join in the plot on false pretences, and that he told the lie direct to sir everard digby at dunchurch. undoubtedly he had a charming manner, he was an agreeable and well-informed companion; there is much in his history that is interesting, much that is romantic, much that excites pity, but let not any modern catholics imagine that by attempting to minimise his misdoings they will do any credit to the cause of the church; for the man began as a libertine, and, after a period of spasmodic piety, ended as a liar. catesby was one of those people who are fond of asking for priestly advice, obey it only if it coincides with their own wishes, and have no scruple whatever in misquoting it to their friends. this race is not extinct, nor is it limited to the male sex. sometimes the performance is varied: instead of misquoting the advice of the priest, these candid penitents misstate the case on which they ask the priest to form an opinion. such people are exceedingly dangerous, and do immense mischief to the cause of the catholic church. when we consider the evil that may be wrought by one inaccurate and not over-scrupulous woman of this sort, who says to her friends:--"oh, you may be quite easy in your mind. i asked father dash, and he told me there was no harm whatever in it," of some action which that father would have condemned in the most unqualified terms, what limit can be put to the disaster that a man like catesby might bring upon a credulous friend such as sir everard digby? it is unfortunate that there should be men of the digby class as well as the catesby! a priestly judgment has to be given in a court in which the inquirer is witness for both plaintiff and defendant, as well as advocate for both plaintiff and defendant. the friend, therefore, of the inquirer, who is asked to accept the decision which he brings from that spiritual court, ought not to do so unless he feels assured either that he would lay his case with absolute impartiality before that tribunal, or that the judge would discredit his evidence if given with partiality. now, knowing catesby very intimately, had sir everard digby good reasons for believing that he could be trusted as an absolutely impartial witness and an absolutely impartial advocate on both sides? or else that the priest consulted would certainly detect any flaw in the evidence of a man so notorious for his plausibility and his powers of persuasion? if not, and he was determined only to join in the enterprise on the condition that it had priestly consent, he was bound either to go and ask it for himself, or, if his oath of secrecy prevented this, to refuse to have anything further to do with the conspiracy. so far as i have been able to ascertain of the previous history of robert catesby, he was one of the very last men from whom i should have felt inclined to take spiritual advice or spiritual consent at second hand; and, on this point, i find it difficult to exculpate sir everard digby, although the difficulty is somewhat qualified by an unhappy remark made to sir everard by father garnet, to be noticed presently. but first let us notice an incident which, in the case of two men professing to be practical catholics, is nothing short of astounding! as a modern jesuit, the present editor of _the month_, the chief jesuit journal in this country, points out,[ ] catesby "peremptorily demanded of" his associates in the conspiracy, of whom sir everard digby was one, "a promise that they would not mention the project even in confession, lest their ghostly fathers should discountenance and hinder it." considering that that project, even when regarded in the most favourable light, was one likely to entail very intricate questions of conscience in the course of its preparation and its fulfilment, it is inconceivable how men called, or calling themselves, good catholics could either make such a demand or consent to it. [ ] _the month_, no. , p. - . chapter viii. in the last chapter we saw how catesby, by means of his infamous perversion of father garnet's words, induced several of his friends, among others, and last of all, sir everard digby, to join in his conspiracy; but even with his extraordinary powers of personal influence and persuasion, his unscrupulousness, and his intimate friendship with sir everard, it is just possible that he might have failed in enlisting him as a conspirator, had it not been for a most unfortunate, and apparently unguarded, remark made by father garnet. garnet had been at his wits' end to put a stop to the dangerous inclination to civil rebellion which he had observed among certain of the english catholics; and, in his despair, he had written to father claudius aquaviva, the general of the society of jesus:[ ]--"if the affair of the toleration go not well, catholics[ ] will no more be quiet. what shall we do? jesuits cannot hinder it. let the pope forbid all catholics to stir." [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, gerard, pp. - . [ ] "wherein he meant belike mr catesby and some such whom he most feared," says father gerard; _ib._ the date of this letter was august , ,[ ] that is to say, more than a year before sir everard digby had ever heard of the plot. now, will it be believed that when he was asked by sir everard digby what the meaning of "the pope's brief was"[ ] [which "brief" it may have been matters little to my purpose; lingard[ ] thought it referred to that of july , ], father garnet was weak enough--can i use a milder term?--to reply "that they were not (meaning priests) to undertake or procure stirrs: _but yet they would not hinder any, neither was it the pope's mind they should, that should be undertaken for catholick good_." and this after all his anxiety that the pope should be induced to "forbid all catholics to stir!" i say "after," for if the conversation had taken place very much earlier, what reason would sir everard have had for saying:--"this answer, with mr catesby's proceedings with him and me gave me absolute belief that the matter in general was approved, though every particular was not known." if the point be pressed that it _may_ have been earlier, i would reply, be it so; for in the very initiatory stages of the plot, father garnet learned that some scheme was in hand, although he knew nothing of its details, and even then he was most anxious to prevent any "stirr." let me quote father pollen.[ ] "about midsummer , some steps in the plot having been already taken, catesby intimated that they had something in hand, but entered into no particulars. father garnet dissuaded him. catesby answered, 'why were we commanded before to keep out one that was not a catholic, and now may not exclude him?' and this he thought an 'invincible argument,' and 'was so resolved in conscience that it was lawful to take arms for religion, that no man could dissuade it, but by the pope's prohibition. whereupon i [_i.e._, garnet] urged that the pope himself had given other orders, &c.'" yet garnet told sir everard digby that priests "would not hinder any" "stirs" "that should be undertaken for the catholick good," "neither was it the pope's mind that they should." [ ] _father garnet and the g. p._, p. . [ ] _papers and letters of sir everard digby._ paper . [ ] hist. eng., vol. viii note h. h. h. . [ ] father garnet and the g. p., p. . a friend of my own, who is a great admirer of father garnet, as well as a deeply read student of his times, disagrees with me in my view of father garnet's speech to sir everard about the "stirrs." he writes:--"it seems to me you make too much of _one word_, and not enough of the _known tenour_ of his instructions." well, in the first place, this one word is the chief thing that i have to deal with, in respect to father garnet. i am not writing a life of garnet, but of sir everard digby; and as sir everard stated that on that one word, to a great extent, depended his belief that the plot was approved of by the jesuits, and consequently his consent to join in that plot, it is scarcely possible for me to "make too much of it." moreover, i expressly pointed out that it was contrary to "the known tenour of his instructions," and i emphasised the fact that it was a direct contradiction to those instructions, as well as to his wishes, and that it was given in a moment of good-natured weakness; but i venture to suggest that that weakness, instead of being contrary to what we know of his character, was in remarkable accordance with it. i will admit that i long hesitated to use the word "weakness" in connection with father garnet; but he himself practically owned that he was not always free from it. "i acknowledge," he wrote,[ ] before his death, "that i was bound to reveal all knowledge that i had of this or any other treason out of the sacrament of confession. and whereas, partly upon hope of prevention, partly for that i would not betray my friend, i did not reveal the general knowledge of mr catesby's intention, which i had by him, i do acknowledge myself highly guilty to have offended god, the king's majesty and estate, and humbly ask of all forgiveness, exhorting all catholics that they no way follow my example." to father greenway, again, he wrote:--[ ] "indeed, i might have revealed a general knowledge i had of mr catesby out of confession, but hoping of the pope's prevention, and being loth to hurt my friend, i acknowledge to have so far forth offended god and the king." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xx. n. . [ ] hatfield ms., fol. . with all humility, i beg to submit that a feeble, unguarded, nervous and indulgent speech such as that about the "stirrs," attributed by sir everard digby to father garnet, is not very inconsistent with that good father's conduct, as described by himself in the above manuscripts. the question whether father garnet did, or did not, die a martyr, however interesting, is altogether apart from my subject; a life of sir everard digby is in no way affected by that controversy; nor am i taking upon myself the offices of devil's advocate in garnet's case, when i endeavour to do justice to that of sir everard. i fully admit that _if_ father garnet was weak, his weakness was owing to an excess of kindheartedness and a loyalty to his friends that bordered on extravagance. i am well aware that it is easy to be "wise after the event," and that that sort of wisdom is too cheap to justify confident or summary sentences on those whose surroundings in their own times were so complicated as to make it impossible to put ourselves exactly in their places. again, it may be that sir everard misheard or misunderstood garnet, that his memory failed him, or even that he lied. yet, again, it is possible that digby's letter may have been incorrectly transcribed, though i can see no reason for thinking this at all likely to be the case. there is, however, another side to the question. the mischief which may be wrought by a holy, amiable, but weak man, especially one whose dread of giving pain to others, or putting them into bad faith, or making them give up all religion by saying more than they can bear, when it is his duty to speak plainly, fully, and decidedly, is almost unlimited; and if we are to hesitate to form opinions of the actions and characters of those who have lived in the past, for the reasons given above, we must relinquish historical studies once and for ever. lastly, we ought not to extol one character at the expense of another. father garnet's weak speech, if weak it was, to some extent excuses, or rather somewhat lessens, the guilt of sir everard digby. we must try to put ourselves in digby's place as well as in garnet's; nor do i see that sir everard's evidence need be discredited. it was not extorted under examination; on the contrary, it was deliberately written to his wife, and whatever his faults may have been, deceit and dishonesty do not appear to have been among them. but let me say one word now as to the difficulties in which father garnet was placed. familiar as we are with the means through which he came to know of the plot, i will take the liberty of reminding my readers of them.[ ] suspecting that catesby was scheming some mischief, he had taxed him with it, and told him that, being against the pope's will, it would not prosper. catesby had replied that, if the pope knew what he intended to do, he would not hinder it. then father garnet urged him to let the pope know all about the whole affair. catesby said he would not do so for the world, lest it should be discovered; but he offered to impart his project to father garnet. this father garnet refused to hear. catesby, with all his double-dealing, seems to have become filled with remorse and anxiety, for he revealed the plot to father greenway in confession, giving him leave to reveal it in his turn to father garnet, in the same manner and under the same seal. [ ] _father h. garnet and the gunpowder plot_, pollen, pp. , . it is difficult for protestants to realise the secresy of the confessional. not only can the confessor say nothing of what he has heard in it to anyone else, but he may not even speak of it to the penitent himself, unless the penitent specially requests him to do so, except in confession; nor can he in any way act towards him, or concerning him, on the strength of it. on the other hand, the penitent, although sometimes bound in honour and honesty not to reveal what the priest may say to him confidentially, as man to man, is theologically free to repeat anything that the priest may have said to him in the confessional to the whole world if he so wills; he can also, if he pleases, set the priest at liberty to speak either to himself about it, outside the confessional, or to any other particular person or persons whom he may choose to name, or to everybody, if he likes; but, unless so liberated, if the confessor hears that his penitent is publicly or privately giving a wrong version of the advice given him in confession, he cannot set himself right by giving the true one. father greenway, horrified at the disclosure, availed himself of catesby's permission to confide it to father garnet in confession. the latter[ ] "was amazed," and "said it was a most horrible thing, the like of which was never heard of, for many reasons unlawful, &c.," and he proceeded to reprimand father greenway very severely for even giving ear to the matter.[ ] by this, endæmon the jesuit, who tells the story, probably means "for discussing" the matter, and not refusing to listen to any defence of it. a priest can hardly be blamed for "hearing" anything in confession; yet this is what endæmon says. therefore it would appear that, whether father garnet acted imprudently or not, father greenway certainly did so--at any rate, in father garnet's opinion.[ ] [ ] _father garnet and the gunpowder plot_, pp. , . [ ] see endæmon johannes, s.j., _apologia pro henrico garneto_, p. . [ ] the following is the description of father greenway given in the proclamation for his apprehension. "of a reasonable stature, black hair, a brown beard cut close on the cheeks and left broad on the chin, somewhat long-visaged, lean in the face but of a good red complexion, his nose somewhat long and sharp at the end, his hands slender and long fingers, his legs of a good proportion, his feet somewhat long and slender."--s. p. james i., vol. xviii. n. . the position in which catesby was placed with regard to the sacraments of confession and communion is delicate ground for a layman to approach; especially as nobody knows exactly what took place with regard to either. i am told, however, by those who ought to know, that this much may be said from my own point of view, without danger of theological error. father greenway, after telling catesby in confession about the nature of the enormity he was meditating, must have refused him absolution and the sacraments if he persevered.[ ] after so striking a sentence, what possible room is there for thinking that catesby could have gone on without even a _serious practical doubt_ as to the lawfulness of his object? yet to have persevered with such a doubt would have put him at once into a state of _mala fides_. and if he became in a state of _mala fides_, as he was in the habit of going to the sacraments every week, he must have done one or other of two things. he must either have made sacrilegious communions, or he must have given up going to holy communion in order to commit the crime of proceeding with the gunpowder plot. [ ] although it may seem an insult to most of my readers, there are some who are so ignorant of catholic matters, that it may be safer to explain that in saying father greenway must have refused absolution, i mean absolution for _past_ sins. absolution cannot be given for future sins, as some protestants have supposed, and a "dispensation to commit a sin" is an impossibility. certain protestant writers have implied that both were given by the jesuits to catesby and his fellow-conspirators. there is another point in connection with catesby's confession which is worthy of notice. when he first told the other conspirators that he had obtained the consent of a jesuit to a case similar to the gunpowder plot, he could at least honestly say that no priest had at that time directly _condemned_ the gunpowder plot itself as such; but, when father greenway had distinctly done so, he still seems to have left them under the impression that the jesuit fathers approved of the conspiracy "in general, though they knew not the particulars." to do this was to _act_ a lie! but it seems to have been after he had heard greenway condemn the plot in confession that he said something of the same kind to sir everard digby for the first time, and in that case he _told_ a lie! in short, if--mind, i say if--after hearing greenway's denunciation of the plot, which, according to father pollen,[ ] was in july, he gave sir everard digby to understand, on first telling him of the plot, in the following september, that the scheme in general had the approval of the jesuits, though they knew not the particulars, when he was well aware that he himself _had_ told them the main particulars, and was certain that they did _not_ approve of it, he obtained sir everard's adherence to the plot by a direct fraud, and acted the part of an unscrupulous scoundrel. [ ] _father garnet and the gunpowder plot_, p. . some devout people have endeavoured to find excuses for catesby--not for his action with regard to the plot, of course, but for the condition of mind into which he fell preparatory to it--on the ground that he was a good catholic. what is a good catholic? i suppose a man who keeps god's commandments and obeys his church. one commandment is, "thou shalt do no murder"; and one of the pope's orders, in catesby's time, was that the catholics in england were not to rise against the government. but then it is said that catesby went to holy communion every week. be it so! another historical character, one judas iscariot, committed a still worse crime immediately after receiving his first communion. robert catesby was one of those most dangerous men to his own cause, a catholic on protestant principles. he acted in direct opposition to the commands of the divine founder of his church, as well as to the precepts of the representative of that divine founder upon earth. he preferred his own private opinion to that of either. he considered his own decalogue and beatitudes juster and more sublime than the almighty's, his own intentions for the welfare of the church wiser than the holy father's, his own moral theology more orthodox than that of the jesuits; and then this protestant in practice--for protestantism is not exclusively restricted to protests against such matters as the supremacy of the pope or transubstantiation--took it upon himself to pose as a prominent champion of the catholic church. i am not denying that catesby fancied he was doing right; but whether that fancy was arrived at by right means or wrong is another question. he seems to have argued to himself that pope, priests, and jesuits were not equal to the occasion; that there were times, of which his own was one, at which papal, spiritual, and even biblical teaching must for the moment be set on one side whilst the secular arm struck a violent blow for the relief of god's suffering people; that, _ante factum_, the ecclesiastical powers could not consent to such a measure, but that, _post factum_, they would not only tolerate it, but approve of and rejoice at it. it came, therefore, to this, that on a most important point of morals--faith and morals, be it remembered, are the two chief provinces over which the catholic church claims power--a private individual, and not the church, was to decide what was best; in short, catesby was to protest against the teaching of the church. luther protested in matters of faith; catesby protested in matters of morals. both men seem to have believed that the time would come when the church would see that what they did was for its welfare. it has been said that in father garnet we have one of the most remarkable instances in history of the secresy of the confessional. on this point i venture no opinion; but i am bold enough to say that in robert catesby we have one of the most remarkable instances in history of the abuse of the confessional. perhaps no man ever did more to foster that superstitious horror of "auricular confession" which has so long prevailed, and still prevails in this country. in passing, i may meet a possible inquiry as to how it came about that so much should be known concerning what catesby had told greenway in confession, and what greenway had told garnet under the same sacred seal. the explanation is simple. catesby had not only given father greenway permission to inform father garnet of the plot, under seal of confession, but had[ ] "arranged that neither should be bound by that seal when lawfully examined by their superiors." another question naturally presents itself, much more connected with the man whose life i am writing, which i confess i do not find it so easy to answer. it is the following:--when father garnet noticed the sudden and suspicious confidences which had arisen between catesby and sir everard digby,[ ] after their ride from harrowden to gothurst, did he, though tongue-tied as to what he knew of catesby's designs under seal of confession, know enough _out_ of the confessional to warn sir everard against consenting to, or joining in, any illicit schemes which catesby might propose to him and had he an extra-confessional _causa loquendi_? [ ] _father garnet and the g. p._, pollen, p. . [ ] _ib._, pp. , . let us suppose that he asked himself this question. even if he answered it in the affirmative, he might have refrained from acting, through fear that, in his vehemence in warning sir everard, there might be a danger of his breaking the seal of the confessional; or that in vaguely putting sir everard on his guard, he might raise the suspicion that knowledge obtained in the confessional was the occasion, or the impelling cause of that warning. or he might reflect that, if cross-questioned by sir everard, it would be difficult to remember, at a moment's notice, exactly how much of his knowledge of catesby's schemes was sealed by confession, and how much unsealed. yet when he looked at his young host, and at his charming and excellent wife, still a mere girl, but with two little children beside her, in their beautiful and happy home, the model of what a christian home ought to be, and a centre of catholic society; and when he considered that hitherto sir everard digby had been as upright in character as in stature, and as distinguished in virtue as in appearance, might he not have told himself that any effort was worth making to try to save him from a terrible crime and its terrible consequences? he was the only man who could do so! he alone had "a general knowledge of mr catesby's intention,"[ ] untrammelled by the secresy of either oath or confessional, and he[ ] "noticed the new intimacy that had sprung up between catesby and digby," and surmised truly enough that digby had been "drawn in." yet it is evident from sir everard's letters from the tower, that father garnet never lifted a finger nor uttered a word to hinder his host from joining, or proceeding in, the conspiracy which was to work his ruin. this is the more remarkable because father garnet might have been expected not only to wish to save sir everard from the guilt and the dangers of the plot, but also to prevent a conspiracy which he so much dreaded from being strengthened by the support of a man of considerable wealth. the most probable origin of his inaction in this matter was the same weakness of character which had exhibited itself in his speech to sir everard about the pope and the "stirrs," and in his failure to reveal his "general knowledge, had of mr catesby out of confession," whereby he said he offended god and the king. his silence and inaction were certainly not owing to any temporary revival of confidence in his mind. on the contrary, he wrote:--[ ] "i remained in the greatest perplexity that ever i was in my life, and could not sleep a' nights." he added, "i did offer up all my devotions and masses that god of his mercy and infinite providence would dispose of all for the best, and find means which were pleasing unto him, to prevent so great a mischief" [as the gunpowder plot]. "i knew that this would be infinitely displeasing to my superiors in rome, in so much as at my second conference with mr greenway, i said, 'good lord, if this matter go forward, the pope will send me to the galleys, for he will assuredly think i was privy to it.'" [ ] his own admission. s.p. dom. james i., vol. xx. n. . [ ] father garnet and the g. p., pollen, pp. , . [ ] _ib._, . far be it from me to presume to judge father garnet harshly; his opportunities may have been much less, his difficulties may have been much greater, than the evidence before us would seem to show; but, as a biographer of sir everard digby, i feel bound to express my regret that it should appear as if father garnet might have saved him from the terrible troubles that followed and failed to do so. i began this chapter with a reference to those who plead extenuating circumstances for catesby. let me end it by referring to somewhat similar-minded critics, who, while they condemn the gunpowder plot as a most dastardly outrage, regard it as the hot-blooded attempt of a small party of catholics driven to desperation by their sufferings. of the sufferings of the english catholics there can be no sort of doubt or question; and none the less certain is it that, as a body, they bore them with patience and without any attempt at rebellion. was, then, the small party of catholics that conspired in the gunpowder plot composed of men so exceptionally exposed to sufferings for their faith as to be, more than any of their fellow-sufferers, "driven to desperation"? it is well worth while to inquire. we will consult a catholic contemporary, most unlikely to represent their lot as too easy, namely, the oft-quoted father gerard.[ ] [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot._ let us begin with catesby, the originator and leader of the enterprise. the losses of his father on account of his religion do not concern the objects of the plot, as they were incurred long before and during a different reign. catesby himself had certainly lost money, and a great deal of money; but how?[ ] "he spent much above his rate [income], and so wasted also good part of his living." he was guilty of "excess of play and apparel." he also had to pay "£ before he got out" of prison, where he had been put for joining in the ill-fated rising of essex. even after all these losses, he was able to live among men of wealth, if not in his own country-house at lapworth, in warwickshire. [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . ambrose rokeby was[ ] "a gentleman of good worth in the county of suffolk, and of a very ancient family, and himself the heir of the eldest house." at the time of the plot he had a great many horses, and was evidently a rich man. john grant was[ ] "a man of sufficient estate." francis tresham was[ ] "a gentleman of northamptonshire of great estate, esteemed then worth £ a year," a sum, of course, equivalent to a very large income in these days. robert winter was[ ] "a gentleman of good estate in worcestershire." thomas percy,[ ] although not a rich landowner, held the lucrative post of agent and administrator to his cousin, the earl of northumberland. the "means were not great" of robert keyes, john and christopher wright, and thomas winter; but most of them seem to have been able to live in good society, and their want of money was for the most part owing to their being younger sons, being "very wild,"[ ] or living "in good sort and of the best,"[ ] when their circumstances did not justify their doing so. as for sir everard digby, it is scarcely necessary to repeat that he had been a rich man to begin with, and had increased his wealth by marrying an heiress. these, then, are the men who, we are told, were driven to desperation by their sufferings, and conspired together to commit a most horrible and murderous crime, while thousands of catholics who were literally ruined, by fines for their religion which they were unable to pay, bore their troubles in silence, and with christian fortitude and resignation. [ ] _ib._, p. . [ ] _ib._, p. . [ ] _ib._, p. . [ ] _ib._, p. . [ ] _ib._, p. . [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] _ib._, p. . in connection with this matter, there is one more point to be considered. the sudden and unpremeditated assault of a man in despair is sometimes to be excused, and often to be regarded with comparative lenience. what looks like murder at first sight, at second may prove to be only man-slaughter, under such circumstances. does any such excuse exist for the gunpowder plot? was it a violent attempt made on the spur of the moment, or was it the result of lengthy, deliberate, and anxious forethought? was it the work of an hour, a day, a week, or even a month. on the contrary, so far as can be ascertained, at least a year and a quarter, and more probably a year and a half, of careful scheming and calculation were devoted to it.[ ] [ ] see jardine's _g. p._, p. ; also _father garnet and the g. p._, p. . it has been said, in excuse for the conspirators, that there are reasons for suspecting the idea of the gunpowder plot to have been conceived in the first instance by cecil, who had it suggested to catesby, through a third person--possibly mounteagle--with the deliberate intention of bringing discredit upon the english catholics, and thereby giving cause for the enactment of severer measures for their repression. this may remind some of my readers that, at the height of the agrarian crime in ireland, during the last quarter of the nineteenth century, many good irish catholics were persuaded, or persuaded themselves, that the outrages were invented, instigated, and encouraged, if not actually perpetrated, at the suggestion of the authorities at dublin castle, in order to throw discredit upon "the poor, oppressed irish peasantry," and to give an excuse for "persecuting" them with renewed vigour. as to the question whether cecil originated the gunpowder plot as a bait with which to entrap catholic priests, jesuits, and laymen, if there be any grounds for it, it certainly has great historic interests; but whether cecil, or the devil, or both, put the idea into the heads of the conspirators, little, if at all, affects their guilt. chapter ix. towards the end of the last chapter, i showed that the conspirators were for the most part in fairly comfortable circumstances, and that some of them were rich. it was not necessary to my purpose to enter into details concerning guy fawkes, who was an adventurer and a mere tool, or concerning thomas bates, who was catesby's servant. nor did i mention the littletons--one a wealthy man, and the other a younger son, and a cousin of the former; for, although they joined in the rising after the discovery of the plot, and suffered death for it, they do not appear to have been among the sworn conspirators beforehand. but, before dismissing the subject of the riches or poverty of the plotters, i have something more to say. sir everard digby was chiefly enlisted by catesby on account of his wealth. he promised to contribute £ towards the scheme, and to furnish, in addition, as much armour and as many arms, men, and horses as he might be able. another large landowner was enlisted even later than sir everard, and for the same purpose. this was catesby's cousin, francis tresham, of rushton, in northamptonshire. he, like catesby and percy, had been implicated in the rebellion of the earl of essex, so a plot was no novelty to him, and he consented to help the new one with money to the extent of £ . funds, again, were to be found in another quarter.[ ] "mr percy himself promised all he could get out of the earl of northumberland's rents,"--in other language, he promised to embezzle, and apparently with the pious catesby's full consent, every penny he was able of his master's money--"which was about £ ." here, therefore, we have a fund of £ , to say nothing of what catesby and the other conspirators may have spent in the early stages of the plot. [ ] thomas winter's confession. s.p., gunpowder plot book, n. . in the reign of james i., a sovereign sterling was worth very much more than it is at present; some people say ten times as much;[ ] so if they are right, the gunpowder plot fund amounted to £ , of our money. [ ] see dr jessop, in _one generation of a norfolk house_, p. . what became of it? all the work done was voluntary and unpaid. the hiring of the cellar under the houses of parliament could not have been a very heavy outlay; very many hundreds of pounds cannot have been spent in gunpowder; and if a good deal may have been invested in horses, that would only exhaust a comparatively small portion of so large a fund. most likely the conspirators defrayed their own personal expenses while working for the plot, and even if they charged them to the fund, the men were so few in numbers that they cannot have amounted to much. can it be that some immense bribe was given, or promised, to guy fawkes for the excessively dangerous part which he was to play in the drama? this is far from unlikely! the fugitives, after the discovery of the plot, carried a good deal of cash with them as they rode about, trying to raise an insurrection. sir everard digby alone took[ ] "above £ in ready coin" with him. according to the authority quoted, this would be the equivalent of £ , nowadays, a large amount to carry about the country. yet, as will be seen when the proper time comes, he apparently made no use of it. the financial aspects of the gunpowder plot are as curious as they are incomprehensible. [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, gerard, p. . after giving his solemn promise not to divulge the conspiracy, sir everard evidently could say nothing about it to lady digby. it must have been a terrible trial to have the burden of that awful secret, with all its dangers to himself and those dear to him, on his mind when he looked upon his innocent, holy, and loving young wife, with her little boy, kenelm, now two years old, toddling after her, and her baby, which had been born early in that year, in her arms, as she walked about the long, low rooms and corridors of gothurst, or wandered about its sloping gardens and along the banks of the river ouse. while the worst fear in her mind as she did so would be a visit from pursuivants, her husband knew of far more terrible dangers by which their hitherto happy home was threatened. already he was beginning to take precautions against possible failure and its fearful consequences. of course, at gothurst, as at every other house frequented by priests, there was a "priests' hole"; but sir everard now ordered preparations for concealment to be made upon a much more elaborate scale. it is nearly certain that the most celebrated of all artificers in priests' hiding-places was staying at gothurst just at this very time. his real name was nicholas owen, but he usually went by the name of "little john." he was a jesuit lay-brother, and he usually accompanied father garnet in his travels. it is recorded that he went to gothurst with father garnet on his way to holywell, and it may be assumed that he was with him when he returned. nothing, therefore, would be simpler or easier for sir everard than, on the plea of a desire to increase his precautions for priests in case of a raid from pursuivants, to ask little john to superintend the making of intricate places of concealment which should serve as refuges for himself and his fellow-conspirators in case of discovery, failure, or pursuit. he could not have found a better workman for this purpose. father gerard writes of him:--[ ]"he it was that made our hiding-places; in fact he made the one to which i owed my safety." as he probably made the very curious hiding-places in sir everard digby's house, i may claim to say something about him. brother foley calls him[ ] "that useful, cunning joiner of those times," who "died a martyr for the faith, suspended from a topcliff rack in the tower of london, where he was divers times hung up for several hours together, to compel him to betray the hiding-places he had made, up and down the land; but not a word could they force from his sealed and faithful lips." "the authorities, shocked at their own cruelty, gave out that he destroyed himself."[ ] a protestant writer accordingly calls him[ ] "that owen who ript out his own bowells in the tower." father gerard denies this story at great length,[ ] stating that the poor man suffered from hernia, and that although "the civil law doth forbid to torture any man that is broken," the executioners "girded" the afflicted part "with a plate of iron to keep in" the portion which threatened to protrude, but that "the extremity of pain (which is most in that kind of torment), about the breast" and the seat of the hernia, "did force out" the interior, "and so the iron did serve but to cut and wound his body, which, perhaps, did afterwards put them in mind to give out that he had ripped his" part in question, "with a knife. which, besides all the former reasons, is in itself improbable, if not impossible. for first, in that case, knives are not allowed but only in the time of meat, whilst one stands by, and those such as are broad at the point, and will only cut towards the midst." [ ] _life of father j. gerard_, p. lvii. [ ] _records, s. j._ series i., p. . [ ] _ib._, p. , footnote. [ ] _the foot out of the snare._ by john zee, london, . [ ] _gunpowder plot_, p. - . as to his skill in making hiding-places, a jesuit, father tanner, wrote of him that[ ] "with incomparable skill he knew how to conduct priests to a place of safety along subterranean passages, to hide them between walls, to bury them in impenetrable recesses, and to entangle them in labyrinths and a thousand windings. but what was much more difficult of accomplishment, he so disguised the entrances to these as to make them most unlike what they really were." "when he was about to design" a hiding-place, he commenced the work by "receiving the most holy eucharist, sought to aid its progress by continual prayer, and offered the completion of it to god alone, accepting of no other reward for his toil than the merit of charity and the consolation of labouring for the good of catholics." [ ] _collectanea s. j._ see _records of the eng. prov. s. j._, vol. iv. pp. , . as i have shown, it may pretty safely be assumed that he was at gothurst early in october , just after sir everard digby had been initiated into the plot; and, as the hiding-places at gothurst about to be described are believed to have been made between his initiation and the discovery, with a view to concealment in connection with the gunpowder plot, the work must in that case have been done during october. [illustration: gothurst _the mark * shows the position of the secret room_ _dawsors ph sc_] lipscomb thus describes them:--[ ] "in one of the apartments was formerly shewn a movable floor, which, to ordinary observers, offered nothing remarkable in its appearance, but was made to revolve on a pivot, which, by a secret bolt, disclosed underneath it another room (receiving light from the lower part of a mullioned window, not discoverable exteriorily, unless at a very great distance)." from this secret room, he says "there were private passages of ingress and egress," "almost impossible of detection, even by the occupiers of the mansion. here were also some remarkably ingenious cabinets and drawers, for the deposit of papers, &c." mr walter carlile, the son of the owner, and the occupier of gothurst, or gayhurst, as it is now called, informs me that lipscomb's description of the secret room is perfectly correct; that, although it was demolished twenty years ago, greatly to his own regret, there are still all the traces of where it was and how it was managed; and that the "priest's hole" and some secret passages are yet in existence. [ ] _hist. and antiquities of the co. of bucks_, vol. iv. p. . the secret room was not in the principal front, with its picturesque porch and gables; but at the end, at the right; that is to say, on the right as one stood facing the front. in the middle of this end of the house was a solid, square-headed projection, and it was the upper half of the room on the first floor of this projection which was converted into the secret room. the result was that, in this secret chamber the window came down to the floor, but did not rise to the top of the room, being in fact the upper half of the window which lighted the room beneath it. as the entire window was almost twice as high as it was broad, and divided into two equal parts, it was very well adapted for the purpose. lipscomb was probably right in calling this "a very artful contrivance for the concealment of the parties to the gunpowder plot"; there is certainly a tradition to the same effect, and, as will have been observed, i have adopted it; at the same time i will say candidly that i sometimes ask myself whether, after all, the "contrivance," with its pivotted floor, may not have been only intended as a hiding-place for priests, and not for conspirators, a theory which is somewhat supported by the knowledge that sir everard digby was going to leave and shut up gothurst a few days before the explosion was to take place, and even still earlier was going to send his wife and children to mr throgmorton's house at coughton, which he had taken for them. the energies of the conspirators, especially those of such an earnest catholic as sir everard digby, would be stimulated during october by the news that, that very month, two priests and a layman had been put to death for their religion. [ ] "they were executed together with sixteen thieves and eight other malefactors; and their heads were placed on london bridge." a spanish lady of high birth, who had come to england in the preceding may, wrote:--[ ] "we can hardly go out to walk without seeing the heads and limbs of some of our dear and holy ones stuck up on the gates that divide the streets, and the birds of the air perching upon them; which makes me think of the verse in the psalms, 'they have given the dead bodies of thy servants to be meat for the fowls of the air,'" etc. admitting that there may have been some exaggeration in this statement, it was by no means devoid of foundation in fact. the reports of such things would give the conspiracy the colour of a crusade, to men anxious to see it assume that hue. [ ] _before and after the gunpowder plot._ by e. healy thompson, p. . [ ] _life of luisa de carvajal._ by lady georgiana fullerton, p. . we shall presently see that sir everard intended to turn his steps towards wales, when the blow should have been struck, making sure of the support of catholics so persecuted as the welsh and the inhabitants of the border counties. here is something about them. less than five months before the attempt to blow up the houses of parliament, the protestant bishop of hereford wrote to salisbury:--[ ] "on wednesday last, at evening, sir james scudamore and other justices of the peace, with such aid as i could give them, went unto the darren and other places adjoining to make search and apprehend jesuits and priests ... and did make diligent search all that night and day following, from village to village, from house to house, about thirty miles compass, near the confines of monmouthshire, where they found altars, images, books of superstition, relics of idolatry, but left all desolate of men and women. except here and there an aged woman or a child, all were fled into wales, and but one man apprehended; all that circuit of rude barbarous people carried headlong into these desperate courses by priests (whereof there is great store) and principal gentlemen, lords of towns and manors there. they are all fled into the woods, and there they will lurk until the assizes be past." rumours of the searches on the part of the "justices of the peace," "with such aid" as the bishop of hereford "could give them," would reach gothurst and provoke sir everard. they remind one of the remark made by cardinal bellarmine on the gunpowder plot:--[ ] "i excuse not the crime, i loathe unnatural murders, i execrate conspiracies, but no one can deny that provocation was given." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xiv. n. , june , . [ ] reply to the king's _triplici nodo triplex cuneus_. see _the month_, no. , p. . the plan of campaign was doubtless discussed at great length at gothurst during the early part of the month of october. parliament was to meet at the beginning of november, and the great attempt was intended to be made about the th. no time, therefore, was to be lost in making provision for every contingency. sir everard was still anxious as to whether all the catholic peers, and those peers who were friendly to catholics, could, with any certainty, be induced to absent themselves from the house at the time of the explosion. "assure yourself," said catesby to him, "that such of the nobility as are worth saving shall be preserved, and yet know not of the matter."[ ] as to the remainder of the lords, he declared that he regarded them as "atheists, fools, and cowards, and that lusty bodies would be better for the commonwealth than they."[ ] there was considerable wrangling as to which of the peers were to be saved, and there was some diversity of opinion on the question--whether this or that protestant lord was well-enough disposed towards catholics and their religion to be worth rescue. for instance, some would have it that the earl of northumberland was likely to become a catholic; but his relative, percy the conspirator, said that[ ] "for matters of relligion" he "trobled not much himselfe." notwithstanding this statement, percy earnestly begged that he might be one of the peers to be spared,[ ] which was indeed only fair, considering that his rents were to be stolen for the purposes of the plot. francis tresham pleaded for his two brothers-in-law, stourton and mounteagle, both of whom were catholics; keyes for his great friend, mordaunt; fawkes for montague, several for arundel, and so on. [ ] digby's exam., nd dec. . s.p.o. jardine's _gunpowder plot_, pp. - . [ ] keyes' exam., th nov. . s.p.o. jardine, p. . [ ] cal. sta. pa., - , p. . [ ] jardine, p. . as to the plan of proceedings, when the explosion should have taken place with success, the great principle was to be to rally the catholic gentry with their servants and retainers for a general rising in a central district. gothurst was considered too far east for this purpose, and warwickshire was selected as the base of operations for the volunteer catholic army. it was true that that army did not yet exist; that the number of men at present initiated into the conspiracy was very small; and that the spirit in which the catholics would receive the news of the wholesale massacre of the king and his parliament remained to be proved; but catesby and his confederates, sir everard apparently among the number, were very sanguine. catesby, the originator, organiser, and leader of the whole proceeding, was to have the management of the grand explosion and the conduct of matters in london immediately afterwards, while digby was to have the charge of the rising in warwickshire, where catesby was to join him, as occasion might serve. as a nucleus of his hoped-for army, sir everard was to take so many of his retainers as he could muster, with a quantity of arms in carts, to dunchurch, a place very near rugby, and to invite a large number of his trustworthy friends, likely to join in the cause, to come there with their horses and servants for a great "hunting-match" on dunsmoor heath. country gentlemen in our own times have often wondered what this "hunting-match" could be. possibly it may have been a coursing meeting. the foundation of the rules of coursing, in its modern sense, was the code drawn up by the duke of norfolk in the reign of elizabeth,[ ] and as sir everard had been a good deal at the court of that queen, and was devoted to field sports, it is not unreasonable to infer that the so-called "hunting-match" may have been ostensibly what we should call a coursing-meeting, with, perhaps, some hawking added. it was arranged that on the arrival of the guests invited to take part in it at dunchurch, sir everard was to hint to them that a decisive blow of some sort was about to be struck in london, although they were not to be enlightened as to its nature until the news should arrive of its success. on the receipt of this news, digby was at once to despatch a party to seize the princess elizabeth at the house of her governor, lord harington--he had been created baron harington of exton in --at his house near coventry, and if catesby should fail to secure the persons of the prince of wales or the duke of york in the south, digby was to proclaim her queen. the little volunteer army in warwickshire was then to seize the horses at warwick castle and the store of armour at whewell grange, lord windsor's house in worcestershire, "and by that time," said catesby, in unfolding his plan, "i hope some friends will come and take our parts."[ ] [ ] _the greyhound_, by hugh dalziel, . [ ] r. winter's letter to the lords. s.p.o. st jan. . jardine, p. . sir everard was not going to leave his wife and children at gothurst, between the great rallying centre of his expected army in warwickshire and the possible opposing army which, in case of failure, might approach from london. on the contrary, he was anxious to place them on the further side of warwickshire, so that the band of catholic warriors might lie between them and the source of danger; at the same time he wished to have them within easy reach; and, for this purpose, he hired or borrowed from mr throckmorton, a house called coughton (containing many "secret recesses"[ ]), near alcester, and about twenty-five miles from the primary rallying point at dunchurch. [ ] _records of the eng. prov. s. j._, vol. iv. p. , footnote. sir everard said in his examination in nov. , that he "did borrow a howse of mr thomas throckmorton for one moneth, purposing to take it longer, or to enquire out some other if that were not to be had, if" his "wife should like to live there."[ ] [ ] s. p. domestic, james i., vol. xvi. no. . being, in those days, a quadrangular house,[ ] it could easily be defended in case of need. it is impossible that sir everard can have given lady digby the real reason for which he proposed to remove her there: the secret which he was keeping from her can scarcely have failed to cause some restraint between them, and it would be but natural that she should feel considerable uneasiness. why, she would ask herself, should her husband, who had hitherto shared everything with her, now have something in hand which he was evidently concealing? [ ] gorton's topography, vol. i. p. . the house at present belongs to sir n. w. throckmorton, bart. another inmate at gothurst was in a state of great anxiety, namely father garnet. the exertions to which his lay companion, "little john," was put, at his host's request, to increase the secret passages and make a hidden room, may have aroused his suspicions still further; but, after all, gothurst would be no more ramified with such places of concealment than certain other houses; for instance, at hendlip hall, about four miles from worcester, a house to which father garnet was to go within two months, to spend several weeks, a house, moreover, of much the same date as gothurst, there was[ ] "scarcely an apartment that" had "not secret ways of going in or going out"; some had "back stair cases concealed in the walls; others" "places of retreat in their chimneys; some" "trap-doors, and all" presented "a picture of gloom, insecurity, and suspicion." and well might the inmates of a catholic family live in "gloom, insecurity, and suspicion," in those days of pursuivants, fines, hangings, and quarterings. [ ] _beauties of england_, vol. xv., part i., p. . jardine, p. . nash, in his _worcestershire_, quotes from ashmole mss., vol. , fol. , the following:--"eleven secret corners and conveyances were found in the said house, all of them having books, massing stuff, and popish trumpery in them, only two excepted." father gerard, who was a frequent visitor at gothurst, observed with surprise that sir everard had a far larger number of horses than he had been accustomed to keep;[ ] but, when it occurred to him that this might be because he was, for some reason or other, better off than before, he found that, on the contrary, he had been selling his farm-stock, and even some land, which puzzled him much, particularly in so prudent and careful a man, and the more so since he was aware that sir everard was going to pay the fine required of recusants by the statute, and was therefore in no danger of having his stock taken from him compulsorily. [ ] _life of father j. gerard_, p. ccxxxvi. although sir everard digby had been led by catesby to believe that some of the jesuit fathers had given their approval to the gunpowder plot, and had special reasons, as we have seen, for imagining father garnet to be one of these, he does not appear to have thought that father gerard knew anything about the matter, or would have consented to it if he had known of it: for, on his arraignment, he declared that father gerard was ignorant of it, and that he had never mentioned it to him,[ ] "alleging the reason," "because, he said, he feared lest" that father "should dissuade him from it." so here we find him acting in opposition to his greatest friend--his "brother," as he called him--the priest who had received him into the church, and was his chief spiritual adviser. a good catholic might lawfully act in opposition to the opinion of his confessor or director in matters open to difference of view, especially when that opinion was only suspected, and had not been delivered; but on such an all-important question as this, he might have been expected to consult gerard, although it must be remembered that he had been assured by catesby that another jesuit had approved of the plot. [ ] father gerard's letter to the bishop of chalcedon. see _life of father gerard_, p. ccxxxviii. there is one consideration on this subject which is of the highest importance, namely, that garnet was the provincial, that is to say the superior and the very highest authority among the jesuits in england, at that time, and therefore the jesuit of all others most in communication with rome, and most likely to know the mind of the general of his order as well as that of the holy father himself. during october, not only catesby, but other conspirators visited gothurst. among these was fawkes, the adventurer who was intended to be actual perpetrator of the terrible deed. he was not altogether ill-born, being a member of an at least respectable family in yorkshire, his father having been registrar and advocate of the consistory court of york minster.[ ] he was thirty-five years old, and he had seen much of the world, having entered the spanish army in flanders and been at the taking of calais by the archduke albert in .[ ] he was a man, too, who made some profession of devotion as a catholic.[ ] father greenway describes him as[ ] "a man of great piety, of exemplary temperance, of mild and cheerful demeanour, an enemy of broils and disputes, a faithful friend, and remarkable for his punctual attendance upon religious observances." he had been to spain, on the private embassy to philip ii. with christopher wright, and he had a brother then a barrister in one of the inns of court in london. therefore he was not ill-fitted by his antecedents to be received as a guest at gothurst, shrink as we may from the idea of such a man being admitted to the house of the gentle lady digby. [ ] jardine's g. p., p. . [ ] beeton's encyclopædia, vol. i. [ ] narrative of the gunpowder plot, by j. gerard, pp. , . [ ] jardine, p. . this intending actor in a very dark deed arrived in dull, stormy, and gloomy weather. much rain had fallen, and the dead leaves lay wet and dank about the gables and recesses of gothurst. there were, then, none of the modern arrangements of hot-water pipes, or other contrivances for keeping out the cold in a large stone house, of which luxurious people avail themselves so freely in these days, and the long rooms must have felt chilly, on the october nights, beyond a certain radius from the piles of burning logs in the large open grates. people talking secrets do not find the family or social circle round the fire a very convenient place in which to interchange their confidences, and sir everard digby and guy fawkes had good reason one evening, when supper was ended, for withdrawing to a dark and distant corner to discuss the terrible scheme in which both were so deeply engrossed; neither sir everard's wife nor his chaplain, nor father garnet, nor either of the ladies who were staying in the house, could be permitted to hear a word of their whisperings about the details and prospects of the fatal plot; so the two conspirators were obliged to forego the warmth of the cheerful fire until their conversation should be ended. a damp chill, in spite of the flickering light from the burning wood, seems to have suggested to the host the probable condition of a certain fireless cellar in westminster; for he muttered in a low tone to his guest[ ] "that he was much afraid that the powder in the cellar was grown dank, and that some new must be provided, lest that should not take fire," words which show that, having once yielded to the temptations of catesby, the ill-fated youth had thrown himself heart and soul into the diabolical conspiracy. the biographer of sir everard digby may well wish that he had never been guilty of any such speech. [ ] _gunpowder treason_, barlow, p. . chapter x. both catesby and fawkes left gothurst as october wore on; so also did any other conspirators who may have visited it. most of them betook themselves to white webbs, a desolate, half-timbered house, with "many trap-doors and passages,"[ ] on enfield chase, to the north of london, about ten miles from the cellar where their gunpowder lay. [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . this house had been taken, a long time before this, by anne vaux, and was rented by her[ ] as a convenient place near london for the meeting of priests and the catholic laity. unfortunately, it had gradually got more into the hands of her relatives, who found it useful for other purposes. these relatives were catesby and tresham. [ ] _ib._, - , p. . at one time white webbs had been inhabited almost exclusively by jesuits, being used as a centre for the renovation of vows, religious retreats, and conferences upon the affairs of their missions.[ ] in his examination,[ ] father garnet said "that it was a spacious house fitt to receave so great a company that should resort to him thither; there being two bedds placed in a chamber, but thinketh there have not been above the number of jesuits at one time there." disastrously for himself and his order, he was obliged to confess[ ] that "catesby and wynter, or mr catesby alone, came to him to white webbs and tould this exam{t}. there was a plott in hand for the cath{c}. cause against the king and the state," assuring him that it was something quite "lawfull"; but that he had "dissuaded him," and that "he promised to surceasse." [ ] _records s. j._, vol. iv. p. , footnote. [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xix. n. [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xix. n. . it was no secret that white webbs had been one of the principal meeting-places of the jesuits; therefore, after they had given up going there, and it had got into the hands of catesby and his band of conspirators, the government, not altogether unnaturally, supposed that the jesuits had purposely assigned it to the plotters as a convenient place from which to carry out their dread design. this, however, was not the case; for, in october , father garnet had intended to have gone thither, but finding that catesby and his friends had established themselves in the house, most likely with the purpose of carrying out the "plott in hand," which he so greatly feared, he did not dare to go there,[ ] "and so accepted the offer of sir everard to be his tenants at coughton." he felt the more anxious to go to coughton because catesby had promised to come there on the st;[ ] and he says, "i assuredly, if they had come, had entered into the matter, and perhaps might have hindered all." as the modern jesuit, father pollen, says, "to be able to do this he would, of course, have to ask catesby to allow him to open the matter, but of success in this, considering that catesby had of his own accord offered to tell him, he did not much doubt, and, perhaps to make the negotiations easier, he had ordered greenway to be there too." the pity is that he had not "entered into the matter" earlier. nervous and horror-stricken, he had refused to allow catesby to tell him the details, when he had reason for believing a plot to be brewing; he was tongue-tied when he afterwards met catesby, having heard those details in confession; yet, after being for some time at gothurst with catesby, it was not until catesby had left that he came to the conclusion that he might, and that it was highly desirable that he should, beg catesby's leave to speak to him of a subject which had been transmitted to him through the confessional, at catesby's desire. [ ] _father garnet and the gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] _father garnet and the gunpowder plot_, p. . see also lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. a zealous catholic like sir everard would be comforted by learning that an envoy had been privately despatched to rome, to explain everything to the pope, from the point of view of the conspirators, as soon as the great event should have taken place. the person selected for this purpose was sir edward baynham, a member of a good gloucestershire family, and an intimate friend of catesby's. he had started in september. unluckily for himself, father garnet, on hearing that baynham was going to rome, as catesby's messenger, had encouraged it, believing,[ ] "that he had procured baynham's mission in order to inform the pope generally of the plot, and that this was the reason why he so confidently expected from his holiness a prohibition of the whole business." father garnet's approval of baynham's mission was thus capable of quotation, or rather misquotation, to sir everard digby, and would naturally confirm the reports of his full approval of the conspiracy, as previously cited by catesby. [ ] garnet's letters to the fathers and brethren, palm sunday, after his trial. _antilogia_, p. . jardine, p. . this mission of baynham to rome was destined to bring trouble upon the conspirators, sir everard among them. in the indictment afterwards made against them, was the following count.[ ] "that after the destruction of the king, the queen, the prince, and the royal issue male, the lords spiritual and temporal, the knights and burgesses; they should notifie the same to foreign states; and therefore sir _edmund bayham_, an attainted person of treason, and stiling himself prince of the damned crew, should be sent, and make the same known to the pope, and crave his aid; an ambassador fit, both for the message and persons, to be sent betwixt the pope and the devil." [ ] _gunpowder treason_, p. . the last week of october must have been a time of great anxiety to sir everard. his companions at gothurst appear to have been his wife and his two little children, mrs vaux, her sister-in-law, anne vaux, and father garnet. in the meantime he was making his preparations for the pretended coursing-meeting at dunchurch. he was arranging how the arms, armour, and ammunition were to be conveyed in carts, covered over with other things to conceal them, and he was getting his men and horses ready for the start. he was also making preparations for the journey of his wife, children, and guests to coughton, and for this party, alone, a good many servants and horses were required. it is highly improbable that catesby and the other conspirators at white webbs kept up communications with their friend and ally at gothurst; so most likely he was spared the anxiety of the news that on saturday, the th, lord mounteagle had received, when at supper, an anonymous letter, warning him to "devyse some exscuse" for absenting himself from the "parleament," and to "retyere" himself into the "contri" where he might "expect the event in safti for thoghe theare be no apparance of anni stir yet i saye they shall receyve a terribel blowe this parleament and yet they shall not seie who hurts them &c.";[ ] and that lord mounteagle[ ] ordered a man in his service to read this letter then and there before the party assembled. most likely, too, sir everard did not learn till much later that when, early in the following week, catesby and winter heard of the delivery of this letter of warning, they suspected tresham of being its author; that, on wednesday, the th, they summoned him, after he had been down in northamptonshire for about a week, to come at once to white webbs, with the full intention of poignarding him on the spot, if they could convince themselves that he had been guilty of writing and sending the warning, and that he denied it, with such firmness and so many oaths, that they hesitated to assassinate him, while still doubting his sincerity. [ ] lingard, vol. vii. chap. i. [ ] it would be beyond my sphere, nor have i the space, to go into the vexed question of the authorship of this letter. nor can i here inquire whether mounteagle was privy to the plot. a very affectionate letter from mounteagle to catesby is given in _archæologia_, vol. xxviii. pp. - , and with it are some interesting remarks by mr bruce upon this subject. he infers from some, at first sight, playful words about "the ellimentes of aier and fyre," and "the fyre of your spirite," that mounteagle referred to the gunpowder plot; and he suspects that in telling catesby that he "accumptes thy person the only sone that must ripene our harvest," mounteagle implies that catesby is the chief instigator of the great blow that is to deliver the catholics from persecution. the letter invites catesby to meet him at bath, and mr bruce says, "catesby went to bath about michaelmas , it now appears, in consequence of the above invitation. percy, and, as we may conclude, lord mounteagle, met him there." this must have been either immediately before, or immediately after, catesby revealed the plot to sir everard digby. mr bruce thinks before. on tuesday, the th of october, lady digby, her children, guests, and servants, started for coughton, a journey of some fifty miles. in mentioning coughton, it may be worth noticing how many of those whose names are more or less connected, even indirectly, with the story of the gunpowder plot were related to each other. the owner of coughton, thomas throckmorton, was a cousin both of catesby's and of tresham's, although he never had anything to do with the conspiracy. he was also a cousin of the vaux family, his grandmother having been a daughter of a lord vaux of harrowden. it being known that father garnet was to be at coughton for all hallows' eve, all saints' day, and all souls' day, many catholics in the neighbourhood came thither in order to attend mass and go to their religious duties. the feast of all-hallows used then to be kept with some solemnity, and it was father garnet's custom on such occasions to sing the mass,[ ] where it was practicable and safe to do so, and also to preach. lingard[ ] thought that it was "plain that garnet had acted very imprudently at coughton, probably had suffered expressions to escape him which, though sufficiently obscure then, might now prove his acquaintance with the plot; for he writes to anne vaux, on march th, 'there is some talk here of a discourse made by me or hall; i fear it is that which i made at coughton.'--autib. ." he certainly recited the prayer for the conversion of england, which had been authorised for that purpose by cardinal allen; and, although it was used that day throughout the world, being taken from the office of the feast,[ ] his doing so was afterwards used in evidence against him as an act of treason. the words "gentem auferte perfidam credentium de finibus, ut christo laudes debitas persolvamus alacriter."[ ] from a hymn in the office, had certainly no reference to the gunpowder plot. [ ] _father garnet and the gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] hist, of eng., vol. vii. appendix h.h.h. [ ] _father garnet and the gunpowder plot_, p. . [ ] see jardine, p. . on saturday, the second of november, sir everard was up early, superintending the arrangements for his start a day or two later, as well as the putting away of valuables at gothurst, and the closing of the house in preparation for a long absence. already some of his horses and men had been sent on to dunchurch, together with his greyhounds, which were all-important for appearance sake. possibly my readers may have experienced the sensation caused by the unexpected and very sudden arrival of a hitherto invariably welcome friend at a moment when his presence was not exactly convenient. now few men, if any, were so dear to sir everard as father gerard, and he used to be specially welcome when he occasionally rode to gothurst early in a morning to say a mass in its chapel; but when sir everard saw "his brother," as he usually called him, riding up to gothurst on that particular saturday morning, and when he was told by the father that he had come to say his mass in his chapel on this all souls' day, he wished, for the first time, that his favourite guest had not taken it into his head to come on that saturday morning, "of all saturday mornings." he knew that all the chapel furniture, as well as the chalices, vestments, and other necessaries for saying mass, had been carefully hidden away, with the exception of those which had been sent on to dunchurch with a view to having mass said during his stay there. besides, everything was in a state of fuss and confusion in anticipation of the start; and, as his family were to remain for some time at coughton, the house was on the point of being shut up. one reason why the presence of father gerard might be particularly unwelcome just then was that, about that time, digby may have been superintending the "great provision of armour and shot, which he sent before him in a cart with some trusty servants" to dunchurch.[ ] [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, by father gerard, p. . when told that it would be impossible to have mass at gothurst that morning, father gerard, in addition to his expression of disappointment--for all souls' is a feast upon which no priest likes to miss saying mass--may have shown signs of embarrassment; for the presence of a stranger prevented his asking his host the reasons. as soon as an opportunity offered itself, father gerard beckoned to sir everard to follow him into a room in which they would be alone.[ ] there he told him that he could not understand the sudden alteration in the arrangements of his house, the putting away of so many things as if a long absence was contemplated, the removal of the family to coughton, the preparations for a journey to dunchurch with such an unusual number of men and horses, and--now that he came to think of it--the sales of land and stock, of which sir everard had spoken to him not long ago, as if to raise money for some special purpose. all this, as an intimate friend, father gerard was in a position to say to his so-called "brother"; and he ventured to go further and inquire whether he "had something in hand for the catholic cause." [ ] _life of father j. gerard_, p. ccxxxvi.-vii. sir everard's answer was "no, there is nothing in hand that i know of, or can tell you of." father gerard then replied that he had some reason to feel anxious on the subject, as sir everard was much too careful a man to injure his estate by leaving it understocked, and by selling any portion of it in order to purchase horses, hire men, and spend money in other ways, unless he had some great object in view for what he believed to be the good of the catholic cause; and, added the father, "look well that you follow counsel in your proceedings, or else you may hurt both yourself and the cause." ah! if some such words as these had been addressed to him by father garnet at the time he first joined the conspiracy, how much misery he might have been saved. perhaps father gerard's persistence in suspecting and implying that sir everard had "something in hand," after he had avowed that he had "nothing" may have irritated him, for he replied, with dignity: "i respect the catholic cause much more than my own commodity, as it should well appear whenever i undertake anything." father gerard was not to be put off in this manner, and he asked once more, "whether there were anything to be done," and, if so, whether help was expected from any foreign power. sir everard was becoming hard pressed, and raising one finger, he replied, "i will not adventure so much in hope thereof." distressed and anxious, father gerard then said--"i pray god you follow counsel in your doings. if there be any matter in hand, doth mr walley know of it?" walley was the name by which father garnet, the provincial of the jesuits, was spoken of at that time. digby's answer was a curious one, unless catesby had not told him the name of the particular jesuit whose approval he pretended to have obtained. "in truth, i think he doth not." then, said father gerard, "in truth, sir everard digby, if there should be anything in hand, and that you retire yourself and company into warwickshire, as into a place of most safety, i should think you did not perform the part of a friend to some of your neighbours not far off, and persons that, as you know, deserve every respect, and to whom you have professed much friendship, that they are left behind, and have not any warning to make so much provision for their own safety as were needful in such a time, but to defend themselves from rogues." sir everard, who must have sincerely wished that his friend had stayed away, replied--"i warrant you it shall not need." at this assurance father gerard felt rather more satisfied, and shortly afterwards he rode away, much to the relief of his host, who at any other time would have pressed him to remain as his guest. sir everard stayed at home over the sunday--whether he rode to some other catholic's house to hear mass on that day does not appear--and on the monday[ ] he started for dunchurch, accompanied by his page, william ellis, richard day, "his receaver," and five servants. [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part i. no. . he can scarcely have left gothurst in the best of spirits, as he must have reflected that, for the first time, he had prevaricated and dissembled, if not actually lied, to the man he considered his best friend, the very priest who had received him into the church; that he had parted with him on a far from satisfactory footing, and that he had been obliged to send him away from his house without saying mass on a day of such importance to all good catholics as that devoted to the memory of and intercession for the dead. besides these, he had other good reasons for depression as he rode away from his beautiful home; he must have known that, at best, he was starting upon a very perilous enterprise; whether it succeeded or failed, many of his party might fall on the field in prosecuting it, if nothing worse happened to them; and it may be that, as he caught a last glimpse of gothurst in the distance, the thought occurred to his mind that he would never see it again. the journey and his plans, however, would soon distract his thoughts. the plot itself, too, would occupy his mind above all other subjects. in each of the conspirators it seems to have produced a sort of intoxication. stow says that,[ ] "being drunke with the same folly," sir everard digby "went to the appointed hunting at don-church." [ ] stow's _annales_, p. . then there were his arms and his followers to be thought of and looked after. it is difficult in these days to realise that, some three hundred years ago, the servants, retainers, and to some extent the tenants, of large landowners were expected to fight when required by their lords. it is true that the feudal system had then almost ceased to exist; but although vassalage had been considerably limited more than a hundred years earlier by henry vii., it was not abolished by statute until more than fifty years after the time of which i am writing. to carry ourselves back to that period, we have to imagine our gardeners, under-gardeners, grooms, stable-helpers, gamekeepers, and perhaps footmen, strapping on broad-swords, carrying pikes, putting on such armour as could be provided, and going forth to possible battle, some on foot, and some mounted on hacks, coach-horses, cart-horses, and ponies, not a few of which would be taken up from grass for the purpose. in this particular instance, the motley troop, with the exception of the seven men accompanying sir everard, had been already sent on, ostensibly to assist at the coursing and, perhaps, hawking, which was to take place at dunchurch, while some of them were to attend to the wants of the guests. as to sir everard's own journey, most of his attendants rode; but one of them, richard hollis, the under-cook, walked, leading the "truncke-horse," on which his master's personal clothing was slung.[ ] this trunk, wrote sir everard,[ ] "had in it cloathes of mine, as, a white sattin dublet cut with purple, a jerkin and hoase of de-roy colour sattin, laid very thicke with gold-lace, there were other garments in it of mine, with a new black winter gown of my wife's, there was also in the trunk £ in money." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvii.; g. p. book, part ii. n. . [ ] sir e. digby's letters, p. . on reaching dunchurch, sir everard took his supper alone,[ ] and it is not likely that his reflections as he did so were of the calmest or the happiest. [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part i. no. . now that it takes considerably less than a couple of hours to travel from london to rugby, it seems curious that no news of the difficulties of the conspirators at white webbs should have reached those at dunchurch; but it would have been dangerous in the extreme to have sent a letter describing them, and neither of the principals concerned wished to go far from london until they had seen what would happen. their anxiety on wednesday, the th of october, had been increased by tresham's eagerness in urging catesby to give up the plot, which he said was discovered, and to leave england, promising that he should always "live upon his purse";[ ] and by his imploring winter to begone, on saturday, the nd of november. on the saturday or the sunday, winter again met tresham in lincoln's inn walks, when the latter declared that they were all lost men, unless they saved themselves by instant flight. through another source, catesby and winter learned, on the sunday, that the letter of warning which had been received by lord mounteagle had been shown to the king, who considered the matter of the highest importance, but enjoined the strictest secrecy. the leading conspirators, therefore, were in a state of great consternation on the sunday, two days before the explosion was to take place. of all this, however, sir everard digby knew nothing. [ ] tresham's declaration, nov. . s.p.o. jardine's g. p., . either late on the monday night, or early on the tuesday morning, several of sir everard's friends assembled at the inn[ ] where he was staying, at dunchurch; among these were throckmorton,[ ] sir robert digby of coleshill, james digby, george digby, stephen littleton and humphrey littleton. on the tuesday morning,[ ] mass was said by father hart, a jesuit, who had been a secular priest, and had been introduced to fathers of the society of jesus by father strange,[ ] sir everard digby's own chaplain. the party, after breakfast, hunted or coursed, so that, although the "hunting-match" was a mere cover for other designs, it actually took place for one day. [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part ii. no. . [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part i. no. . [ ] _cal. sta. pa._, - , p. . [ ] _records of the eng. prov. s. j._, series i. p. . it seems that sir everard took opportunities of confiding to his friends the news that a scheme was on foot for asserting the rights of catholics; that active measures of some sort were to be taken on their behalf immediately in london, probably on the following day, and that very possibly the sportsmen assembled at dunchurch might receive a message, summoning them to arms about thursday or friday; to some he told more, and to some less, according to their dispositions and the spirit in which they received his information. the sportsmen naturally conversed together upon the intelligence they had received, although a few of the more enlightened were to some extent tongue-tied, and the whole party gradually became in an anxious and excited state.[ ] this was especially the case when they all met together at supper at the inn after hunting, and more particularly as they talked in groups over their tankards when supper was finished. [ ] jardine, p. . sir everard digby, his relative, sir robert digby, and one of the littletons, withdrew from the rest of the party to play cards[ ] together in a room by themselves. [ ] s. p. dom. james i., nov. , vol. xvi. no. . a little distraction must have been very desirable for sir everard's mind in its state of tension. as we know, he was usually an excellent card-player, but we may doubt whether he played his best on this occasion. he believed that the horrible catastrophe was either at that moment taking place, had just taken place, or was to take place immediately. perhaps, as he sat quietly playing cards, numbers of men whom he had known personally, or at least by sight, had just been put to a horrible death, among them his king, who had knighted him. the poor princes, innocent boys, might be lying beside him, dead also, crushed and mangled. many among the slain would be almost as innocent, so far as any desire to injure the catholics was concerned. of course, digby had made up his mind that the explosion was a necessary and even a heroic undertaking; but, if bloodguiltiness there were in it, he could not help knowing that it rested on his own head. can one help imagining that, while he played cards, he must have devoutly wished, now that it was too late, that he could prevent such a fearful slaughter, or that he had never heard of or conspired in the plot? let us hope that the game of cards diverted such thoughts; yet who could blame him if, with such matters on his mind, he forgot to follow suit? at any rate, while he shuffled the cards, grim realities would be apt to present themselves to his memory. when would he hear of the great event? it would only take place that afternoon or evening at soonest. dunchurch was about eighty miles from london. catesby would hardly despatch a messenger until he had something definite to relate as to the result of the catastrophe upon the minds of the populace, the officials, and the army; so it might be almost another twenty-four hours before digby could receive the news; yet such an appalling massacre would be talked about, right and left, and the intelligence would be passed on from one place to another very rapidly; it was possible, therefore, that tidings--most likely meagre, exaggerated, and untrustworthy tidings--might reach dunchurch, in some form or other, on the following morning. as the day wore on they might, perhaps, see rookwood himself, or one of his servants entrusted with a letter, for he had placed relays of horses on the road between london and dunchurch.[ ] or percy or christopher wright might appear, as sir everard had sent a servant with a couple of horses to meet them at hockliffe.[ ] [ ] jardine, p. . [ ] _ib._, p. , footnote. but it was useless to disturb the mind as to the particular moment at which the news could arrive; possibly there was not at present any to send; therefore it would be wisest, sir everard might tell himself, to divert his mind with his game, to go early to bed, and get a good night's rest, so as to be fresh and ready for whatever might happen on the following day. suddenly there was a sound without of many and hurried footsteps; the door opened, and in rushed catesby, percy, john wright, christopher wright, rookwood, and winter, mud-bespattered, heavily armed, and with grave faces. acton and grant came in after them. it was clear, at a glance, that something was wrong; and sir everard looked eagerly to catesby for information. instead of speaking, catesby took him by the arm and led him out of the room, saying nothing until he had found an empty chamber, which they both entered alone. exactly what was said to sir everard by catesby can never be known; but what he had to tell him, if he chose to do so, was much as follows. on the evening, or late in the afternoon, of the previous day (monday, november th), catesby, rookwood, john and christopher wright, thomas winter, percy, and keyes, who formed the band of conspirators in and about london, received notice from fawkes that the cellar in which their gunpowder was laid had just been visited by the lord chamberlain--the already mentioned earl of suffolk, and lord mounteagle. catesby and john wright immediately fled, and started for dunchurch. christopher wright, rookwood, keyes, winter, and percy waited in london to observe what would happen. they hung about during the night, and at about four or five o'clock in the morning[ ] they discovered that fawkes had been arrested. then christopher wright and percy started for dunchurch. [ ] _somer's tracts_, vol. ii. p. . only rookwood, winter, and keyes now remained. they were staying in the same lodging, and they determined to wait and see what the morning would bring forth.[ ] on going out early, they found the populace in a state of great consternation and terror.[ ] "the news of fawkes's apprehension, and exaggerated rumours of a frightful plot discovered, were spread in every direction." guards and soldiers protected all the streets and roads leading to the palace, and no one, excepting officials, was permitted to pass them. the whole town was in a state of excitement. keyes sprang on his horse and galloped after the other fugitives; but rookwood, who had taken care to place relays of horses along the road to dunchurch, remained longer, in order to carry the latest news to his fellow-conspirators in warwickshire. at ten[ ] o'clock it became evident that it would be dangerous to delay an instant longer, so he also mounted his horse and galloped away. [ ] a man named tatnell deposed that "he met gentlemen that morning near lincoln's inn, and one said, 'god's woundes! we are wonderfully besett, and all ys marred.'" s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvi.; g. p. bk., no. . [ ] jardine, p. . [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvii. n. . see also vol. xvi. nos. and . the last of all to fly was thomas winter.[ ] of his movements catesby could have told sir everard nothing; but he left london very soon after rookwood, and eventually joined his fellow-conspirators at huddington. [ ] gardiner. _hist. eng._, vol. i. p. . when rookwood had gone about three miles beyond highgate, he overtook keyes, and rode with him into bedfordshire, where keyes took a different road, as is conjectured by jardine,[ ] for "lord mordaunt's house at turvey, where his wife resided." somewhere in the neighbourhood of brick-hill, a place not far from fenny stratford, rookwood overtook percy, the two wrights, and catesby, after which these five rode together to ashby st leger, lady catesby's place in northamptonshire, which was very near to dunchurch. roughly speaking, the course of the fugitives had been not very wide of the route of the london and north-western railway from euston to rugby, and while all did it quickly, rookwood's pace was exceptionally fast, as he rode about eighty miles between eleven in the morning and six in the evening, averaging more than eleven miles an hour, including stoppages to change horses. he himself stated that he[ ] "rode thirty miles of one horse in two hours," and that "percy and john wright cast off their cloaks and threw them into the hedge to ride the more speedily." [ ] _g. p._, p. . [ ] _rookwood's examination_, dec. , . s.p.o. jardine, _g. p._, p. . the five fugitives entered lady catesby's house just as she and her party, which included robert winter and acton, were sitting down to supper. the news of the arrest of fawkes and the failure of the main design having been announced by the new arrivals, who, as jardine says, were[ ] "fatigued and covered with dirt,"--father gerard, again, in describing their ride, writes of[ ] "the foulness of the winter ways"--no time was lost over the hurried meal, during which a short conference took place, ending in a decision that the whole party should ride off immediately to dunchurch, taking with them all the arms that were in the house. [ ] p. . [ ] _narrative g. p._, p. . chapter xi. it is to be lamented that catesby, not content with giving an account of the failure of the plot to sir everard digby, added to it a lie. in his examination,[ ] digby stated that catesby "told him that now was the time for men to stirre in the catholick cause, for though the sayd ro. katesbie had bin disappointed of his first intention, yet there was such a pudder bredd in the state by _y{e} death of the king and the earle of salisburie_, as if true catholiques would now stirre, he doubted not but they might procure to themselves good conditions. wherefore by all the bondes of frendshippe to him self and all which that cause might require at this examt{s}. handes, he urged this exam{t}. to proceede in that businesse as him self and all that companie would do, and as he had great assurance all other catholiques in those parts would do the like: telling me that there were two gentlemen in the companie, naming the littletons, that would bring men the next day." [ ] s.p. dom. james i., vol. xvi. no. . the king and lord salisbury both killed, and a promise of a thousand men from one family alone! this was something to start with, even though the parliament had not been destroyed; and in the general "pudder" that had been "bredd," the catholics might possibly succeed in obtaining good terms, if not the reins of government. so was sir everard persuaded by catesby, who was not only a traitor to his country, but a deceiver of his friends. the conspirators assumed that their names would be soon, if not already, known to the government, as fawkes would almost certainly be tortured until he revealed them; and, brave as he was, there was no saying whether he would be able to withstand the temptations of putting an end to his agonies on the rack by giving the names of his employers and accomplices. besides all this, catesby pretended that their case was by no means hopeless. no catholics were more discontented with the government than those in wales and the english counties which bordered on it; few, again, as a body, were more powerful. let the party at dunchurch, therefore, start at once, said catesby, with their servants and retainers, ride through warwickshire and worcestershire into wales, rallying the catholic gentry with their followers to their standard as they went along; and, so soon as they should be in considerable numbers, let them proclaim a general insurrection of the catholics of england. were it once to be known that a catholic army was established in the west, others would certainly be raised in different parts of the country. one man of power and influence he felt sure he could count upon: this was talbot[ ] of grafton--a place not far from coughton. talbot was a zealous catholic; he was heir presumptive to the earldom of shrewsbury; and his wife was a daughter of the sir william petre who had been secretary of state to queen mary. he would be the more likely to join them, as he had suffered imprisonment and penalties for his religion under elizabeth. another reason for hoping for his adherence was the fact that his son-in-law, robert winter, was already one of the sworn conspirators, and had slept at his house only two nights earlier. percy also came in and said that he was certain "all forces in those parts about mr talbot would assist" them. this assurance evidently weighed considerably with sir everard; for he afterwards wrote[ ]:--"we all thought if we could procure mr talbot to rise that ... that was not little, because we had in our company his son-in-law, who gave us some hope of, and did not much doubt of it." [ ] s.p. dom. james i., vol. xvi. no. . [ ] _papers or letters of sir e. digby_, n. . of one thing there could be no sort of question; if action was to be taken at all, it must be taken at once, and without the delay of a moment: time was everything; the rapid journey of the conspirators from london was already much in their favour, and this advantage would be thrown away if there were to be any dallying or indecision. grafton, talbot's place, was about five and twenty miles from where they were then standing, and it would be of the utmost importance to reach it, or send an envoy there, early the next morning. before condemning digby for proceeding further, now that the main plot had failed, we must remember that he had sworn to be faithful to the conspiracy, and that, in their present straits, it might have been as much as his life was worth to refuse to go on with catesby and his fellows. we have seen how narrowly tresham escaped catesby's dagger. there were others, however, not bound by any oath or promise, whose immediate support was required. the so-called hunting-party assembled at the inn must needs be enlisted in the service. scraps of the terrible news had already been passed from one to the other; for many, if not most of them, were well acquainted with the fugitives from london, and were eagerly questioning them concerning particulars. digby and catesby found the party in a state of great excitement when they went to summon them formally to join in the insurrection. to the surprise of sir everard digby and the disgust of catesby, instead of rallying as one man to the call to arms, almost as one man they refused, with horror, to have anything whatever to do with an enterprise which had begun with an attempt at wholesale massacre, and promised to end in the hanging, drawing, and quartering of all who had a share in it. sir everard's own uncle, sir robert digby,[ ] was the very first to charge the conspirators with being a band of traitors, and to order his men and horses to be got ready for immediate departure. with scarcely any exceptions, the other guests followed his example, not only condemning the treason, but also reproaching the traitors with having gravely injured the catholic cause. to join in a legitimate warfare, even a civil warfare, was one thing; to acquiesce in an attempted murder, a murder on a gigantic scale, and to endeavour to profit by the terror brought about by that attempted murder, was quite another. and besides all this; if they complained of having been invited to hunt and hawk at dunchurch on false pretences, who could blame them? no doubt they were very angry. besides, they were but mortal, and to be suddenly disturbed and required to decide hastily upon a most serious question, involving immediate action, is more disagreeable during the process of digestion, just after the principal meal of the day, than at any other time; and as the country squires, who had come to dunchurch to enjoy good sport, scrambled into their uncleaned, and very likely but half-dried riding-clothes, and went out into the dark, damp night, to mount their horses for long, dreary journeys over bad roads towards their homes, they cannot have felt in the best of tempers. [ ] he afterwards "assisted in taking prisoners" of some of the conspirators. s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvi.; g. p. bk., n. . it may be worth noticing here, that sir robert was not the only member of the digby family who gave the government assistance in respect to the gunpowder plot.[ ] "lord harrington, who had the care of the princess elizabeth, having received some intimation of an attempt to seize her, immediately sent up john digby, a younger son of sir george digby, to court, with an account of all he knew; where the young gentleman told the tale so well as to acquire thereby the king's good graces, who not long after knighted, employed him in long negotiation in spain, and sep. th, , created him earl of bristol. his son was the famous george digby, &c." accordingly, if the gunpowder plot marred the fortunes of one branch of the digby family, it made those of another! [ ] _biographia britannica_, vol. iii. p. . sir everard was as much astonished as he was dispirited at finding that the "powder-action," far from being approved of, was repudiated with horror by the friends whom he had assembled at dunchurch. he had expected them to have looked at the matter in a very different light. he can scarcely have failed now to see that, even if the plot had succeeded, the catholics, as a body, would have condemned it, and refused to profit by it. still he was weak enough to yield to catesby's urgent requests to proceed with the insurrection and to endeavour to raise forces in warwickshire, worcestershire, and wales. the band of conspirators, with the very few friends who chose to stay with them, then held a council of war; they were "prepared to stand in armes and raise rebellion,"[ ] and they determined to start at once on their journey, so as to enlist mr talbot to their support, as early as possible on the morrow, and give him the whole day to rally his numerous retainers round the standard of the little army of traitors and would-be murderers. [ ] stow's _annales_, p. . although five of the party had just ridden eighty miles at considerable speed, they swung themselves into the saddle again for a long night's march. even if the whole hunting-party had remained there would not have been a large body of horsemen; in all the number present at dunchurch was only eighty;[ ] but some of the friends who had refused to have anything to do with the expedition were influential men, who could soon have raised substantial troops, even from among their own retainers. the party that actually started from dunchurch under the command of the conspirators, according to sir everard digby,[ ] "were not above fiftie horse." [ ] examination of j. fowes, s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvi. n. . letter enclosed from the sheriff and justices of warwickshire. [ ] s. p. dom. james i., g. p. bk., part ii. n. . h. it was a wretched little cavalcade: if it had anything military about it, it was more of a recruiting party than an army, and its stealthy creeping forth from the inn, that november night, in darkness and dejection, was very different from the triumphant dash of the entire "hunting-party" upon combe abbey, to seize the princess elizabeth and take her from the keeping of lord harington, which had been laid down in the programme. the discovery of the plot, the arrest of fawkes, and the seizure of the gunpowder was bad enough; and now, the refusal of the trusted, influential, and powerful catholic landowners who had been assembled at dunchurch to have hand or part in what they considered a detestable rebellion, added ten-fold to the disappointment of sir everard and his companions. the road of the rebels lay through warwick, and it was remembered that there, in the stable of a poor horse-breaker of cavalry re-mounts, they would be able to supply themselves with fresh horses. even two of the leading conspirators--i wish i could say that sir everard digby had been one of them--winced at this act of felony! rookwood, as he subsequently admitted in examination,[ ] "meant not to adventure himself in stealing any" horses, as he had already fifteen or sixteen; and robert winter[ ] tried to persuade catesby "to let it alone, alleging that it would make a great uproar in the country, and that once done," they "might not rest anywhere, the country would so rise about" them. [ ] jardine, p. , footnote. [ ] s. p., robert winter's confession, jan, - . catesby's reply was ominous. "some of us may not look back." "but others," said winter, "i hope, may, and therefore, i pray you, let this alone." then catesby spoke words in ill accordance with those which he had used to encourage digby before leaving dunchurch. "what! hast thou any hope, robin? i assure thee there is none that knoweth of this action but shall perish." on reaching warwick, they left the trunk-horses with their attendants[ ] at the entrance to the town, in case their intended raid should lead to any scrimmage or retaliation; and then they proceeded to the horse-breakers' stable and stole nine or ten horses. this took about half-an-hour, and when the robbery had been accomplished, they sent back for the trunk-horses and proceeded on their night-journey. [ ] see the examination of richard hollis, s. p. gunpowder treason, , part ii. no. . it was not far from warwick to norbrook, the house of john grant, one of the conspirators. here they made a brief halt, and, on entering the hall, they found two tables furnished with muskets and armour.[ ] after taking a very short rest--william handy, one of sir everard's servants, says half-an-hour;[ ] but jardine says an hour or two,[ ] and richard hollis, a servant of sir everard's, says, "some howres,"[ ]--the cavalcade again started on its dark nocturnal march. the intention of its leaders was to ride to huddington, near droitwich, the house of robert winter; and on the way thither, to send a messenger a little to the right of their road, with a letter to father garnet at coughton, explaining the desperate position in which they were placed. on arriving at huddington, their host was to be sent to his father-in-law, talbot of grafton, to inform him of all that had happened, and to urge him to join the insurrection with as many men as he could muster. [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part ii. no. . [ ] _ib._ [ ] p. . [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part ii. no. . some time after sunrise, which does not take place at that time of the year till after seven o'clock, they drew near alcester, and despatched their messenger to coughton. the man chosen was catesby's servant, thomas bates, the only menial who was a sworn conspirator. besides the letter to father garnet, he was entrusted with one for lady digby, written by her husband. the most trying part of sir everard digby's long and gloomy ride must have been to pass within a couple of miles of his wife and children, as he went through alcester in the early morning, without going to see them. well-horsed, as he was, it might almost appear that he could have made time to visit them for at least a few minutes, and then ridden on to huddington, where the expedition was to make a long halt. did he hesitate to go to coughton through fear of catesby, or was he afraid to trust himself in the presence of his wife? when bates arrived at coughton, he was taken at once to father garnet, who was in the hall,[ ] and he handed the letter to the priest, who opened it and read it in silence. [ ] for accounts of bates's visit to coughton, see bates's examination, jan. , - ; hall's confession, mar. , - ; and jardine's g. p., pp. - . i will give father garnet's own description[ ] of this letter, which "was subscribed by sir e. digby and catesbye." "the effect of this letter was to excuse their rashness, and required my assistance in wales, and persuade me to make a party, saying that if i had scrupulosity or desire to free myself or my order from blame and let them now perish, i should follow after myselfe and all catholics." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xviii. n. ; exam. of h. garnet, feb. , - . see records s. j., vol. iv. p. . while father garnet was reading the letter, father greenway came in and asked what was the matter. thereupon father garnet read the letter in the hearing of bates, and said to greenway, "they would have blown up the parliament house, and were discovered and we all utterly undone." father greenway replied that in that case "there was no tarrying for himself and garnet." then bates begged father greenway to go with him to catesby, his master, if he really wished to help him. father greenway answered that he "would not forbear to go unto him though it were to suffer a thousand deaths, but that it would overthrow the state of the whole society of the jesuits' order." when father garnet had read the letter to father greenway, the latter exclaimed, "all catholics are undone." father garnet, in an intercepted letter, gives a pathetic account of the effect of her husband's letter upon lady digby.[ ] "my lady digby came. what did she? alas! what, but cry." [ ] "father garnet and the gunpowder plot," pollen, p. . he tells us, too, the answer which he gave to the messenger, bates. "that i marvelled they would enter into such wicked actions and not be ruled by the advice of friends and order of his holiness generally given to all, and that i could not meddle but wished them to give over, and if i could do anything in such a matter (as i neither could nor would) it were in vain now to attempt it." then the two fathers drew aside and talked together for half-an-hour, while bates walked up and down the hall. after this, father greenway went to prepare himself for his journey, and presently came out with bates, mounted a horse, and rode with him to huddington in order to see his penitent, catesby. father greenway's riding companion was not only one of the conspirators, but had helped[ ] "in making provision of their powder." he confessed in prison the whole matter of his having been sent by catesby, his master, with a letter to father garnet at coughton, and that father greenway had accompanied him from that house to huddington in order to visit catesby. [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, gerard, p. . we must return to sir everard, as he rode from alcester to huddington. one of his servants, named hardy, came up to him, during this part of his journey, and asked him[ ] what was to become "of him and the rest of his poore servants," who, as he pitifully protested, had not been "privy to this bloudy faction." such a question, although it did not savour of mutiny, showed an inclination to defection, and must have added considerably to his master's discouragement. the answer which he gave to it was as follows:--"i believe you were not;" _i.e._, privy to the plot; "but now there is no remedy." the servant then let out that it was not solely on his own account that he had asked the question; for he went on to implore his master to yield himself to the king's mercy; whereupon sir everard said sharply that he would permit no servant to utter such words in his presence. [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part ii. no. . catesby and his band of warriors, brigands, horse-stealers, professors of physical force, or whatever else the reader may please to call them, reached huddington about two o'clock on the wednesday afternoon.[ ] the first thing they did was to place sentinels round the house,[ ] which was rendered suitable for defence by its moat.[ ] then they proceeded to take their first long rest, that is to say, until early on the following morning, a sorely needed period of refreshment and repose, especially for those who had ridden the whole way from london. where so large a party can have been entertained and lodged at huddington, it is difficult to understand, as the house, which is now used as a farm, rich as it is in carved oak, is not, and probably never was, a large one. [ ] the g. p., jardine, p. . [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, part ii. n. . [ ] "the mansion-house, which is moated round, but now in a very ruinous condition, having been much neglected ever since the gunpowder treason in , in which plot the winters were deeply concerned." _nash's worcestershire_, vol. i. p. . during the first few hours of their stay, however, the leading conspirators were awaiting the return of the envoy from grafton with too much anxiety to be able to sleep or take their ease. almost everything hung upon the reply of talbot. the assistance of the large number of men and horses which it was in his power to supply was of the utmost importance at that very critical moment, and on his influence and example might depend the attitude of all the catholic gentry in worcestershire, as well as in several of the counties adjoining it. just as it was beginning to grow dark, two horsemen rode up to the door of huddington, and the ambassadors, robert winter and stephen littleton, entered the house. sir everard digby and catesby eagerly went up to them and asked the result of their embassy; but, before they had had time to reply, it was evident from the expression of their faces that they brought bad news. on reaching grafton, said winter, they found that the report of the gunpowder plot and its failure had arrived there before them. their approach had been observed, perhaps watched for, and, as they rode up to the curious "l"-shaped house, with its gothic chapel at one end of it, sir john talbot himself stood at its arched doorway,[ ] with a frown upon his countenance.[ ] as soon as they were within earshot, he forbade them to enter his house. he then told them that he had already heard of the plot, which he condemned in the strongest terms, together with all that had been, or were, connected with it, whether personal friends of his own or otherwise. he was a very zealous catholic, and he regarded the whole conspiracy as one of the worst evils that could possibly have befallen the catholics of england, since it would bring scandal upon their very name, and increase the persecutions which they suffered. [ ] "like the gateway of the schools of oxford, but of much more antient date." _nash's worcestershire_, vol. i. p. . [ ] possibly he may have remembered that a former owner of grafton, sir humphrey stafford, had been executed at tyburn for treason, rather more than a century earlier. when robert winter not only defended the plot but urged sir john to join the band of catholics who intended to make a struggle for their freedom, his father-in-law threatened that, although he was a catholic, a neighbour, and his son-in-law, he would have him arrested if he did not make off as quickly as his horse's legs could carry him.[ ] [ ] the greater part of grafton was burned down about . _nash_, vol. i. p. . as soon as robert winter had finished his story, the conspirators were plunged into the deepest dejection. not one of them would be more depressed by the bad news than sir everard digby. the rest were all more or less of a wild adventurous spirit, and probably had realised sooner than he to what a desperate issue the conspiracy had already arrived; but sir everard had been deceived by catesby into believing the king and salisbury to be dead, and until now he had clung to the hope that the best catholics in england, when they heard of what had been attempted, would unite with himself and his companions in a holy war. sir john talbot was the type of catholic by whose side he had hoped to fight for the faith, a man full of zeal and unflinching energy for the catholic cause, as well as an honourable english gentleman. it was chiefly on the guarantee of his adherence and assistance, too, that sir everard had consented to catesby's entreaties to ride away from dunchurch with the rest of the conspirators, and attempt to raise the catholics against the government; and now sir john talbot repudiated sir everard, his friends, and his actions. a more gloomy party than that at huddington can rarely have been assembled at an english country house. the hostess, robert winter's wife, was indeed to be pitied. in her presence there was[ ] "no talk of rebellion," as she afterwards declared; but she must have known what was going forward, and have learned something of the disastrous failure of the appeal to her father, whose censure of her husband must have caused her the greatest pain. a few weeks later she was made to endure the distress of an examination before officials on the subject.[ ] [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . [ ] s. p. gunpowder plot book, n. . in the course of the day, father greenway came to huddington with catesby's servant, thomas bates. sir everard does not appear to have seen him, for he wrote[ ]:--"they said mr greenway came to huddington when we were there and had speech of mr" [probably catesby], "but i told them it was more than i took note of, and that i did not know him very well." [ ] _sir e. d.'s letters_, paper . catesby, however, received father greenway with delight. on first seeing him, he exclaimed that "here at least was a gentleman who would live and die with them."[ ] but greenway seems to have paid them a very short visit; and he was evidently commissioned by catesby to go to a neighbouring landlord and enlist him to the cause; for he rode away the same afternoon to henlip, or hindlip,[ ] a house about four miles off, belonging to thomas abington, or habingdon, a man famed for his hospitality to priests flying from persecution. on arriving at hindlip, father greenway told abington that he had[ ] "brought them the worst newes that ever they hade, and sayd they were all undone"; that "ther were certayne gentlemen that meant to have blown upp the parliament house, and that ther plot was discovered a day or two before, and now ther were gathered together some forty horse at mr wynter's house, meaning catesbye, percye, digby, and others, and tould them," _i.e._, abington and his household, "their throates would be cutt unlesse they presently wente to joyne with them." abington replied, "alas, i am sorye;" but he said that he[ ] "would never ioyne with them in that matter, and chardged all his house to that purpose not to goe unto them." [ ] exam. of bates, jan. ; g. p. book, gardiner's _hist. eng._, declaration of morgan, jan.; g. p. book; vol. i. p. . [ ] a very curious house, said to have been built by john habington, cofferer to queen elizabeth. _nash's worcestershire_, vol. i. p. . this house has been pulled down, and a large modern mansion has been built in its place by the allsopp family, the head of which, lord hindlip, takes his title from it. [ ] g. p. book, vol ii. n. . exam. of oldcorne, mar. , , [ ]. [ ] nevertheless, abington was condemned to death, because father garnet was found in his house, a few weeks later. he was eventually reprieved; but his lands and goods were forfeited. see _narrative of the g. p._, gerard, p. . he was "confined to worcestershire on account of the gunpowder treason plot," and became "the first collector of antiquities for that county. died oct. , aged ." _nash's worcestershire_, vol i. illustrations to p. . his wife, sister to lord mounteagle, "is supposed to have wrote the letter which discovered the gunpowder treason plot;" _ib._ father oldcorne, another jesuit, was present at hindlip[ ] when this interview took place, and he also assured father greenway that[ ] he would have nothing to do with the conspiracy or the insurrection. as we shall have little, if anything, more to do with father greenway, it may be worth observing here that he escaped from england[ ] in "a small boat laden with dead pigs, of which cargo he passed as the owner," and that he lived thirty years afterwards. a ridiculous story was reported from naples, in , by sir edwin rich, that father greenway (alias beaumont) was plotting to send king james some poisoned clothes, which would be death to the wearer.[ ] [ ] father garnet was finally arrested at hindlip, with several others. in their hiding-place their "maintenance had been by a quill or reed, through a whole in the chimney that backed another chimney into the gentlewoman's chamber, and by that passage cawdles, broths, and warm drinks had been conveyed in unto them." ashmole mss., vol. , fol. , quoted by nash, vol. i. p. . [ ] narrative of the g. p., gerard, p. . [ ] _troubles of our catholic forefathers_, by father john morris, s. j., first series, pp. - . [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. lvii. n. . while at huddington, sir everard and most of the other conspirators probably went to confession to father hart, the priest who had said mass for them at dunchurch; for he was afterwards "charged with having heard the confessions and absolved the conspirators, two days after the discovery of the plot,"[ ] and this is confirmed by sir everard's servant, handy, who said[ ] "that on thursday morning about three of the clock all the said companie as servaunts as others heard masse, receaved the sacrament and were confessed, w{ch}. masse was said by a priest named harte, a little man, whitely complexion and a little beard." if the conspirators really made full confessions with true sorrow for their terrible sins, on this occasion, nothing could have been better or more opportune. if not,--well, the less said the better! the same witness stated that on that thursday morning, at about six o'clock, sir everard, who had had four fresh horses sent to him from coughton,[ ] and the rest of the party were again in the saddle, and the whole band started in a northerly direction for whewell grange, a house belonging to lord windsor, having added to the procession "a cart laden w{th}. trunckes, pikes, and other munition," from huddington. on their way towards whewell grange "four of the principall gent."[ ] rode in front of the procession, and four behind it "to kepe the company from starting away," _i.e._, deserting. [ ] _records s. j._, series i., p. . [ ] s. p. gunpowder treason, part ii. no. . [ ] s. p. dom. james i., g. p. bk., part ii. no. , d. [ ] _ib._ they reached lord windsor's house,[ ] about noon, and all dismounted, "saving some fewe whoe sate on their horses to watch whoe should come unto the howse." they then made their second raid. it was not for horses, as at warwick; this time they sought for arms and armour, of which there was a large store at whewell grange. they appear to have met with no resistance, from which we may infer that, to use a modern and vulgar phrase, "the family were from home." when they had all armed themselves, they put the remainder into a cart, while they filled another with a quantity of powder. these two carts then formed part of the procession. sir everard digby can scarcely have failed to feel shame at the plunder of whewell grange. what had lord windsor done that his house should be pillaged? he had served his country as a sailor, and he eventually became a rear admiral of the fleet. why should his things be taken feloniously from his home during his absence? his father had died only seven months earlier, and the funeral hatchment was most likely hanging over the doorway when these thieves entered. while the robbers were ransacking the house--i fear that sir everard digby was among them--some of the neighbouring peasants and villagers came up, out of curiosity, to see what was going on. as he came out of the house, catesby saw from twenty to thirty of them standing about.[ ] [ ] whewell, or hewell grange, had belonged to the abbey of bordesley, and had been given, soon after the dissolution of the monasteries, to sir andrew windsor by hen. viii. in exchange for the manor of stanwell in middlesex. a new house was built at whewell about . "here is a pleasant park having hills gently swelling, and a lake of clear water measuring above acres." _nash's worcestershire_, vol ii. p. . [ ] thomas maunder's examination, nov. , and ellis's examination, nov. , . s. p. dom. james i., gunpowder plot bk., n. and . "will you come with us?" said he. "maybe we would, if we knew what you mean to do," was the reply. "we are for god and the country!" said catesby. then one of the men, who was leaning with his back against a wall, struck the ground with his stick and cried, "we are for the king james, as well as for god and the country, and we will not go against his will." and now, with their arms, armour, gunpowder, and horses, which had been for the most part begged, borrowed, or stolen, the little party of filibusters started again, in a northerly direction, towards holbeche house, stephen littleton's place in staffordshire. although more soldierlike in appearance, owing to their armour--their want now was not of armour, but of men to wear it--they felt much less martial at heart than on leaving dunchurch two days earlier. they were greatly discouraged at finding that no volunteers rallied to their ranks; that, when they rode up to the houses of any of the catholic gentry, they were invariably driven with reproaches and ignominy from their doors as the greatest enemies of the catholic cause, which they were told they had brought into disrepute by their misguided and iniquitous zeal. [ ] "notwithstanding of their fair shews and pretence of their catholick cause," says bishop barlow, "no creature, man or woman, through all that countrey would once so much as give them willingly a cup of drink, or any sort of comfort or support, but with execrations detested them." this not only chilled the hearts of the leaders, but also alarmed their followers, who saw them leaving one large catholic house after another crestfallen in expression and without a single recruit in their train. to add to their depression, the roads were bad, and in many places deep with mud, and the weather was stormy and very wet.[ ] instead of increasing, as sir everard and his friends had hoped and expected, their numbers steadily diminished, and they were soon reduced to thirty-six or less.[ ] their men still further lagged behind and disappeared, and the leaders of the expedition threatened those who remained that the next man who attempted to desert should be instantly shot. when they rested, sir everard and his companions took it in turn to watch their men with a loaded pistol, determined to make an example of the first deserter they could get a shot at. when they rode on, they endeavoured to be equally vigilant; but with such a straggling, wearied, undisciplined cavalcade, in a wooded country like worcestershire, on a dark and misty november afternoon, it was impossible to prevent men from sneaking away unperceived, and the desertions hourly continued. [ ] _gunpowder treason_, p. . [ ] jardine, . [ ] gardiner's hist. eng., vol. i. p. . sir everard's spirits drooped more and more. "not one man came to take our part, though we expected so many,"[ ] he says. as to the common people in the villages and the small towns through which the irregular train passed, they merely stood and gazed at them without showing the least inclination to join them. [ ] digby's examination. s.p.o. james i. dom., dec. . in the course of the day (thursday, nov. th), sir everard and his allies had a fresh cause of anxiety. on looking back, one of them descried a small body of horsemen in the distance. filled with hope, thinking that it consisted of catholics from the neighbourhood coming to join them, they halted, to enable the riders to come up, but, to their disappointment, the other party pulled up also. this was suspicious, and still more so when the mysterious group moved slowly after them on their starting again. evidently the horsemen in their rear were watching their movements with no friendly intentions. to the conspirators, their distant but ever following figures must have produced sensations not unlike those caused to worn-out travellers by the appearance of vultures in the desert. so long as it was light, they kept catching occasional glimpses of them, and, worst of all, the band of "shadowers" was increasing in numbers and venturing nearer and nearer. the conspirators and their followers were not in actual flight; indeed, they professed to be recruiting for their "army"; but they were none the less steadily, if slowly, pursued by a body of horsemen exceeding their own in numbers, though not so well armed. it would be difficult to imagine anything more wretched than the little band of conspirators as they wended their way through the warwickshire, worcestershire, and staffordshire lanes and villages. fagged and haggard were the men, on jaded and weary steeds, and their helmets, pikes, and pistols gave them an almost comical appearance of martial masquerade. the cart-loads of unused armour and weapons were terribly suggestive of failure, and the conspirators' appeals to the able-bodied men, who stood gazing at them from the doors of wayside inns and from village cross-roads, were met either with insult, laughter, or stolid indifference. to a man like sir everard digby, who had been accustomed to meet with respect, honour, and deference wherever he went, all this must have been exceptionally galling, and it would be made the more bitter by his observing that several of his companions were passing through a part of the country where they were well known and once honoured. he had expected to be received with cheers and enthusiasm at every catholic house on his route for his attempt to better the condition of his co-religionists, and to see squires, yeomen, and peasants either hurrying to horse and to arms, or imploring for a headpiece and a sword or halberd from the store in the waggons of the little train; and what did he find?--the door of every catholic house shut against him, or only opened for an out-pouring of reproaches and repudiations; the catholics, from the highest to the lowest, shaking their heads at him and bidding him begone; and his carts of arms, armour, and gunpowder eyed with anger, scorn, and derision. instead of regarding him as the best friend of their cause, the catholic squires treated him as if he were its worst enemy; and, as they turned their backs upon himself and his friends and his followers, they gave him to understand that they considered the "powder-action," which he protested was intended for the relief of the professors of the ancient faith, one of the most madly-conceived, iniquitous, and prejudicial projects ever undertaken by people bearing the name of christians. when we think of sir everard digby accoutred and armed as if he were the leader of an army numbered by thousands, but actually surrounded by little more than a couple of dozen bedraggled and disheartened horsemen, all heavily, indeed over-armed, yet weary and unmilitary-looking to the last degree, himself haggard and anxious in countenance, yet vainly endeavouring to keep up a martial, knightly, and prosperous bearing, under conditions that rendered any such attempt ridiculous, we are inevitably reminded of that famous character of fiction, don quixote de la mancha. chapter xii. much time had been lost on the thursday afternoon, in going hither and thither, on either side of the route, in the vain hope of persuading the catholic knights and squires, who lived in the neighbourhood, to join the insurgents; even after dark digby and his allies continued these fruitless endeavours, in defiance of the band of horsemen that was dogging their footsteps at some distance in the rear; and it was nearly ten o'clock at night[ ] before the rapidly diminishing and draggled party reached its destination at holbeche house, the home of stephen littleton. [ ] s. p. gunpowder treason, part i. n. ; exam. of wm. ellis, nov. . holbeche was a large and handsome elizabethan mansion[ ] standing a little way over the south border of staffordshire; about four miles to the north of stourbridge, and a trifle less to the west of dudley, on what are now the outskirts of the great coal and iron district known as the "black country." it was a relief to find a resting-place of any sort; and, if the sensations of the conspirators and their followers had much in common with wild beasts tracked to their lairs, or foxes run to ground, they were, at any rate, within walls which would afford them a temporary protection, and enable them to take a little of the rest and refreshment which they now so much required. [ ] jardine's g.p., p. . they had not, however, much leisure for repose. they may have learned that the ominous band of horsemen, which had persistently shadowed their progress, had consisted of sir richard walsh, the sheriff of worcestershire, a number of country gentlemen who had rallied to his assistance, and a _posse comitatus_. although no enemy was any longer in sight, they knew that their position had been ascertained, that spies were probably on the watch for any attempted movement on their part, and that they were to all intents and purposes besieged. worn out as they were with fatigue and anxiety, they set to work, therefore, to prepare the house to withstand an assault,[ ] and spent most of the night thus occupied; so they cannot have had much sleep. [ ] jardine, p. . at last sir everard digby had completely lost heart. worse still, he felt that he had been deceived. "he began to suspect that" the stories which catesby and percy had told him of the assistance which talbot and the littletons would bring, were not so much mistakes as untruths "devised to engage him in theyr desperate cases."[ ] during the night he still cherished the hope that some strong forces might come to their aid, a hope which he would hardly have entertained unless it had been encouraged by catesby and the other conspirators; but when the day began to dawn and it was evident there were no "succors coming thyther," he "discryed the falshood of it." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., nov. , vol. . n. . whether he informed catesby of his determination to throw up the whole undertaking does not appear. he may have made the excuse of going away to try to raise men for their help, or of ascertaining whether there were any symptoms of an approaching attack from without. to proclaim himself a deserter from the cause to catesby would have been to risk a dangerous interview, in which the clinking of swords or the crack of a pistol would be likely to be heard above the interchange of bitter words; and judging from catesby's and winter's intentions in a certain interview with tresham, it was more than possible that a sudden stab with a dagger might have given a practical demonstration of catesby's opinion of renegades. "about daie light,"[ ] on the friday morning, he sent his page, william ellis, and another of his servants, named michael rapior, on before him, and presently followed them, accompanied by the rest of his men, with the deliberate intention "to have yealded him self," and i cannot but suspect that he did so without telling catesby. [ ] s. p. gunpowder treason, , i. n. ; w. ellis. he overtook ellis and rapior within a mile of holbeche, and, telling his servants how desperate he believed their case to be, he made them all a present of their horses and whatever money belonging to him they happened to have upon them; he then freed them from his service and advised them to make their escape as best they could.[ ] william ellis and one other, however, "said they would never leave him, but against their will." sir everard made up his mind to go to "sir foulk greville" and surrender himself, and he began to ask everybody whom he met on the road the way to his house.[ ] as sir fulke greville[ ] had already obtained warwick castle, and was probably living there, sir everard must have expected to have a long ride before him. [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, gerard, p. . see also an account of the money sir e. d. had taken with him; _ib._, p. ,--"above £ in ready coin, as his servants since have averred, that did escape, and one of them delivered up great part of the money to the king's officers so soon as he saw his master had fallen into the lapse." [ ] exam. of sir e. d. [ ] "sir fulke greville, a man of letters, and a distinguished courtier in the reigns of elizabeth and james i., who, at the coronation of the latter prince, was made a knight of the bath, and soon after was called from being treasurer of the navy to be chancellor of the exchequer, and was sworn of the privy council. in the nd of king james's reign he obtained a grant of warwick castle and other dependencies about it, and was elevated to the peerage, jan. - , by the title of lord brooke, &c." _burke's peerage_, , p. . sir fulke greville is represented by the present earl of warwick. the three horsemen had been observed by some of the scouts who had been watching holbeche house, and they gave the alarm to the body of men which had collected for the purpose of either attacking or hunting down the conspirators; the consequence was that sir everard, his page, and his servant had not proceeded more than a few miles when they heard shouts in the distance behind them, and on looking round, perceived that they were being pursued by that motley, but much dreaded, force known as the "hue and cry." to say nothing of the indignity of being captured by a yelling mob, it would be infinitely more dangerous than a voluntary submission to some recognised authority; for this reason, digby, with his two attendants, tried to escape, and, as they were riding three excellent horses, they had great hopes of succeeding in doing so. nor were these hopes altogether groundless; for, when they began to gallop, they soon widened the distance between themselves and their pursuers; but they observed that the peasants and wayfarers whom they passed turned round to stare at them, which showed that their route would be pointed out to the "hue-and-cry." as father gerard says, "it was not possible for them to pass or go unknown, especially sir everard digby, being so noted a man for his stature and personage, and withal so well appointed as he was."[ ] he thought it wisest, therefore, to go into a large wood, and to hide there until the "hue-and-cry" should have passed. in this fortune favoured them, for, on turning along a bye-path from the main track in the wood, they saw a dry pit, and down into this they rode. [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, p. . they had not been very long concealed in it when they heard the distant thud of galloping horses, and every now and then the shouting of their riders. nearer and nearer came the sounds, and, just as they grew loudest, to his great delight digby heard them beginning to decrease in force, which showed that the galloping mob had passed his retreat and was going on an objectless errand. presently the sounds ceased altogether, and sir everard and his two companions were on the point of emerging from their ambush, when they fancied they heard the footsteps of two horses proceeding at a walk. a voice confirmed them in this opinion. once more there was silence, and once again there were sounds of horses' feet and men's voices. suddenly a cry of "here he is; here he is!"[ ] showed that they were discovered. the baffled hunters had turned back to try to trace the hoof-marks of the fugitives' horses on either side of the rough roadway through the wood, and the wet, muddy weather had enabled them to succeed in this attempt. in that moment of extreme peril, sir everard showed plenty of courage. "here he is, indeed!" said he; "what then?" [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, p. . looking up, he saw about ten or twelve horsemen standing about the entrance to the pit; and believing that the main body of the "hue-and-cry" were scattered about the wood searching in different directions, he hoped to be able to force his way through the small group which he saw above; accordingly he "advanced his horse in the manner of curvetting (which he was expert in) and thought to have borne them over, and so to break from them." as the event proved, they were quite unprepared for the shock of his charge, and, thrown into confusion, they were unable to prevent him from forcing his way safely through their midst; but as soon as he had done so, he found himself surrounded by more than a hundred horsemen, trotting up from different directions. perceiving that escape was now impossible, he "willingly yielded himself to the likeliest man of the company," and was immediately made a prisoner. would it have been more becoming to have sold his life dearly and to have died on the field by shot, pike, or sword, than to have surrendered to that ill-mounted, ill-armed, and irregular band of squireens, yeomen, and tradesmen, with the certainty of the disgraceful gallows and the quartering hatchet before him? the reasons for his acting otherwise, given by father gerard, are at least logical. he had a desire, he says,[ ] "to have some time before his death for his better preparation, and withal" he hoped "to have done some service to the catholic cause by word, sith he saw he could not do it by the sword." [ ] p. . i have been unable to find any details as to what befel sir everard between his arrest and his long, wearying, and humiliating ride of nearly a hundred and twenty miles to london. bound a prisoner on his horse, and guarded by armed men on all sides, he would be an object of curiosity and derision in every town, village, and hamlet through which he passed. he would be taken through warwickshire, which had been the scene of his fruitless attempt to raise an insurrection during the two previous days; probably, through many places well known in happier times in northamptonshire; through yet more familiar localities in buckinghamshire, where he had hitherto been hailed with raised hats and genial smiles; and even, perhaps, within a few miles of his beloved gothurst itself. when he entered middlesex, the nearer he came to london, the greater would be the angry demonstrations of hostility on the part of the crowds that turned out to see the traitor and conspirator as he was conducted towards the tower to take his trial for high treason. there may have been a few sympathisers among the mob, such as the man who was heard to whisper that "it had been brave sport, yf it had gone forward";[ ] but such remarks would not be made loud enough to reach the ears of digby. [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvi. n. , . the shame of that journey must have been intense to a man constituted like sir everard, and it may have been increased by the reflection that he had forsaken his friends, with the intention of surrendering himself; and that, although they had certainly deceived him, he was in some sense a deserter from their ranks, at the moment of their extremity, as well as a traitor to his king. unquestionably his greatest sorrow of all was to think of his wife and children at coughton. the unfortunate lady digby had sent a servant, named james garvey,[ ] "in search of his master, when he was apprehended"; for "sir everard had horses at coughton." although she would doubtless think it a comparatively minor matter, the rude fact was soon forced upon her that, if her husband were attainted of high treason, all his estates would be confiscated, and she presently learned that the lawyers were already wrangling over the technical question whether her own property at gothurst, which was settled on sir everard and his children, would not have to go too. the crown lawyers claimed that it would, and they issued a notice that no part of it, or its revenues, must be touched by lady digby, or anyone else, until after her husband's trial. she was, therefore, immediately placed in a position of pecuniary embarrassment and want. [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . although it is an oft-told tale, and does not directly concern the subject of my biography, my story might seem incomplete if i were to say nothing of those whom sir everard had left behind him, when he rode away from holbeche. according to jardine, two of the company at holbeche, besides sir everard, deserted that house on the friday morning. one was the host, stephen littleton. it should be remembered that he had not been a sworn conspirator in the gunpowder plot, and that it would seem hard that he should bear the penalty of sheltering his friends who had been concerned in it. as a matter of fact, this was exactly what he had to do; for he was executed for this very offence and, curiously enough, another too good-natured man, of the name of perkises, was executed in his turn for sheltering him. the other fugitive was robert winter, who was afterwards captured and executed. sir everard and his men had not long left holbeche, when catesby, rookwood, and grant endeavoured to dry some of the gunpowder from whewell, which had got "dank" in the open cart on its journey the previous afternoon, upon a platter over a large fire. as might have been expected, it ignited and exploded, severely burning several of them. even catesby now lost heart, expressed his fears that god disapproved of their proceedings,[ ] and said that here he meant to remain and die. the other conspirators said they would do the same, and they seem now, for the first time, to some extent, to have realised the enormity of their sin. they perceived "god to be against them; all prayed before the picture of our lady, and confessed that the act was so bloody as they desired god to forgive them." then, says father gerard,[ ] "they all fell earnestly to their prayers, the litanies and such like (as some of the company affirmed that escaped taking, being none of the conspirators, but such as joined with them in the country); they also spent an hour in meditation." it is satisfactory to know that they showed some contrition for their terrible iniquity and tried to make their peace with god; and, being catholics, they would know what to do to this end. [ ] stephen littleton's confession--rookwood's examination--jardine, p. . [ ] _narrative of the gunpowder plot_, p. . at eleven o'clock, the high sheriff appeared with a large force and surrounded the house. thomas winter went out into the court-yard and was shot in the shoulder by an arrow from a cross-bow, just as catesby, who followed him, exclaimed, "stand by me, tom, and we will die together." the two brothers, john and christopher wright, followed him, and both were mortally wounded. rookwood, who had been severely burned by the explosion of gunpowder, was shot through the arm by a bullet from a musket and wounded in the body by a pike. catesby and percy stood back to back and were both shot through the body. catesby died shortly afterwards in the house, after declaring "that the plot and practice of this treason was only his, and that all others were but his assistants, chosen by himself to that purpose, and that the honour thereof belonged only to himself." percy died the next day. as soon as catesby and percy had fallen, the attacking party rushed into the court-yard, overpowered the feeble resistance offered to them, and made prisoners of the whole party. the besiegers of holbeche house were little more orderly than the hue and cry which had chased sir everard digby. sir thos. lawley, who was assisting the sheriff of worcestershire, wrote afterward to salisbury[ ]:--"i hasted to revive catesby and percy and the two wrights, who lay deadly wounded on the ground, thinking by the recovery of them to have done unto his majesty better service than by suffering them to die. but such was the extreme disorder of the baser sort, that while i with my men took up one of the languishing traitors, the rude people stripped the rest naked; and their wounds being many and grievous, and no surgeon at hand, they became incurable and so died." [ ] additional mss., british museum, no. , p. . in a very short time, sir everard digby, rookwood, thomas winter, john grant, robert keyes, francis and tresham were all safely lodged in the tower, besides the earliest conspirator arrested--guy fawkes. one of the first things that sir everard did after being brought to london was to beg as a special favour to be permitted to see the king[ ]--a boon most unlikely to be granted--"intending to lay down the causes so plainly which had moved them to this attempt," namely the gunpowder plot, "and withal how dangerous it was for his majesty to take the course he did, as that he hoped to persuade at least some mitigation, if not toleration, for catholics." of course he was informed that no such favour would be shown him; but that he would very shortly be examined by the lords of the council, when an opportunity would be given to him of making a statement. [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, gerard, p. . the news of the popular indignation at the gunpowder plot must have added greatly to digby's sorrows. on sunday, november th,[ ] "a solemn thanksgiving was offered in all the churches." he would hear, too, that on the night of the very day that the explosion was to have taken place, church-bells were ringing, and bonfires were blazing in all directions as a testimony of the public rejoicing at the failure of the plot.[ ] even[ ] "the spanish ambassador made bonfires, and threw money amongst the people." [ ] gardiner's _hist. eng._, vol. i. p. . [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvi. n. . [ ] stow's _annales_, p. . more galling still was the ever-increasing evidence of the horror of the english catholics and their angry disclaimers of having had anything to do with, or any sympathy for, such a nefarious scheme. "if, after the discovery," says tierney,[ ] "the pope himself abstained from issuing a formal condemnation of the conspiracy, blackwell, at least, his delegate and representative in england, instantly came forward to stigmatize it as a 'detestable device,' an 'intolerable, uncharitable, scandalous, and desperate fact.' no sooner had the proclamation for the apprehension of the conspirators announced the intelligence that catholics were implicated in it, than he addressed a letter to the clergy and laity of his flock (nov. ), reminding them of the criminality of all forcible attempts against the government, and exhorting them to manifest their respect for the decisions of the church, the clergy by inculcating, the laity by practising, that patient submission to the laws, which alone could 'please god, mollify man, and increase their merits and their glory in the world to come.'" reports of this letter would be received by sir everard on his arrival in london. [ ] notes to dodds' _church hist. of eng._, vol. iv. p. . the archpriest's manifesto was most opportune; for about the time he was writing it, ben jonson, the poet, who had been a catholic for seven years,[ ] was writing to salisbury that some say they must consult the archpriest; but that he, ben jonson, thinks[ ] "they are all so enweaved in it as it will make gent. lesse of the religion within this weeke." he also got up in the council chamber at whitehall,[ ] denounced the plot on behalf of the catholics of england, and offered his services in hunting down the gang of miscreants that had brought this discredit on his church. [ ] dixon's _her majesty's tower_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] s. p., james i., dom., vol. xvi. n. . [ ] dixon's _her majesty's tower_, vol. ii. p. . "three weeks later," continues tierney, the archpriest "repeated his admonition in still stronger terms. he reminded his people of his former letter, assured them that 'no violent attempt against the king or his government could be other than a most grievous and heinous offence to god'; and concluded by declaring that, as the pope had already condemned all such unlawful proceedings, so he, by the authority of the pope, now strictly forbad catholics, under pain of ecclesiastical censures, 'to attempt any practise or action, tending to the prejudice' of the throne, or to behave themselves in any manner but such 'as became dutiful subjects and religious catholics, to their king, his counsellors, and officers.'" with a copy of the first of these two letters[ ] before me, i am struck by one sentence which lays down a golden rule concerning political plots. "moreover, our divines do say that it is not lawful for private subjects, by private authority, to take arms against their lawful king, albeit he become a tyrant." [ ] see s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvi. n. . how bitterly sir everard digby felt the disapproval of the catholics may be judged from one of his letters to his wife, written in the tower.[ ] "but now let me tell you, what a grief it hath been to me, to hear that so much condemned which i did believe would have been otherwise thought on by catholicks; there is no other cause but this, which hath made me desire life, for when i came into prison, death would have been a welcome friend unto me, and was most desired; but when i heard how catholicks and priests thought of the matter, and that it should be a great sin that should be in the _cause_ of my end, it called my conscience in doubt of my very best actions and intentions in question: for i knew that my self might easily be deceived in such a business, therefore i protest unto you that the doubts i had of my own good state, which only proceeded from the censure of others, caused more bitterness of grief in me than all the miseries that ever i suffered, and only this caused me wish life till i might meet with a ghostly friend. for some good space i could do nothing, but with tears ask pardon at god's hands for all my errors, both in actions and intentions in this business, and in my whole life, which the censure of this, contrary to my expectance, caused me to doubt; i did humbly beseech that my death, might satisfie for my offence, which i should and shall offer most gladly to the giver of life. i assure you as i hope in god that the love of all my estate and worldly happiness did never trouble me, nor the love of it since my imprisonment did ever move me to wish life. but if that i may live to make satisfaction to god and the world, where i have given any scandal, i shall not grieve if i should never look living creature in the face again, and besides that deprivation endure all worldly misery."[ ] [ ] letters of sir e. d. (p. ), no. . [ ] in the tower, he wrote to his wife with lemon juice on slips of paper as opportunity offered. these were kept as precious relics by his family. see _biographia britannica_, vol. iii. p. . sir everard was examined in the tower several times; first, on two successive days, november th and th, he was questioned at some length, before nottingham, suffolk, devonshire, northampton, salisbury, mar, dunbar, and coke. a good deal of his evidence has already been quoted. on the first day, he only admitted that catesby[ ] "did comfort him with future hopes and told him that he doubted not but there would be a course effected for theyr good," and that it was not until tuesday, the th of november, that "mr catesbie acquainted him with the practice of y{e} treason of y{e} blowing up the parlam{t}. howse," when he "gave him some inkling what had bin the plott of undermining the parlament howse, to blow it up; and on wednesday told him more at large &c," naming "who had bin the miners." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvi. n. , . on the following day, however, "he beinge shewed by the l{s} his follye and faulte in denyinge that w{ch} was so manyfest and beinge toulde that both tho. wynter had speach w{h} him of the pticulars, concerninge the plot of the powder to blow upp the k. in the parliament house, and being confronted w{th} mr faucks who charged him to have discoursed w{th} him thereof abowte a weeke before the th of november at his house in buck.shyer," he confessed more freely. fawkes had been tortured,[ ] and most likely, when he charged sir everard in this way, he did it in order to escape being tortured again. so many of the conspirators were now known by the others to be in the tower, and each was so much afraid of what the others might have confessed, that they became terrified and confessed freely when examined. neither of them knew which of his companions had been tortured in order to induce him to incriminate his friends; and each feared that he might, at any moment, be himself laid upon the rack. [ ] the king wrote:--"the gentler tortours are to be first usid unto him, _et sic per gradus ad ima tenditur_, and so god speede youre goode worke." s. p., james i., dom., vol. xvi. n. , nov. . chapter xiii. sir everard says, in a letter from the tower,[ ] that, at one of his examinations, "they did in a fashion offer me the torture, which i wil rather indure then hurt any body"; but it was only a threat; for, although torture was used to priests and jesuits in connection with the gunpowder plot, it does not[ ] appear to have been brought to bear upon any of the actual conspirators except guy fawkes. lord dunfermline, however, strongly urged salisbury to expose them to it.[ ] "recommends that the prisoners be confined apart, in darkness, and examined by torch-light, and that the tortures be slow and at intervals, as being the most effectual." on the other hand, a tract, printed in ,[ ] says of the conspirators, that "in the time of their imprisonment, they rather feasted with their sins, than fasted with sorrow for them; were richly apparelled, fared deliciously, and took tobacco out of measure, with a seeming carelessness of their crime." [ ] _letters of sir e. d._, paper . [ ] a modern jesuit thinks otherwise (see _the month_, no. , p. ), quoting cecil's letter to favat (brit. museum mss. add. . fol. ). "most of the prisoners have wilfully forsworn that the priests knew anything in particular, and obstinately refuse to be accusers of them, _yea, what torture soever they be put to_." cecil may have referred to fawkes only when he mentioned torture; but the jesuit father may be right, and he gives other evidence in support of his theory. [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . [ ] _somer's tracts_, vol. ii. p. . sir everard had not been many days in the tower before the government had a search made at harrowden, the house of his young friend, lord vaux, whose mother was suspected of having been privy to the plot. great hopes were entertained of finding here digby's great friend, father gerard, who also lay under suspicion of having been concerned in it.[ ] "the house was beset with at least men, and those well appointed." "they searched for two or three days continually, and searched with candles in cellars and several dark corners. they searched every cabinet and box in her [mrs vaux's] own closet, for letters, &c." a letter to salisbury stated[ ] that mrs vaux "gave up all her keys; all the rooms, especially his closet, narrowly searched, but no papers found. she and the young lord strongly deny all knowledge of the treason; the house still guarded." brother foley says[ ] "that house was strictly searched and watched for nine days, with the especial hope of seizing father gerard. though he escaped, the pious lady of the house was herself carried off to london." she was severely examined before the privy council; and sir everard digby was pressed to say whether he had not been very lately in her company--indeed, it was on this point that "they did in a fashion offer" him "the torture"--but, although she admitted, in her examination,[ ] that sir everard digby, robert catesby, and "greene and darcy, priests," had been visitors at her house, and, when she refused to say where father gerard was, she was told she must die,[ ] nothing could be proved against her and she was liberated. [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, gerard, p. . [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . [ ] _records, s. j._, series i. p. . [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . [ ] _records, s. j._, vol. iv. p. . it must have been a great comfort to lady digby to receive the scraps of paper inscribed with lemon juice from her husband. it is easy to imagine the eagerness and care with which she would hold them before the fire in order to develope their writing, with anxiety to make every letter legible and fear lest the paper should become scorched. sir everard calls her his "dearest"; but, in letters which might possibly fall into hands for which they were not intended, it would have been out of place to make much display of affection, and the only exhibition of that kind is to be found in a poem which will be quoted later. in her straits for money, she applied, and not altogether without success, to salisbury; for we find her writing to him thus:--[ ] "right ho{able}--your comfortable favours towards me proseding from your noblle disposition in ordering a means for my relefe (being plunged in distresse) by aucthoritie of yours and the rest of the lords letters to the sherife of buck. incytith me to yeld and duly too acknowleg by thes my most humble thankes; for w{ch} favor i shall ever ho{r} your lo{p} and praye to the ---- allmighti for your greatest hapines and with all humbllenes remayne to "your ho{r} devoted "mary digby." as usual, in a lady's letter, the pith is in the postscript. "_pos._ being most fearfull to ofend you ho{r} yet enforced out of the dutifull love towards my wofull husband, i humbly beg pardon to desier your lo{ps} consent and furtharance for such an unspeakable hapines as that out of your worthy and noblle disposition you would purchase merci for my husband's life, for w{ch} you should tie us our posteritie to you and your howse for ever and i hope his ofence agaynst his ma{tie} is not so haynous in that excrable plot, as is sayd to be contrived by som others, which in my hart i cannot conceve his natuer to give consente for such an ackt to be committed." [endorsed] "to the right hono{ble}. the earlle of salsbery, principall secretary to the king's most excelent ma{tie}." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., , vol. , n. . lady digby did not find lord salisbury's orders for her relief so availing in practice as in theory; for, a little later, she wrote to him again. i will not weary my readers by giving her exact spelling--such words as "pertickellers," for particulars, "shreife," for sheriff, "reseved," for received, and "howsold" for household, soon become troublesome and vexatious--but i will endeavour to transcribe her letter according to modern orthography and punctuation. [ ] "mary digby to lord salisbury. "right honourable lord.--my poor and perplexed estate enforceth me to be an humble petitioner to your good lordship. i was most fearful and loth to trouble your honour so long as i had any hopes of redress without it; but finding none elsewhere, makes me presume to present these unto your honour. i confidently believe your lordship doth think that, upon yours with others of the lords of his majesty ---- council, your letters to the sheriff of buckinghamshire in my behalf (for which i humbly give thanks), hath given ease and relief unto my present wants; but truly my lord it is nothing so, for all which he hath done, since he received that letter, is but that he hath returned, near from whence he had taken, part of the household stuff which he had carried away and there keepeth it; but will not let anything be delivered to my use; notwithstanding i procured the lord treasurer's warrant to him, for the delivery of divers things most needful for my present use; for which i was to put in sureties for their return, when they should be justly demanded, which was by bond and drawn according to the lord treasurer his own direction, which was, as the sheriff said, too favourable for me, and therefore did refuse it; such strange and hard proceedings doth he still continue against me (the particulars thereof were too tedious to relate unto your lordship) that, without your honour's good assistance, i shall receive no part of such good favours as your lordship meant unto me. never, since my grievous calamities, i have received no one penny, but am forced to borrow, both for my own present spending, and to furnish mr digby with those things he wants, and as hath been called to me for by the lieutenant of the tower, which borrowed money i must forthwith repay; and the cause why i can receive none, according to the allowance which was granted for me, is because this sheriff will not pay the money into the exchequer which he hath received for such goods which he sold of mr digby's, which is between and pounds, and hath said he would keep it in his hands till he were allowed for the charge he was at, for the carrying the goods" [some words here are mutilated] "and bringing of them back again. my hope in your lordship's pity to my distress promiseth me to find relief for these my complaints, for which i will ever remain your honour's most thankful-- "mary digby. "_postscript._--right honourable,--though it be no part of my letter, yet is it a very far greater part of my humble desire to your lordship whereby, i cannot but beg your pitiful commiseration to incline and further his majesty's mercy for my woeful husband, which if your lordship extend such a charitable act, we and all what is ours will ever be your honour's." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xviii. n. . the "goods which he sold of mr digby's," mentioned in the letter may be assumed to have been the contents of the trunk, carried by his "trunk-horse," and inventoried in a letter[ ] written from the tower. [ ] _letters of sir e. d._, paper . it is probable that lady digby wrote to her husband, expressing herself powerless to "conceive his nature to give consent for such an act" as the gunpowder plot; for he wrote to her from the tower excusing himself.[ ] [ ] _letters of sir e. d._ (p. ) no. . "let me tell you, that if i had thought there had been the least sin in the plot, i would not have been of it for all the world: and no other cause drew me to hazard my fortune and life, but zeal to god's religion. for my keeping it secret, it was caused by certain belief, that those which were best able to judge of the lawfulness of it,"--by these he evidently means the jesuit fathers--"had been acquainted with it, and given way to it. more reasons i had to persuade me to this belief than i dare utter, which i will never, to the suspicion of any, though i should go to the rack for it, and as i did not know it directly that it was approved by such so did i hold it in my conscience the best not to know any more if i might." he seems to have intended to convey that he had been practically certain that the jesuit fathers had given their approval but was anxious to be able to say that he did not actually know this. in another letter,[ ] he says "my dearest, the ---- i take at the uncharitable taking of these matters, will make me say more than i ever thought to have done. for if this design had taken place, there could have been no doubt of other success: for that night, before any other could have brought the news, we should have known it by mr catesby, who should have proclaimed the heir-apparent at charing-cross, as he came out of town; to which purpose there was a proclamation drawn," etc. the absurdity of attaching any value to a proclamation by such a comparatively insignificant individual as catesby does not appear to have occurred to him! [ ] (p. ), no. . after describing the plans laid for securing the young duke and the princess elizabeth, he goes on to say "there were also courses taken for the satisfying of the people if the first had taken effect, as the speedy notice of liberty and freedom from all manner of slavery, as the ceasing of wardships and all monopolies, which with change would have been more plausible to the people, if the first had been, than is now. there was also a course taken to have given present notice to all princes, and to _associate_ them with an oath answerable to the league in france." whether "all princes" would have felt inclined "to associate" themselves "with an oath" at the request of a band of assassins may be questioned. sir everard, as well as lady digby, wrote to salisbury; but his letters asked for fewer favours. "if your lordship," he wrote,[ ] "and the state think it fit to deal severely with the catholics, within brief there will be massacres, rebellions, and desperate attempts against the king and state. for it is a general received reason among catholics, that there is not that expecting and suffering course now to be run that was in the queen's time, who was the last of her line, and last in expectance to run violent courses against catholics; for then it was hoped that the king that now is, would have been at least free from persecuting, as his promise was before coming into this realm, and as divers his promises have been since his coming. all these promises every man sees broken." at the same time, he said that he[ ] "will undertake to secure the pope's promise not to excommunicate the king, if he will deal mildly with catholics." as to plots against the king and the government, something of the kind, he declares, would have been contrived sooner, if the priests had not hindered it. [ ] i use jardine's modern rendering of this particular letter, in _criminal trials_, vol. ii. p. . but the actual letter may be found among the s. p. dom. james i., vol. xvii., n. . [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . an earlier letter written by him from the tower,[ ] is thus summarized:--"sir everard digby to salisbury. is willing to tell all he knows, but can remember nothing more than he has already confessed, except that catesby intended to send the earls of westmoreland and derby to raise forces in the north, and would send information to france, spain, italy, etc., of their success. begs that the king will have compassion on his family." [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . meanwhile examinations were constantly going on, not only of the prisoners in the tower, but also of other persons, with regard to the gunpowder plot, and the correspondence on the subject was very large. lord salisbury wrote to the lord chancellor of scotland,[ ] assuring him that he "would rather die than be slack in searching the dregs of" the plot "to the bottom." lady markham wrote to salisbury, that[ ] the "plot hath taken deep and dangerous root"; that many will not believe "that holy and good man," father gerard, had anything to do with it; and that sir everard digby is the man from whom he must endeavour to obtain particulars about walley--_i.e._, father garnet. mrs vaux was examined on the eighteenth of november, and she made no secret of sir everard having been a visitor at her house. lady lovel admitted knowing both sir everard and catesby, though slightly. to have been a friend of digby's was now very dangerous. servants and retainers of the conspirators were arrested in worcestershire and warwickshire, and there examined. [ ] cal. sta. pa. dom., - , p. . [ ] _ib._, p. . sir everard must have envied tresham his fate, when he heard that he had died in the tower, especially as he was allowed to have his wife to attend him in his illness; although his death was caused by a painful disease.[ ] sir william waad, the lieutenant of the tower, had a consultation of three doctors--not from motives of mercy, but in order that, "by great care and good providence," he might "die of that kind of death he most" deserved, and, in spite of his disappointment, waad seems to have felt a grain of satisfaction, when writing to salisbury to announce his death,[ ] in stating that he died "with very great pain." his death took place only four days before that appointed for the trial, and, whatever may have been his sufferings, who can doubt that sir everard would gladly have changed places with him. [ ] jardine's _gunpowder plot_, p. . _n.b._--by many people, tresham's death was attributed to poison.--see _the month_, no. , p. . jardine's _g. p._, p. , and goodman's court of king james, p. . [ ] s. p. dom. james i., dec. . in his solitude in the tower, sir everard wrote the following lines which, if considerably lacking in merit from a poetical and critical point of view, have some interest on account of their pitiful, though calm and dignified tone, as well as the affection which they exhibit towards his wife and his children; and, as the protestant bishop barlow, in his preface to their publication in , says, "though they be not excellent, yet have" they "a good tincture of piety and devotion in them." * * * * * come grief, possess that place thy harbingers have seen, and think most fit to entertain thyself: bring with thee all thy troops, and sorrow's longest teem of followers, that wail for worldly pelf: here shall they see a wight more lamentable, than all the troop that seem most miserable. for here they may discry, if perfect search be made, the substance of that shadow causing woe: an unkind frost, that caused hopeful sprouts to fade; not only mine, but other's grief did grow by my misdeed, which grieves me most of all, that i should be chief cause of other's fall. for private loss to grieve, when others have no cause of sorrow, is unmeet for worthy mind; for who but knows, that each man's sinful life still draws more just revenge than he on earth can find. but to undo desert and innocence, is, to my mind, grief's chiefest pestilence. i grieve not to look back into my former state, though different that were from present case; i moan not future haps, though forced death with hate of all the world were blustred in my face: but oh i grieve to think that ever i have been a means of others misery. when on my little babes i think, as i do oft, i cannot chuse but then let fall some tears; me-thinks i hear the little pratler, with words soft, ask, where is father that did promise pears, and other knacks, which i did never see, nor father neither, since he promised me. 'tis true, my babe, thou never saw'st thy father since, nor art thou ever like to see again: that stopping father into mischief which will pinch the tender bud, and give thee cause to plain his hard dysaster; that must punish thee, who art from guilt as any creature free. but oh! when she that bare thee, babe, comes to my mind, then do i stand as drunk with bitterest woe, to think that she, whose worth were such to all, should find such usage hard, and i to cause the blow, of her such sufferance, that doth pierce my heart, and gives full grief to every other part. hence comes the cause, that each tear striveth to be first, as if i meant to stint them of their course, no salted meats: that done you know my heart would burst with violent assaults of your great force: but when i stay you, 'tis for that i fear, your gushing so will leave me ne'er a tear. but ah! this doubt, grief says i never need to fear for she will undertake t'afford me store; who in all her knowledge never cause of woe did hear that gall'd her deeper or gave witness more of earth's hard usage, that does punish those that guiltless be, with fortune's cruellest blows. though further cause of more than utterable grief, as other's loss i could dilate at large, which i am cause of, yet her suffering being chief of all their woes, that sail in this deep barge of sorrow's sea: i cannot but reflect hereon more deeply, and with more respect. on which dear object when i look with grieved mind, such store of pities see i plead her case, as hardest hearts cause of compassion there would find; to hear what could be said before that face which i have wrong'd in causing so to weep; the grief whereof constrains my pen to sleep. the trial of the prisoners was long delayed; quite ten weeks passed between their capture and their sentence; but, as mr hepworth dixon puts it,[ ] they were, in fact, "undergoing a course of daily trial by northampton in the tower." in the so-called gunpowder plot room, in the lieutenant's house, with its panelled walls, and high, wide window, they underwent "a thousand interrogatories from coke, a thousand hostilities from waad, and a thousand treacheries from forsett. this forsett was one of northampton's spies; a useful and despicable wretch, whom his master employed in overhearing and reporting the private conversations of prisoners with each other." [ ] _her majesty's tower_, vol. ii. p. . coke himself, in his speech at the trial, referred to the long delay in bringing the prisoners to the bar, saying[ ] "there have been already twenty and three several days spent in examinations." and he summarized the good results of the delay thus[ ]:--"_veritas temporis filia_, truth is the daughter of time, especially in this case; wherein by timely and often examinations, first, matters of greatest moment have been lately found out. secondly, some known offenders, and those capital, but lately apprehended. thirdly, sundry of the principal and arch-traytors before unknown, now manifested, as the jesuits. fourthly--" but he might have abridged this statement into these few words--we hoped to worm some evidence out of the prisoners against catholic priests. [ ] _gunpowder treason_, p. ( ). [ ] _ib._ chapter xiv. sir everard appears to have received several kind communications, whilst in the tower, from father gerard, if we may judge from some of his remarks concerning "my brother" in his letters to lady digby. for instance, we find him writing[ ]:--"let my brother see this, or know its contents, tell him i love his sweet comforts as my greatest jewel in this place"; in another,[ ] "i give my brother many thanks for his sweet comforts, and assure him that now i desire death; for the more i think on god's mercy the more i hope in my own case: though others have censured our intentions otherwise than i understood them to be, and though the act be thought so wicked by those of judgment, yet i hope that my understanding it otherwise, with my sorrow for my error, will find acceptance at god's hands." in another he sends a warning to him,[ ] "howsoever my brother is informed, i am sure they fear him for knowledge of the plot, for at every examination i am told that he did give the sacrament to five at one time." and once again,[ ] he says:--"tell my brother i do honour him as befits me, but i did not think i could have increased so much, loving him more as his charitable lessons _would_ make me." [ ] _sir e.d.'s letters_, no. . [ ] _ib._, no. . [ ] _ib._, no. . [ ] _sir e. d.'s letters_, no. . but if father gerard had sent very consoling messages to sir everard in his imprisonment; on one occasion--it was within a few days of the trial--he wrote him a formal letter, which he sent to lord salisbury and the duke of lenox, asking them to give it to sir everard and hear what he might say in answer to it. to salisbury himself he wrote another letter, in the course of which he said[ ]:--"sir everard digby can testify for me, how ignorant i was of any such matter" [as the gunpowder plot], "but two days before that unnatural parricide should have been practised. i have, for full trial thereof, enclosed a letter unto him, which i humbly beseech may be delivered, &c." [ ] s. p. dom. james i., vol. xviii. n. . but i avail myself of the endering in "life of fr. j. gerard," pp. ccxxxi-ccxxxvii. at the same time he wrote to the duke of lenox, "my humble petition therefore is, that a witness be asked his knowledge who is well able to clear me if he will, and i hope he will not be so unjust in this time of his own danger as to conceal so needful a proof being so demanded of him. sir everard digby doth well know how far i was from knowledge of any such matter but two days before the treason was known to all men. i have therefore written a letter unto him, to require his testimony of that which passed between him and me at that time. wherein, if i may have your lordship's furtherance to have just trial made of the truth whilst yet he liveth, i shall ever esteem myself most deeply bound, &c, &c." this letter to sir everard, which, of course, would be read first by salisbury and lenox, began:--"sir everard digby,--i presume so much of your sincerity both to god and man, that i cannot fear you will be loath to utter your knowledge for the clearing of one that is innocent from a most unjust accusation importing both loss of life to him that is accused, and of good name also, which he much more esteemeth." then he says that upon some false information, given, he supposes, "by some base fellows, desirous to save their lives by the loss of their honesty,"--this looks as if he suspected some of the conspirators in the gunpowder plot, imprisoned in the tower--a "proclamation has been issued against myself and my superior"--this would be father garnet--"and one other of the society," probably father oldcorne, "as against three notorious practisers, with divers of the principal conspirators in this late most odious treason of destroying the king's majesty and all in the parliament house with powder. and myself am put in the first place, as the first or chiefest offender therein." he calls god to witness that he knew nothing of the plot until it became known publicly; but, he says, "to give more full proof of my innocency to those who also may doubt my words, i take witness to yourself whether you, upon your certain knowledge cannot clear me." at first he would not appeal to sir everard because, as he says, "i would not take knowledge of any personal acquaintance with you, especially at your own house, not knowing how far you were to be vouched for your life, and therefore would not add unto your danger,"--_i.e._, by showing that he knew and had harboured a priest. "but now that it appears by your confession and trial in the country that you stand at the king's mercy for greater matters than your acquaintance with a priest, i hope you will not be loath, i should publish that which cannot hurt you, and may help myself in a matter of such importance. and as i know you could never like to stoop to so base and unworthy a humour as to flatter or dissemble with any man, so much less can i fear that now (being in the case you are in) you can ever think it fit to dissemble with god, or not to utter your every knowledge, being required as from him, and in behalf of truth. therefore i desire you will bear witness of the truth which followeth (if it be true that i affirm of my demand to you, growing upon my ignorance in the matter then in hand) as you expect truth and mercy at god's hand hereafter. first, i desire you to bear witness, whether, coming to your house upon all souls' day last--" and then he questions him upon the details, described in a former chapter, of what took place at gothurst upon all souls' day, which are mainly taken from this letter. he ends by saying, "and thus clear i was from the knowledge of that plot against the parliament house, whereof, notwithstanding, i am accused and proclaimed to be a practiser with the principal conspirators. but i refer me to god and your conscience, who are able to clear me, and i challenge the conscience of any one that certainly expecteth death, and desireth to die in the fear of god and with hope of his salvation, to accuse me of it if he can. god, of his mercy, grant unto us all grace to see and do his will, and to live and die his servants, for they only are and shall be happy for ever.--your companion in tribulation though not in the cause, john gerard." considering the bosom friendship that existed between gerard and digby, and the high opinion of the honourable character expressed, in his writings, by the former of the latter, these tremendous exhortations to speak the truth in his favour look a little superfluous. they may have been intended rather for the eyes of salisbury and lennox than for those of digby; for anything which could show an excessive familiarity between digby and gerard might have been suspicious evidence against the latter. there is a postscript, again, which seems written as a suggestion for what digby should say. "i hope you will also witness with me that you have ever seen me much averted from such violent courses, and hopeful rather of help by favour than force. and, indeed, if i had not now been satisfied by your assurance that there was nothing in hand, it should presently have appeared how much i had misliked any forcible attempts, the counsel of christ and the commandment of our superiors requiring the contrary, and that in patience we should possess our souls." to give him his due, sir everard digby spoke boldly in father gerard's favour at his trial. five-and-twenty years later, father gerard wrote, in a letter to dr smith, bishop of chalcedon,[ ] "sir everard digby, who of all the others, for many reasons, was most suspected of having possibly revealed the secret to me, protested in open court and declared that he had often been instigated to say i knew something of the plot, but that he had always answered in the negative, alleging the reason why he had never disclosed it to me, because, he said, he feared lest i should dissuade him from it. therefore the greater part of the privy councillors considered my innocence established, &c." [ ] _life of father j. gerard_, p. ccxxxviii. six months later, father fitzherbert, rector of the english college of rome, wrote concerning father gerard to the same bishop[ ] "he was fully cleared of it" [the gunpowder plot] "by the public and solemn testimony of the delinquents themselves, namely, of sir everard digby (with whom he was known to be most familiar and confident), who publicly protested at his arraignment that he did never acquaint him with their design, being assured that he would not like of it, but dissuade him from it; and of this i can show good testimony by letters from london written hither at the time." [ ] bartoli's _inghilterra_, pp. , . probably owing, in the main, to sir everard's declarations of his innocence, father gerard was allowed to escape from england, and he survived the gunpowder plot thirty-one years. it must not be supposed, however, that he had never suffered for the faith in this country; for he had been terribly tortured, some years before the gunpowder plot, in the tower, from which he escaped. topcliffe's description[ ] of "jhon gerrarde y{e} jhezew{t} preest that escaip out of the tower" may be worthy of a passing notice. "of a good stature sum what highe{r} than s{r} tho. layton and upright in his paysse and countenance sum what stayring in his look or eyes currilde heire by nature and blackyshe and not apt to have much heire on his bearde. i thincke his noose sum what wide and turninge upp blubarde lipps turninge outwards especially the over lipps most uppwards toward the noose kewryoos in speetche if he do now contynewe his custome and in his speetche he flourrethe and smyles much and a falteringe or lispinge or dooblinge of his tonge in his speeche." [ ] s. p. dom. elizabeth, vol. n. . on the very day that father gerard's letter for sir everard digby seems to have been delivered to lord salisbury, january rd, sir everard himself wrote a long letter to his two little sons, the eldest of which was not yet three years old. the writing of it must have caused him much pain; probably, also, many tears. the most remarkable thing about it is that he does not enter upon the question of the cause of his death. as his sons would certainly hear of the manner and reason of it, it might have been well to have spoken plainly on the subject. nevertheless, there is something dignified in his assumption of the position of a parent, in giving good advice to his children, without recounting those personal faults and follies, which he might, perhaps, consider it no part of the duty of a father to confess to his sons. * * * * * "jesus maria.[ ] "there be many reasons (my dear children) that might disswade me from putting pen to paper in this kind, and onely one which urgeth me to undertake this poor and fruitless pains. wherefore to tell you what inciteth me to it, is my want of other means to shew my fatherly affection to each of you (which is so far from uttering, as my mind is willing to accept of poor means, rather than none to bewray my disposition) if i would have been checked from the performance of these lines, by number and probabilities of reasons; i might then have called to mind the unlikelihood, that these would ever have come to your view; with the malice of the world to me, which (i do imagine) will not fail to endeavour to possess you with a loathness to hear of anything that comes from me: as also i might, and do think, on my own disability in advising, with many other disswasive reasons, which my former recited single stirrer-up hath banished. wherefore to begin with both and each of you, i send you by these my fatherly and last blessing; which i have not failed to ask at god's hands on my knees, that he will grant to descend so effectually on you (that his holy grace accompanying it) it may work in you the performance (on your part) of god's sweet and just commandments and on his part to you, the guerdon that his mercy inricheth his servants with all. let this end (god's service i mean) be the chief and onely contentious strife between you, which with all vehemency and desire each of you may strive to attain soonest. let this be the mark which your thoughts and actions may still level at; for here is the chiefest prise, to recompense the best deserver. believe me in this (my sons) that though my unripe years afford me not general experience, yet my variety of courses in the world (and god's grace to illumine me) may sufficiently warrant the verity of this principle. if you make this your chief business (as you ought to do, and for which end onely you were sent into the world) i doubt not but god will send you better means for your particular directions, than either the brevity of a letter or my ability can discharge. so that in this i will say no more, but pray that you may live as i hope to die, which is in the perfect obedience of the catholick and onely saving church. "i cannot but a little touch, what i could wish you did, and i hope will do to all sorts of people; it is a lesson i could never learn well my self, but perhaps see more what is convenient for others, than that i were ever able to shew the force of wholesome counsel and good instructions in my own life. "above all things in the world, seek to obey and follow your mother's will and pleasure; who as she hath been the best wife to me that ever man enjoyed, so can she not fail to shew her self equal to the best mother, if you deserve not the contrary. if it please god to send her life (though you have nothing else), i shall leave you enough: and on the contrary, if i could leave you ten times more than my self ever had, yet she being taken from you, i should think you but poor. it is not (my sons) abundance of riches that makes a man happy but a virtuous life; and as they are blessings from god, and cause of happiness to a man that useth them well, so are they cause of misery to most men even in this world. "you may read of divers men, who whiles they lived in private state, deserved the fame of all that knew them; but so soon as prosperous fortune, and higher degrees, had taken possession of them, they seemed not to be the same men, but grew into scorn of all the world. for example _galba_ whiles he lived in _spain_ as a private man, and, as it were, banished his countrey, by a charge that procured in him great pains and care; he was so well liked, that upon the death of _nero_ the emperor, he was elected in his room but was no sooner in that place, than he was plucked out of it again by violent death, as a man unfit for such a charge, by reason of his alteration which that dignity wrought in him. you may see also in _otho_ who succeeded him, that all the while of his prosperity, he lived a most dissolute life and odious to all men; but he was no sooner touched with adversity, but he grew to a brave and worthy resolution, making choice rather (not out of desperation) of his own death, than that by his life the common-weal should be disturbed. and though i cannot but disallow the manner of his death (by reason he knew not god truly) yet is it plain, that adversity brought him to that worthy mind, which contemned life in regard of his countrey's good; and which was so contrary to that mind that prosperity had misled in him. if then adverse fortune were so powerful more than prosperity on pagans and misbelievers, to procure in them worthy minds; what may we expect the force of it should be in christians, whose first captain (not out of necessity, but free choice) made manifest to the world, by his own painful foot steps that there is no other perfect and certain way to true happiness. "he hath not onely staid here in demonstration of his verity, but hath sent to all those (who, the world knows, he highliest esteemed, and best loved) nothing but variety of misery in this life, with cruel and forced death; the which thing truest wisdom esteems as the best tokens of love from so powerful a sender, and as the best and certainest way to bring a man to perfect happiness. "i speak not this to conclude, that no man is happy but those which run this strict and best course. but to tell you (my children) that if the world seek and prevail to cut you off from enjoying my estate and patrimony in this world, yet you should not think your selves more unhappy therein: for god, it may be, doth see, that there is some other course more fit for you; or that this would give great hazard to your soul's health, which he taketh away, by removing the occasion. "but, howsoever you find your selves in fortunes of this world, use them to god's best pleasure, and think yourselves but bailiffs of such things for an uncertain time. if they be few or poor, your fear of making a good accompt may be the lesser; and know, that god can send more and richer, if it be requisite for his glory and your good; if they be many or great, so much the more care you ought to take in governing your selves, lest god, as holding you unworthy such a charge, by taking them from you, or you from them, do also punish you with eternal misery for abusing his benefits. you shall the better learn to make true use and reckoning of these vanities, if with due obedience you do hearken to your mother's wholesome counsel; and what want you shall find in my instructions, you may see better declared to you by looking on her life, which though i cannot give assurance for any thing to be done in future times yet can i not but very stedfastly believe, that the same lord will give perseverance in virtue, where he hath laid so strong a foundation for his spiritual building, and where there is such an humble and resigned will to the pleasure of her lord and maker. "the next part of my charge shall be, in your mutual carriage the one to the other; in which, all reasons to move you to perfect accord, and entire love, do present themselves unto you, as the obligation of christianity, the tie of natural and nearest consanguinity, and the equality, or very small difference of age. there is in none of these any thing wanting, that may be an impediment to truest friendship, nor anything to be added to them (for procuring your mutual and heartiest love) but your own consent and particular desert each to other. since then there is all cause in each of you for this love, do not deprive yourselves of that earthly happiness, which god, nature, and time offereth unto you; but if you think that the benefit which accord and friendship bringeth, be not sufficient to enkindle this love (which god forbid you should) yet let the consideration of the misery which the contrary worketh in all degrees, stay your mind from dislike. "as no man in any age, but may see great happiness to have been attained by good agreement of friends, kinsmen, and brethren; so wanteth there not too many examples of such, as by hate and dis-cord have frustrated strong hopes sowed in peace, and brought to nothing great fortunes; besides the incurring god's displeasure, which still comes accompanied with perpetual misery. if you look into divine writ, you shall find, that this was the cause of '_abel_' and '_cain's_' misery, which the least hard hap that came to either of them, was to be murdered by his brother. "if you look into humane stories, you need search no further to behold a most pitiful object than the two sons of 'phillip,' king of 'macedon,' whose dislike each to other was so deeply rooted, that at length it burst forth to open complaints, the one of the other to good old 'phillip' who seeing it, could not be put off from a publick hearing, called both his sons (demetrius and perseus) and in both their hearing made a most effectual speech of concord unto them; but finding that it would not take effect, gave them free leave to wound his heart with their unnatural accusations, the one against the other; which staid not there, by the unjust hastning of their father's sudden death, but caused the murther of one of them, with the utter overthrow of that commonwealth, and the misery of the survivor. these things (i hope) will not be so necessary for your use, as they are hurtless to know, and effectual where need requires. "besides these examples, and fore-recited obligations, let me joyn a father's charge which ought not to be lightly esteemed in so just a cause. let me tell you my son _kenelm_, that you ought to be both a father and a brother to your unprovided for brother, and think, that what i am hindred from performing to him by short life, and voluntary tie of my land to you; so much account your self bound to do him, both in brotherly affection to him, and in natural duty to me. and you, my son _john_, know i send you as fatherly a blessing, as if i had also given you a great patrimony; and that if my life had permitted, i would have done my endeavour that way. if you find anything in that kind to come from your brother, take it the more thankfully; but if that you do not, let it not lessen your love to him, who ought not to be loved by you for his fortune or bounty, but for himself. i am sorry that i am cut off by time from saying so much as i did intend at the first; but since i may not, i will commend in my prayers your instruction and guidance to the giver of all goodness, who ever bless and keep you.--your affectionate father, "eve digby-- "from my prison this of jan. ." [ ] papers or letters of sir everard digby. appendix to the gunpowder treason, by thomas, bp. of lincoln, p. . chapter xv. on monday, the th of january , sir everard digby, robert and thomas winter, guy fawkes, john grant, ambrose rookwood, robert keyes, and thomas bates, were taken from their cells in the tower, led to a barge, and conveyed up the river to westminster to be put on their trial in the celebrated hall, which stands on the site of the banquetting room of william rufus. they were to stand before their accusers on soil already famous, and destined to become yet more famous for important trials. here, three hundred years earlier, sir william wallace had been condemned to death. here, only about eighty years before their own time came, both anne boleyn and sir thomas more had been tried and sentenced. in this splendid building, wentworth, earl of strafford, and king charles the first were destined to be condemned to the block. in the following century, sentence of death was here to be passed upon the rebel lords of ; here too, still later, warren hastings and lord melville were to be impeached. sir everard digby and his fellow-prisoners reached westminster about half-an-hour before the time fixed for the trial, and they were taken to the star chamber to await the arrival of their judges. the following is a contemporary account of their appearance and behaviour while there. [ ] "it was strange to note their carriage, even in their very countenances: some hanging down the head, as if their hearts were full of doggedness, and others forcing a stern look, as if they would fear" ["that is _frighten_. _footnote._"] "death with a frown, never seeming to pray, except it were by the dozen upon their beads, and taking tobacco, as if hanging were no trouble to them; saying nothing but in commendation of their conceited religion, craving mercy of neither god nor the king for their offences, and making their consciences, as it were, as wide as the world; and to the very gates of hell, to be the cause of their hellish courses, to make a work meritorious." [ ] somers' tracts, vol. xi. p. . this writer clearly did not go to the trial prepared to be pleased with the prisoners. if they looked down, they were "dogged" and ought to have been looking up; if they looked up, they were "forcing a stern look," and ought to have been looking down: if they were not praying, they should have been praying, and if they were praying, yea, even praying "by the dozen," they should have not have been praying; if they smoked, it was because they did not mind being hanged; if they talked of nothing but religion, it was because they did not desire god's mercy, and one thing was certain--that their prayers and their religion and all things about them, to their very consciences, were "hellish." sir john harrington was another unadmiring spectator. [ ] "i have seen some of the chief" [conspirators], he says, "and think they bear an evil mark in their foreheads, for more terrible countenances never were looked upon." [ ] _nugæ antiquæ_, vol. i. p. . another writer takes a different view, at any rate in the case of sir everard digby. as that prisoner was being brought up for trial, says father gerard,[ ] "(not in the best case to make show of himself as you may imagine), yet some of the chiefest in the court seeing him out of a window brought in that manner, lamented him much, and said he was the goodliest man in the whole court." [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, p. . on entering westminster hall, the prisoners were made to ascend a scaffold placed in front of the judges. the queen and the prince were seated in a concealed chamber from which they could see, but could not be seen; and it was reported that the king also was somewhere present.[ ] the crowd was enormous. although a special part of the hall had been assigned to members of parliament who might wish to attend the trial, they were so[ ] "pestered with others not of the house," that one member complained, and a committee was afterwards appointed to enquire into the matter. [ ] letter from sir e. hoby to sir t. edmondes. [ ] journals of the house of commons, jan. - . _criminal trials._ jardine, p. , footnote. sir everard digby was arraigned under a separate indictment from that of the other prisoners, and he was tried by himself after them; but he stood by them throughout the trial. the first indictment was very long. after a much spun-out preamble, it stated that the prisoners "traiterously[ ] among themselves did conclude and agree, with gunpowder, as it were with one blast, suddenly, traiterously, and barbarously to blow up and tear in pieces our said sovereign lord the king, the excellent, virtuous, and gracious queen anne his dearest wife, the most noble prince henry their eldest son, the future hope and joy of england, and the lords spiritual and temporal; the reverend judges of the realm, the knights, citizens, and burgesses of parliament, and divers other faithful subjects and servants of the king in the said parliament," &c, "and all of them, without any respect of majesty, dignity, degree, sex, age, or place, most barbarously, and more than beastly, traiterously and suddenly, to destroy and swallow up." [ ] _gunpowder treason_, bp. barlow, p. ( ) the prisoners under this indictment pleaded "_not guilty_; and put themselves upon god and the country." sir edward philips, sergeant at law, then got upon his legs. the matter before the court, he said, was one of treason;[ ] "but of such horrour, and monstrous nature, that before now, the tongue of man never delivered, the ear of man never heard, the heart of man never conceited, nor the malice of hellish or earthly devil never practised." [ ] _gunpowder treason_, bp. barlow, p. ( ). and, if it were "abominable to murder the least," and if "to touch god's annointed," were to oppose god himself, "then how much more than too monstrous" was it "to murder and subvert such a king, such a queen, such a prince, such a progeny, such a state, such a government, so compleat and absolute; that god approves: the world admires: all true english hearts honour and reverence: the pope and his disciples onely envies and maligns." the sergeant, after dwelling briefly on the chief points of the indictment, and describing the objects of the conspiracy and the plan of the conspirators, sat down to make way for the principal counsel for the prosecution, his majesty's attorney-general, sir edward coke. coke, the enemy of bacon, was now about fifty-five, and he had filled the post of attorney-general for nine years. sir everard digby and his fellow-prisoners knew that they had little mercy to expect at his hands. the asperity which he had shown in prosecuting essex, five years earlier, and the personal animosity which he had exhibited, still later, in his sarcastic speech at the trial of raleigh, when he had wound up with the phrase, "thou hast an english face but a spanish heart," were notorious, and he was certain to make such a trial as that of the conspirators in the gunpowder plot the occasion of a great forensic display. it so happened that his speeches at this trial and that of father garnet, which presently followed it, brought his career as an advocate to a close; for within a year he was appointed chief-justice of common pleas. undoubtedly, his speeches at the trial of sir everard digby and his accomplices added to his fame; but jardine[ ] called one of them "a long and laboured harangue," and other historians thought him guilty of[ ] "unnecessary cruelty in the torture and gratuitous" insolence which he exhibited towards the accused. the glaring eyes, which we see represented in his portrait, would be an unpleasant prospect for sir everard as he listened to his cruel words; but whatever tenderness a biographer may feel for his subject, and whatever dislike a catholic may entertain to the protestant bigotry of sir edward coke, it ought not to be forgotten that, according to his lights, he was an honest, if a hard and an unmerciful man, that some ten years later he himself fell into disgrace and suffered imprisonment in the tower, rather than yield on a point of principle, and that, vindictive as he could be in prosecuting a prisoner, one of his enemies--lord chancellor egerton--said that his greatest fault was his "excessive popularity." [ ] p. . [ ] see _ency. brit._, eighth ed., vol. vii. p. . although he began his speech by saying that the gunpowder plot had been the greatest treason ever conceived against the greatest king that ever lived, he had presently a complimentary word or two to say as to the origins and previous lives of some of the conspirators. with an air of great truthfulness and fairness he said:--[ ] "it is by some given out that they are such men as admit just exception, either desperate in estate, or base, or not settled in their wits; such as are _sine religione, sine sede, sine fide, sine re, et sine spe_--without religion, without habitation, without credit, without means, without hope. but (that no man, though never so wicked, may be wronged) true it is, they were gentlemen of good houses, of excellent parts, howsoever most perniciously seduced, abused, corrupted, and jesuited, of very competent fortunes and estates." [ ] _criminal trials_, jardine, p. _seq._ after having said these comparatively gentle words concerning the laity, he launched forth in declamation against "those of the spirituality," not one of whom was actually on his trial. "it is falsely said," he cried, "that there is never a religious man in this action; for i never yet knew a treason without a romish priest; but in this there are very many jesuits, who are known to have dealt and passed through the whole action." he then named four of these, beginning with father garnet, "besides their cursory men," the first of which was father gerard. "the studies and practises of this sect principally consisted in two d's, to wit, in deposing of kings and disposing of kingdoms." having thundered away at jesuits and priests to his heart's content, he exclaimed that "the romish catholicks" had put themselves under "gunpowder law, fit for justices of hell." "note," said he, with great vehemence, "that gunpowder was the invention of a friar, one of that romish rabble."[ ] "all friars, religions, and priests were bad"; but "the principal offenders are the seducing jesuits, men that use the reverence of religion, yea, even the most sacred and blessed name of jesus as a mantle to cover their impiety, blasphemy, treason, and rebellion, and all manner of wickedness." [ ] so it is commonly said; but mr tomlinson, in his article on gunpowder in the _ency. brit._, vol. xi. p. , ed. , says that it was known, in some form at least, in the year b.c. no speech in those days was considered perfect without a few words of astrology, so he called the attention of the court to the remarkable fact "that it was in the entering of the sun into the tropick of _capricorn_, when they" [the conspirators] "began their mine; noting that by mineing they should descend, and by hanging ascend." in the latter part of his pompous harangue, there was a passage which must have been very unpleasant hearing to the prisoners, however interesting to the rest of the audience.[ ] [ ] _gunpowder treason_, by thomas, bp. of lincoln, pp. ( )-( ). "the conclusion shall be from the admirable clemency and moderation of the king, in that howsoever these traitors have exceeded all others their predecessors in mischief, and _crescente, malitia crescere debuit, etc., poena_; yet neither will the king exceed the usual punishment of law, nor invent any new torture or torment for them, but is graciously pleased to afford them an ordinary course of trial, as an ordinary punishment, much inferior to their offence." nor was this reference to a "new torture" a mere figure of rhetoric on the part of the attorney-general; for a few days earlier,[ ] in both houses of parliament, a proposal had been made to petition the king "to stay judgment until parliament should have time to consider some extraordinary mode of punishment, which might surpass in horror even the scenes which usually occurred at the execution of traitors." to their credit be it spoken, this suggestion was negatived by both lords and commons. [ ] gardiner's hist. of eng., vol. i. p. ; and see jac. i. cap. . "and surely," continued coke, "worthy of observation is the punishment by law provided for high treason, which we call _crimen læsæ majestatis_. for first after a traitor hath had his fair trial, and is convicted and attainted, he shall have his judgment to be drawn to the place of execution from his prison, as being not worthy any more to tread upon the face of the earth, whereof he was made. also for that he hath been retrograde to nature, therefore is he drawn backwards at a horse-tail. and whereas god hath made the head of man the highest and most supreme part, as being his chief grace and ornament: _pronáque cum spectent animalia cætera terram, os homini sublime dedit_; he must be drawn with his head declining downward, and lying so near the ground as may be, being thought unfit to take benefit of the common air. for which cause also he shall be strangled, being hanged up by the neck between heaven and earth, as deemed unworthy of both, or either; as likewise, that the eyes of men may behold, and their hearts contemn him. then is he to be cut down alive, and to have ---- cut off, and burnt before his face, as being unworthily begotten, and unfit to leave any generation after him; his bowels and inlayed parts taken out and burnt, who inwardly conceived and harboured in his heart such horrible treason. after, to have his head cut off, which had imagined the mischief. and lastly, his body to be quartered, and the quarters set up in some high and eminent place, to the view and detestation of men, and to become a prey for the fouls of the air." considering that the prisoners had not yet been found guilty, and that even had they been, it was no business of his to pass sentence on them, this pointless and objectless description of their probable fate was as gratuitous as it was cruel on the part of the attorney-general. with the prisoners, other than sir everard digby, i have nothing to do, and it will suffice to say, that, at the conclusion of the attorney-general's speech, the depositions of their examinations in the tower--"the voluntary confessions of all the said several traitors in writings subscribed with their own proper hands"--were then read aloud. these are very interesting, and have already been partially used in framing the story in the preceding pages. they are humble and penitent in tone, and as a specimen of this apparent penitence i will quote the opening of one of the longest, namely that by thomas winter.[ ] [ ] s. p. dom. james i., g. p. book, part ii. n. . "my most honorable lordes.--not out of hope to obtayne pardon, for speakinge of my temporall past, i may say the fault is greater than can be forgiven, nor affectinge hereby the title of a good subject, for i must redeeme my countrey from as great a danger as i have hazarded the bringinge her into, before i can purchase any such opinion; only at your ho. commans i will breifely sett downe my owne accusation, and how farr i have proceeded in this busyness w{ch} i shall the faythfuller doe since i see such courses are not pleasinge to allmighty god, and that all or the most material parts have been allready confessed." at the conclusion of the public reading of these confessions, the lord chief justice made some remarks to the jury, and then directed them to consider of their verdict; upon "which they retired into a separate place."[ ] [ ] _criminal trials_, jardine, vol. ii. pp. and . sir everard digby was then arraigned by himself upon a separate indictment issued by sir christopher yelverton and other special commissioners of oyer & terminer, on the th of january, at wellingborough, in northamptonshire, and delivered to the same commission in middlesex that had tried the other prisoners. it charged him with high treason in conspiring the death of the king, with conferring with catesby in northamptonshire concerning the gunpowder plot, assenting to the design, and taking the oath of secrecy. as soon as the indictment was read, sir everard began to make a speech; but was interrupted by being told that he must first plead, either guilty or not guilty, and that then he would be allowed to say what he liked. he at once confessed that he was guilty of the treason; and then he spoke of the motives which had led him to it.[ ] the first of these was neither ambition, nor discontent, nor ill-will towards any member of parliament, but his intense friendship and affection for robert catesby, whose influence over him was so great that he could not help risking his own property and his life at his bidding. the second motive was the cause of religion, on behalf of which he was glad to endanger "his estate, his life, his name, his memory, his posterity, and all worldly and earthly felicity whatsoever." his third motive was prompted by the broken promises to catholics, and had as its object the prevention of the harder laws which they feared and professed to have solid reasons for fearing, from the new parliament; as "that recusant's wives, and women, should be liable to the mulct as well as their husbands and men." and further, that "it was supposed, that it should be made a _præmunire_ onely to be a catholick." [ ] _gunpowder treason_, by thomas, bp. of lincoln, p. ( ) _seq._ having stated the motives of his crime, he proceeded to make his petitions--[ ] "that sithens his offence was confined and contained within himself, that the punishment also of the same might extend only to himself, and not be transferred either to his wife, children, sisters, or others: and therefore for his wife he humbly craved, that she might enjoy her joynture, his son the benefit of an entail made long before any thought of this action; his sisters, their just and due portions which were in his hands; his creditors, their rightful debts; which that he might more justly set down under his hand, he requested, that before his death, his man (who was better acquainted both with the men and the particulars than himself) might be licensed to come unto him. then prayed he pardon of the king and ll. for his guilt, and lastly, he entreated to be beheaded, desiring all men to forgive him, and that his death might satisfie them for his trespass." [ ] _gunpowder treason_, by thomas, bp. of lincoln, p. ( ). the daylight was waning quickly in the great hall of westminster, on that short january day, when sir edward coke, the attorney-general, rose from his seat, at the conclusion of sir everard digby's dignified but distressed speech. he had already shown refinement of cruelty in treating the prisoners to a detailed description of the horrors of the death that was awaiting them, and he was now again ready to inflict as much pain as possible. as to sir everard's friendship with catesby, he said, it was "mere folly, and wicked conspiracy"; his religion was "error and heresie"; his promises--it does not appear that he had made any--were "idle and vain presumptions"; "as also his fears, false alarms, concerning wives that were recusants." "if a man married one," great reason there is, "that he or they should pay for it"; but if a wife "were no recusant at the time of marriage"--as had been the case with lady digby, although he did not mention her by name--"and yet afterwards he suffer her to be corrupted and seduced, by admitting priests and romanists into his house"--roger lee and father gerard, for instance, sir everard might understand him to imply--"good reason that he, be he papist or protestant, should pay for his negligence and misgovernment." next he dealt with sir everard's petitions on behalf of his wife, children, sisters, &c., and on this point he became eloquent.[ ] "oh how he doth now put on the bowels of nature and compassion in the perils of his private and domesticated estate! but before, when the publick state of his countrey, when the king, the queen, the tender princes, the nobles, the whole kingdom, were designed to a perpetual destruction, where was then this piety, this religious affection?" "all nature, all humanity, all respect of laws both divine and humane, were quite abandoned; then there was no conscience made to extirpate the whole nation, and all for a pretended zeal to the catholick religion, and the justification of so detestable and damnable a fact." [ ] _gunpowder treason_, by thomas, bp. of lincoln, p. ( ). here sir everard digby interrupted the great lawyer with the remark that he had not justified the fact, but had confessed that he deserved the vilest death; and that all he had done was to seek mercy, "and some moderation of justice." as to moderation of justice, replied the attorney-general, how could a man expect or ask for it who had acted in direct opposition to all mercy and all justice? and had he not already had most ample and most undeserved moderation shown to him? verily he ought "to admire the great moderation and mercy of the king, in that, for so exorbitant a crime, no new torture answerable thereunto was devised to be inflicted upon him." was it not sufficient consolation to him to reflect upon his good fortune in this respect? sir everard had talked about his wife and children. well! did he forget how he had said "that for the catholick cause he was content to neglect the ruine of himself, his wife, his estate, and all"? oh! he should be made content enough on this point. here was an appropriate text for him:--"let his wife be a widow, and his children vagabonds, let his posterity be destroyed, and in the next generation let his name be quite put out." then sir edward coke spoke directly to sir everard, and said:--"for the paying of your creditors, it is equal and just, but yet fit the king be first satisfied and paid, to whom you owe so much, as that all you have is too little: yet these things must be left to the pleasure of his majesty, and the course of justice and law." fortunately for sir everard, "in respect for the time (for it grew now dark)" the attorney general spoke "very briefly." one of the nine commissioners, appointed to try the prisoners, now addressed sir everard. his words came with more force, perhaps it might be said with more cruel force, because he was himself a catholic. this was henry howard, earl of northampton, younger brother of the duke of norfolk, and second son of henry howard, earl of surrey, who had been beheaded on tower hill, nearly sixty years earlier, in the reign of henry viii. this commissioner had espoused the cause of mary, queen of scots,[ ] and he was rather ostentatiously put forward at this trial, and afterwards at that of father garnet, to prove his loyalty and to counteract the jealousy and suspicion which had been caused by the appointment of a man of his religion[ ] to the wardenship of the cinque ports. banks wrote of him,[ ] "other authors represent him as the most contemptible and despicable of man-kind; a wretch, that it causes astonishment to reflect, that he was the son of the generous, the noble, and accomplished earl of surrey.[ ] he was a learned man, but a pedant, dark and mysterious, and consequently far from possessing masterly abilities. he was the grossest of flatterers, &c." [ ] froude's hist. of eng., vol. xi. p. . [ ] _criminal trials_, jardine, vol. xi. p. , footnote. [ ] i quote from burke's _dormant and extinct peerages_, p. . [ ] henry, earl of surrey, was the first english writer of blank verse and sonnets. _beeton's encyclopædia_. northampton began his speech as follows:--[ ] "you must not hold it strange, sir everard digby, though at this time being pressed in duty, conscience and truth, i do not suffer you to wander in the laberinth of your own idle conceits without opposition, to seduce others, as your self have been seduced, by false principles; or to convey your self by charms of imputation, by clouds of errour, and by shifts of lately devised 'equivocation'; out of that streight wherein your late secure and happy fortune hath been unluckily entangled; but yet justly surprised, by the rage and revenge of your own rash humors. if in this crime (more horrible than any man is able to express) i could lament the estate of any person upon earth, i could pity you, but thank your self and your bad counsellours, for leading you into a crime of such a kind; as no less benummeth in all faithfull, true and honest men, the tenderness of affection, than it did in you, the sense of all humanity. that you were once well thought of, and esteemed by the late queen, i can witness, having heard her speak of you with that grace which might have encouraged a true gentleman to have run a better course: nay, i will add further, that there was a time, wherein you were as well affected to the king our master's expectation, though perhaps upon false rumours and reports, that he would have yielded satisfaction to your unprobable and vast desires: but the seed that wanted moisture (as our saviour himself reporteth) took no deep root: that zeal which hath no other end or object than the pleasing of itself, is quickly spent: and trajan, that worthy and wise emperour, had reason to hold himself discharged of all debts to those, that had offended more by prevarication, than they could deserve by industry." [ ] _gunpowder treason_, p. . the main contention of his long and wordy speech was to refute the charge of broken promises to his co-religionists brought by sir everard digby in his description of his motives. it was well-known that the catholics considered the king guilty of perfidy on this point, and that they based their accusation chiefly upon the reports of father watson's celebrated interview with james in scotland, a matter with which i dealt in an early chapter. northampton denied that james had ever encouraged the catholics to expect any favour. he made a strong point of percy's having asserted that the king had promised toleration to the catholics; asking why, if this were really the case, percy, at the beginning of the king's reign, thought it worth while to employ guy fawkes and others to plot against the king in spain? he wound up by praying for sir everard's repentance in this world and his forgiveness in the next. then lord salisbury spoke. he began by acknowledging his own connection, by marriage, with sir everard, and then he proceeded, with even greater zeal than northampton, to imply that the prisoner's plea of broken promises to catholics would be understood to mean bad faith on the part of the king; and it was thought by some that sir everard would have had his sentence commuted for beheading, had it not been for what salisbury now said.[ ] after defending the king from all imputation of faithlessness towards his catholic subjects, salisbury referred to sir everard's personal guilt, and dwelt upon guy fawkes's evidence that, at gothurst, he had expressed a fear lest the gunpowder stored beneath the houses of parliament, might, during the wet weather in october, have "grown dank." [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, gerard, p. . when salisbury had finished, sergeant philips got up and "prayed the judgment of the court upon the verdict of the jury against the seven first prisoners, and against sir everard digby upon his own confession." each prisoner was then formally asked what he had to say why judgment of death should not be pronounced against him. finally lord chief justice popham described and defended the laws made by queen elizabeth against priests, recusants, and receivers and harbourers of priests,[ ] which seems to have been a little wide of the subject of the crime of the prisoners, and then he solemnly pronounced the usual sentence for high treason upon all the eight men who stood convicted before him. [ ] _criminal trials_, jardine, vol. ii. p. . then sir everard bowed towards the commissioners who had tried him and said:--"if i may but hear any of your lordships say you forgive me, i shall go more cheerfully to the gallows." they all immediately replied:--"god forgive you, and we do." and thus, late in the evening, this memorable trial ended, and the prisoners were conveyed by torches to their barge; then they were rowed down the river to the tower, and led through the dark "traitor's gate" to their cells. chapter xvi. sir everard digby was only allowed two clear days between his trial and his execution to prepare for death. he was not permitted to see his young wife or his little sons, nor was he granted the consolation of the services of a priest. short as was the time he had yet to live, it must have hung heavily on his hands. fortunately he had lived much with jesuits, who would doubtless have instructed him in their admirable system of meditation; but "the exercise of the memory," which it includes, can hardly have afforded him much consolation under the circumstances. to add to his depression, it was at the time of year when there are but few hours of daylight, and the artificial light permitted in a prisoner's room in the tower would certainly be very meagre, and little more than sufficient to render the ghastly gloom of the dungeon-walls more manifest. very early, too, all prisoners' lights would be put out, and terrible then must have been the dreariness of the long nights and the dark mornings, until the sun rose at about a quarter to eight o'clock. it is easy to imagine him dreaming of his happy home at gothurst, and fancying himself walking with his wife in its garden, or playing with his little children by its great hall fireside, or entertaining his guests at its long banquetting-table, and suddenly waking with a start, to find himself in darkness, on a hard bed, with a rough, cold wall beside him, and to remember that he was a condemned traitor in the tower of london; and then, perhaps, lying awake to reflect upon the brilliant opportunities of happiness, prosperity, and usefulness with which he had started in his short life, and the misery in which he was about to end it. nor does it require any great effort of the imagination to see him falling, from sheer weariness, into a fitful, feverish sleep, and, as he turned and tossed, frequently dreaming of the horrors of his impending execution, as they had been so lately described in his presence by the attorney-general. when, in the morning, he rose to obtain consolation from devotion, how likely that the heavy drowsiness or headache resulting from a wretched night would make him feel utterly helpless as he tried to pray or meditate; or that, distracted by the memories of his misfortunes, and the terrible thought of the destitution to which his wife and family might be exposed--for he seems to have died in doubt whether gothurst, as well as his estates inherited from his father, would not be confiscated--he would be unable to fix his attention upon spiritual matters. during the interval preceding his death sir everard wrote the following lines. criticise them as you please; call them doggrel if you will; but at least respect them as the words of a broken-hearted and dying man. * * * * * jesus maria. who's that which knocks? oh stay, my lord, i come: i know that call, since first it made me know my self, which makes me now with joy to run, lest he be gone that can my duty show. jesu, my lord, i know thee by the cross thou offer'st me, but not unto my loss. come in, my lord, whose presence most i crave, and shew thy will unto my longing mind; from punishments of sin thy servant save, though he hath been to thy deserts unkind. jesu forgive, and strengthen so my mind, that rooted virtues thou in me maist find. stay still, my lord, else will they fade away, as marigold that mourns for absent sun: thou know'st thou plantest in a barren clay that choaks in winter all that up is come; i do not fear thy summers wished for heat may tears shall water where thy shine doth threat. however deeply sir everard digby may have sinned, he knew how to make his peace with god when death approached him. he had a definite religion to depend on, he had no need to consider which of many widely divergent views held by the professors of one nominal church was the most probable. it is true that he was deprived of those consoling rites which the catholic church provides for her children when on the threshold of death; he had none of the "soothing charm" of "the words of peace and blessing"[ ] uttered by the confessor in absolution; he was not strengthened for the perilous journey from this life to the next by the sacred viaticum, but he knew that, where these privileges could not be obtained, a hearty desire for them, with a good act of contrition, might obtain many of their blessings and all that was necessary for salvation. [ ] see cardinal newman in _present position of catholics_, p. . from a theological point of view, it was a happy thing that he knew the plot in which he had been implicated to be all but universally condemned by his co-religionists. if many of them had defended it, and he had heard that there were two parties, one extenuating the conspiracy and another anathematising it, he might have clung to the belief that he had done nothing wrong, and that "rending of the heart" conducive to true contrition might have been wanting. he had sinned deeply; let us hope that deep was his sorrow. yet is not this the moment--the moment when we are supposing him in the deepest degradation of spirit for his iniquities--at which we may best say a kind word for him? hitherto i have written little in palliation of his crime; perhaps the very fact of his having professed my own religion may have made me more careful to say nothing that might have the appearance of minimising his guilt; nor, in the few more pages that i have still to write, do i intend to plead that his sentence ought to have been commuted on account of any extenuating circumstances. unquestionably he deserved to die, but i beg to commend his memory to the mercy of my readers. let others speak for him. the protestant bishop barlow, in his book on the gunpowder plot, which so severely condemns all concerned in it, says[ ]:--"this gentleman was verily persuaded of the lawfulness of this design, and did engage in it out of a sincere, but ignorant zeal for the advancement, as he thought, of the true religion." these are the words of a hostile historian: the following--some of which have been quoted earlier--are those of a friend[ ]:--"he was so much and so generally lamented, and is so much esteemed and praised by all sorts in england, both catholics and others, although neither side can or do approve this last outrageous and exorbitant attempt against our king and country, wherein a man otherwise so worthy, was so unworthily lost and cast away to the great grief of all that knew him, and especially of all that loved him. and truly it was hard to do the one and not the other." an unfriendly critic, scott, in a footnote to the _somers' tracts_,[ ] says that sir everard "was a man of unblemished reputation until this hellish conspiracy." yet another, caulfield, says of him,[ ] "digby himself was as highly esteemed and beloved as any man in england"; and one more hostile writer, jardine, says[ ]:--"there is abundant evidence that sir everard digby joined in the enterprise under the full persuasion that in so doing he was rendering good service to his church and promoting the cause of true religion." [ ] _gunpowder treason_, appendix. [ ] _narrative of the g. p._, gerard, p. . [ ] vol. ii. p. . [ ] _history of the g. p._, by james caulfield, , p. . [ ] _gunpowder plot_, p. . testimonies to his character would be incomplete without any from a woman. here is one from a protestant to the back-bone, miss aikin:--[ ] "his youth, his personal graces, the constancy which he had exhibited whilst he believed himself a martyr in a good cause, the deep sorrow which he testified on becoming sensible of his error, seemed to have moved all hearts with pity and even admiration; and if so detestable a villainy as the powder plot may be permitted to have a hero, everard digby was undoubtedly the man." [ ] _memoirs of the court of james i._, vol. i. p. . lastly, he must be allowed to have his share in the fair and considerate pleadings of the greatest of all historians of the stuart period, on behalf of the conspirators in the gunpowder plot. dr samuel rawson gardiner writes:--[ ] "atrocious as the whole undertaking was, great as must have been the moral obliquity of their minds before they could have conceived such a project, there was at least nothing mean or selfish about them. they had boldly risked their lives for what they honestly believed to be the cause of god and of their country." a few lines further on he says, "if the criminality of their design was hidden from the eyes of the plotters, it was not from any ambitious thoughts of the consequences of success to themselves." presently he adds, "as far as we can judge, they would have been ready, as soon as the wrongs of which they complained had been redressed, to sink back again into obscurity." and finally, after dwelling upon their difficulty in seeing "their atrocious crime in the light in which we see it," he declares his opinion that, just at last, at least some of them saw "their acts as they really were," and "with such thoughts as these on their minds," "passed away from the world which they had wronged to the presence of him who had seen their guilt and their repentance alike." [ ] history of england, vol. i. pp. - . it is well, however, to be just as well as generous, and if it be impossible to consider the fine, handsome youth, of four and twenty, awaiting execution in the tower of london, without feelings of compassion; we should none the less remember that sir everard digby's co-religionists have other reasons for sorrow in connection with him. instead of benefiting the catholic cause in his country by the enterprise which he assisted with his influence, his wealth, his time, and his personal services, he did it the most serious mischief conceivable; we must keep before our minds, therefore, the fact, that to catholics he should appear, not so much an unhappy failure, as a most active, if most unintentional, aggressor. although king james himself declared that the english catholics, as a body, were neither implicated in, nor approvers of the gunpowder plot; although the archpriest condemned it formally a day or two after its discovery; although father gerard and other jesuits distinctly and categorically disclaimed all connection with it, and although the pope himself addressed two letters to king james, expressing his unqualified horror of it, the idea was never dispelled that it was a popish and jesuitical design. for many years, english people were ready to believe any absurd tale of catholic conspiracy, such as[ ] "rome's master-piece: or, the grand conspiracy of the pope and his jesuited instruments," in , and the pretended plot to assassinate charles ii. in , for which, on the perjured evidence of titus oates and others,[ ] "about eighteen roman catholics were accused, and upon false testimony convicted and executed; among them the aged viscount stafford." ballads, such as that which begins as follows, describing this so-called and non-existent conspiracy, were eagerly purchased in the streets. [ ] "good people, i pray you, give ear unto me, a story so strange you have never been told, how the _jesuit_, _devil_, and _pope_ did agree our state to destroy, and religion so old. to _murder_ our _king_, a most horrible thing, &c." [ ] see wharton's _laud's history, &c._, p. . [ ] haydn's _dictionary of dates_, , p. . [ ] _a new narrative of the popish plot, showing the cunning contrivance thereof._ nor did the prejudices against catholics raised by the gunpowder plot, early in the seventeenth century, die out at the end of it. even now there remains a traditional superstition in this country that it was planned by the jesuits, admired by the majority of english catholics, and secretly connived at by the pope and the sacred college. for generations, english schoolboys have believed that roman catholics are people who would blow up every protestant with gunpowder if they could. so indelible has been the prejudice created against catholics by the misdoings of a mere handful of conspirators in the gunpowder plot, that the large number of english catholic squires, baronets, and noblemen, who squandered their estates and their patrimony, and even gave their lives, for their king, in the reigns of charles i. and charles ii., failed to eradicate the popular notion that all catholics were disloyal. the meetings at white webbs and gothurst gave rise to the idea that the private house of every catholic served as a rendezvous for plotters, and every seminary as a nest of traitors; the fact that catesby and digby had jesuit friends has made protestants believe that every jesuit would commit a murder if he thought it would serve the cause of his religion; and the fact that they had priests in their houses has led to the impression that, wherever there is a domestic catholic chaplain, mischief is certain to be brewing. worst of all, when protestants are told of "an excellent catholic," a man who goes to confession and communion every week, a man of irreproachable character both in private and in public life, a man of high position, great wealth, charming manners, and popularity among protestants as well as catholics, they can point, as they have been able to point for nearly three hundred years, to the history of sir everard digby, as an example of what even such a man would be "obliged to do" were "his priest" so to order him. thus much for the moral effect produced by the efforts of sir everard digby and his friends for the benefit of the english catholics; the material effect may be described in a few words. it was, instead of relieving them from oppression, to cause the laws and disabilities under which they suffered to be redoubled. when they reflect upon all these things, can catholics recall the memory of sir everard digby with no other feelings than those of pity? surely, if any class of men have cause to execrate the memory of every conspirator in the gunpowder plot, it is not the protestants but the catholics. none the less may it be doubted, whether, among misguided men, there is a character in history more to be pitied than sir everard digby. whatever his faults, whatever his errors, whatever the mischief he wrought to the cause for which he was ready to give his life, he never seems to have been guilty of a selfish action; if he was disloyal to his country, he believed that he was serving its best interests; if he mistook atrocious murder for legitimate warfare, it was with the hope of restoring his fellow-countrymen to the faith of their forefathers. * * * * * the inhabitants of london were to have two thoroughly happy days; there was to be a great execution on thursday and another on friday. four traitors were to be hanged, drawn, and quartered on either day. on thursday, the th of january , sir everard digby was taken from his prison in the tower to a doorway in front of which four horses were each harnessed to a separate wattled hurdle lying on the ground. he found three of his fellow-conspirators awaiting him--his late host, robert winter of huddington, the courageous, but rough and pugnacious, john grant of norbrook, and--there being no respect of persons on the scaffold--thomas bates, catesby's servant. ordered to lie down on his back, with his head towards the horse's tail, sir everard was tightly bound to the hurdle, and when all the four condemned men had been treated in the same manner, the procession started on its doleful journey. to be dragged through the muddy streets of london, to be splashed and saturated with their slush and filth, and to be bruised and shaken over the rough stones as the hurdle rose and fell over them, must have been as disagreeable as it was degrading; and the mile or more from the tower to the place of execution--the west of st paul's cathedral--was a long distance over which to be submitted to such an ordeal. to add to the sensations of disgrace, the streets were crowded, and nearly every window in cheapside was filled with people watching the prisoners passing to their doom. every pains had been taken to render the execution as imposing as possible. a large number of soldiers accompanied the procession, and the lord mayor had issued an order to the alderman of each ward of the city, ordering him to[ ] "cause one able and sufficient person, with a halbard in his hand, to stand at the door of every several dwelling-house in the open street in the way that the traitors were to be drawn towards the place of execution, from seven in the morning until the return of the sheriff." this was partly with a view to add dignity and importance to the terrible function, and partly to provide against tumult or raids by the mob. [ ] repertories in the town clerk's office. _criminal trials._ jardine, vol. xi. pp. - . when the shadow of st paul's cathedral fell upon his hurdle, sir everard knew that he was very near the scene of his execution; the crowd became greater at every step of the horse that was dragging him, and he had scarcely passed the great church before he found himself in a narrow lane formed by a densely packed mass of people, kept apart by a line of soldiers on either side. suddenly the horse that was drawing his hurdle stopped, and, on looking up, he saw the ghastly gallows by his side. there, also, was the long, low, thick table, or block, on which the quartering would take place; there, too, were the preparations for the fire in which certain portions of his body would be burnt before it went out. he was liberated from the hurdle. stiff and mud-bespattered, he got up and was led towards the gallows. he was then informed that he was to be the first to suffer. many officials were present. the protestant clergy came forward and offered their services. he courteously refused them; but turning to the crowd, he begged the assistance and prayers of all good catholics.[ ] even his enemies admitted that as he stood on the scaffold, he was[ ] "a man of a goodly personage and a manly aspect," although "his colour grew pale," as well it might, after having been dragged on his back for a mile over the streets of that period; nor could a man be expected to carry much colour on his face immediately before being put to a horrible death in cold blood. [ ] narrative g. p., gerard, p. . [ ] somers' tracts, vol. ii. p. . after saying a few prayers, he again turned to the people, and one of the officials asked him to acknowledge his treason before he died. he then made a short speech. [ ] "sir everard digby" says stow, "protested from the bottome of his heart, he asked forgivenesse of god, the king, the queene, the prince, and all the parliament, and if that hee had knowne it at first to have ben so foule a treason, he would not have concealed it to have gayned a world, requiring the people to witnesse he died penitent and sorrowfull for this vile treason, and confident to be saved in the merits of his sweet saviour jesus, etc." [ ] stow's _annales_, p. . still, he declared most solemnly[ ] that while he was quite willing to die for his offence, he had not been impelled to commit the treason by feelings of ill-will towards any living creature, or a desire for self-advancement or worldly gains. his sole motive had been to put an end to the persecutions of catholics, to benefit human souls, and to serve the cause of religion. the action itself he acknowledged to have been sinful; the intentions which prompted it he protested to have been pure. [ ] narrative of the g. p., gerard, p. . "his speech was not long,"[ ] and, when it was ended he knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and said some prayers in a low voice in latin, "often bowing his head to the ground," says stow, "mumbling to himself," and "refusing to have any prayers of any but of the romish catholics," says the hostile historian in the _somers' tracts_, he "fell to his prayers with such devotion as moved all the beholders," states his friend father gerard, who goes on to say:--"and when he had done, he stood up and saluted all the noblemen and gentlemen that stood upon the scaffold, every one according to his estate, to the noblemen with a lower _congé_, to others with more show of equality, but to all in so friendly and so cheerful a manner, as they afterwards said, he seemed so free from fear of death, as that he showed no feeling at all of any passion therein, but took his leave of them as he was wont to do when he went from the court or out of the city to his own house in the country; yet he showed so great devotion of mind, so much fervour and humility in his prayers, and so great confidence in god, as that very many said[ ] they made no doubt but his soul was happy, and wished themselves might die in the like state of mind." [ ] somers' tracts. [ ] a footnote says, "here wants something. _in another hand, erased in original._" the hangman now came up to assist him in his preparations for execution. before going to the gallows for hanging and quartering, the condemned man was stripped, with the exception of his shirt. this humiliating process having been completed, with his hands bound, sir everard accompanied the executioner to the foot of the ladder, and saying, "oh! jesu, jesu, save me and keep me," he ascended it, as also did the hangman. i should like to let the curtain fall here; but, were i to do so, my story would be incomplete. the punishment of hanging, drawing, and quartering was so horrible, that it was often mitigated by allowing the victim to hang until he was dead. this might well have been done in the case of sir everard digby. to be hung, partially naked, knowing that his body would afterwards be hacked to pieces in the most disgraceful manner before the eyes of an immense concourse of people, should have been considered a sufficient punishment. but no! not even was he permitted to be to some extent stupefied by being half-strangled. the executioner had no sooner turned him off the ladder than he cut the rope.[ ] sir everard "fell on his face and bruised his forehead." then followed a scene of vivisection and butchery,[ ] which would not be tolerated in these days if the subject were a sheep or an ox. yet even on the awful block, sir everard never betrayed his dignity;[ ] and, condemn his offences as we may, we cannot fairly refuse to give him credit for having died like a good christian, a courteous gentleman, and a courageous englishman. [ ] _narrative g. p._, gerard, p. . [ ] wood, in his _athenæ oxonienses_, vol. ii. p. , says, "when the executioner pluck't out his heart (when his body was to be quartered), and according to the manner held it up, saying, _here is the heart of a traytor, sir everard_ made answer, _thou liest_." this a most famous author ["_franc._ lord _bacon_" says a footnote], mentions, but tells us not his name, in his _historia vitæ et mortis_. [ ] narrative g. p., gerard, p. . * * * * * no biographer ever felt more genuine sorrow for his subject than have i for sir everard digby. my sympathy for him has been the greater because he was, like myself, a convert to the roman catholic church; because both he and i were received into that church by fathers of the society of jesus; because, both in his house and in mine, jesuits have very frequently been welcomed as guests, and because in my private chapel, as in his, they have often acted as chaplains. moreover, an additional bond between sir everard digby and myself is the fact that he was my ancestor. nevertheless, i hope that i have not allowed any of these accidents of faith or family to induce me wilfully to conceal an incident important to his history, to gloss over a mistake that he committed, to put a dishonest construction upon one of his actions, or to say an untrue word either about himself, or any other character that has been introduced among these pages. like his own life, my attempt at recounting it may be disfigured by mistaken zeal, false inferences, and rash conclusions; or possibly my authorities, like his friends, may have led me into error; if so, before laying down my pen, like sir everard digby, before laying down his life, let me admit the offence, but declare that it was prompted by no unworthy motive. turnbull and spears, printers, edinburgh. * * * * * a list of kegan paul, trench, trÜbner, & co.'s publications. sizes of books. a book is folio (fol.); quarto ( to.); octavo ( vo.); twelve mo ( mo.); sixteen mo ( mo.); eighteen mo ( mo.); thirty-two mo ( mo.), &c, according to the number of leaves or foldings of a printed sheet, whether the sheet be foolscap, crown, demy, medium, royal, super-royal, or imperial, and irrespective of the thickness of the volume. the following are _approximate_ outside measurements in inches of the more common sizes. _height_ _breadth_ mo. = royal mo. - / x - / l mo. = demy mo. - / x - / mo. = royal mo. x - / fcp. = fcp. vo. - / x - / {demy mo. - / x - / {small crown vo. - / x cr. = {crown vo. - / x - / {large crown vo. - / x - / p- vo. = post vo. x - / lp- vo. = large post vo. - / x vo. = demy vo. x m- vo. = medium vo. - / x sr- vo = super-royal vo. x - / imp- vo. = imperial vo. x - / printed and folded in the reverse way--the breadth being greater than the height--the size is described as "oblong" vo., "oblong" to. &c. _paternoster house, charing cross road, august , ._ a list of kegan paul, trench, trÜbner, & co.'s publications. note.--_books are arranged in alphabetical order under the names or pseudonyms of author, translator, or editor. biographies 'by the author' are placed under the name of the subject. anonymous works and 'selections' will be found under the first word of the title. the letters i.s.s. denote that the work forms a volume of the international scientific series._ a. k. h. b., from a quiet place: some discourses. cr. vo. _s._ abel, carl, linguistic essays. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) slavic and latin: lectures on comparative lexicography. post vo. _s._ abercromby, hon. ralph, weather: a popular exposition of the nature of weather changes from day to day. with figures. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) abrahams, l. b., manual of scripture history for jewish schools and families. with map.--eleventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ acland, sir henry, bart., science in secondary schools. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ acland, hon. mrs. w., love in a life. vols. cr. vo. _s._ adams, estelle, sea song and river rhyme, from chaucer to tennyson. with etchings. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ adams, mrs. leith, the peyton romance. vols. £ . _s._ _d._ adams, w. h. davenport, the white king; or, charles the first, and men and women, life and manners, &c, in the first half of the th century. vols. vo. _s._ Æschylus. the seven plays in english verse. translated by prof. lewis campbell. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ ahlwardt, w., the diváns of the six ancient arabic poets--ennábiga, 'antara, tharafa, zuhair, 'alquama, and imruulquais. with a complete list of the various readings of the text. vo. _s._ ahn, f., grammar of the dutch language. fifth edition, revised and enlarged. mo. _s._ _d._ grammar of the german language. new edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ method of learning german. mo. _s._ key, _d._ manual of german conversation; or, vade-mecum for english travellers. second edition. mo. _s._ _d._ method of learning french. first and second courses. mo. _s._; separately, _s._ _d._ each. method of learning french. third course. mo. _s._ _d._ method of learning italian. mo. _s._ _d._ latin grammar for beginners. thirteenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ ainsworth, w. f., personal narrative of the euphrates expedition. with map. vols. demy vo. _s._ aizlewood, j. w., echo and narcissus. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ albanaise grammaire, à l'usage de ceux qui désirent apprendre cette langue sans l'aide d'un maître. par p. w. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ albÊrÛnÎ's india: an account of the religion, philosophy, literature, geography, chronology, astronomy, customs, laws, and astrology of india, about a.d. . arabic text, edited by prof. e. sachau. to. £ . _s._ alexander, major-gen. g. g., confucius, the great teacher. cr. vo. _s._ alexander, s., moral order and progress: an analysis of ethical conceptions. second edition. post vo. _s._ (_philosophical library._) alexander, william, d.d., bishop of derry, st. augustine's holiday, and other poems. cr. vo. _s._ the great question, and other sermons. cr. vo. _s_. alexandrow, a., complete english-russian and russian-english dictionary. vols. vo. £ . allen, c. f. romilly, book of chinese poetry. being the collection of ballads, sagas, hymns, and other pieces known as the shih ching, metrically translated. vo. _s._ allen, grant, the colour-sense: its origin and development. an essay in comparative psychology. second edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) allen, mary l., luncheon dishes; comprising menus in french and english, as well as suggestions for arrangement and decoration of table. fcp. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ five-o'clock tea. containing receipts for cakes, savoury sandwiches, &c. eleventh thousand. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ allibone, s. a., dictionary of english literature and british and american authors, from the earliest accounts to the latter half of the th century. vols. roy. vo. £ . _s._ supplement, vols. roy. vo. ( ), £ . _s._ althaus, julius, the spas of europe. vo. _s._ _d._ amos, professor sheldon, history and principles of the civil law of rome: an aid to the study of scientific and comparative jurisprudence. vo. _s._ science of law. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) science of politics. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) anderson, david, 'scenes' in the commons. cr. vo. _s._ anderson, j., english intercourse with siam in the seventeenth century. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) anderson, william, practical mercantile correspondence: a collection of modern letters of business, with notes. thirtieth edition, revised. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ antiquarian magazine and bibliographer, the. edited by edward walford and g. w. redway. complete in vols. vo. £ net. apel, h., prose specimens for translation into german. with copious vocabularies and explanations. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ appleton, j. h., and sayce, a. h., dr. appleton: his life and literary relics. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) arago, Étienne, les aristocraties: a comedy in verse. second edition. mo. _s._ arbuthnot, sir a. j., major-gen. sir thomas munro: a memoir. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ archer, william, william charles macready. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_eminent actors._) arden, a. h., progressive grammar of common tamil. _s._ aristotle, the nicomachean ethics. translated by f. h. peters. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ arnold, sir edwin, grammar of the turkish language. with dialogues and vocabulary. pott vo. _s._ _d._ death--and afterwards. reprinted from the _fortnightly review_ of august , with a supplement. eleventh edition. cr. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ in my lady's praise: poems old and new, written to the honour of fanny, lady arnold. fourth edition, imperial mo. parchment, _s._ _d._ india revisited. with full-page illustrations. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ indian idylls. from the sanskrit of the mahâbhârata. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ indian poetry. containing 'the indian song of songs' from the sanskrit, two books from 'the iliad of india,' and other oriental poems. sixth edition. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) lotus and jewel. containing 'in an indian temple,' 'a casket of gems,' 'a queen's revenge,' with other poems. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ pearls of the faith, or islam's rosary. being the ninety-nine beautiful names of allah. sixth edition. cr. vo. _s._ poems, national and non-oriental, with some new pieces. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ the light of asia, or the great renunciation. being the life and teaching of gautama. presentation edition. with illustrations and portrait. sm. to. _s._ library edition, cr. vo. _s._ elzevir edition, _s._ cheap edition (_lotos series_), cloth or half-parchment, _s._ _d._ the secret of death: being a version of the katha upanishad, from the sanskrit. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ the song celestial, or bhagavad-gitâ, from the sanskrit. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ with sa'di in the garden, or the book of love: being the 'ishk,' or third chapter of the 'bostân' of the persian poet sa'di, embodied in a dialogue. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ poetical works. uniform edition, comprising--the light of asia, lotus and jewel, indian poetry, pearls of the faith, indian idylls, the secret of death, the song celestial, with sa'di in the garden. vols. cr. vo. _s._ arnold, thomas, and scannell, t. b., catholic dictionary. an account of the doctrine, discipline, rites, ceremonies, &c, of the catholic church. fourth edition, revised and enlarged. vo. _s._ aston, w. g., grammar of the japanese spoken language. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ grammar of the japanese written language. second edition. vo. _s._ aubertin, j. j., a flight to mexico. with full-page illustrations and a railway map. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ six months in cape colony and natal. with illustrations and map. cr. vo. _s._ a fight with distances. with illustrations and maps. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ wanderings and wonderings. with portrait, map, and illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ augier, Émile, diane: a drama in verse. third edition. mo, _s._ _d._ aveling, f. w., the classic birthday book. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paste grain, _s._; tree calf, _s._ axon, w. e. a., the mechanic's friend. a collection of receipts and practical suggestions relating to aquaria, bronzing, cements, drawing, dyes, electricity, gilding, glass-working, &c. numerous woodcuts. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ azarias, brother, aristotle and the christian church: an essay. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ bader, charles, natural and morbid changes of the human eye, and their treatment. vo. _s._ atlas of plates, in portfolio. medium vo. _s._ text and atlas together, £ . _s._ badham, f. p., formation of the gospels. second edition, revised and enlarged. cr. vo. _s._ bagehot, walter, the english constitution. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ lombard street. a description of the money market. tenth edition. with notes, bringing the work up to the present time, by e. johnstone. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ essays on parliamentary reform. cr. vo. _s._ on the depreciation of silver, and topics connected with it. vo. _s._ physics and politics; or, thoughts on the application of the principles of 'natural selection' and 'inheritance' to political society. ninth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) bagenal, philip h., american irish and their influence on irish politics. cr. vo. _s._ bagot, alan, accidents in mines: their causes and prevention. cr. vo. _s._ principles of colliery ventilation. second edition, greatly enlarged. cr. vo. _s._ principles of civil engineering as applied to agriculture and estate management. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ bain, alex., education as a science. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) mind and body. the theories of their relation. with illustrations. eighth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) baker, major eden, r.a., preliminary tactics. an introduction to the study of war. for the use of junior officers. cr. vo. _s._ baker, ira, treatise on masonry construction. royal vo. _s._ baker, sir sherston, bart., laws relating to quarantine. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ halleck's international law. third edition, thoroughly revised by sir sherston baker, bart. vols. demy vo. _s._ baldwin, capt. j. h., large and small game of bengal and the north-western provinces of india. with illustrations. sm. to. _s._ _d._ balfour, f. h., leaves from my chinese scrap-book. post vo. _s._ _d._ balkwill, f. h., the testimony of the teeth to man's place in nature. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ ball, john, notes of a naturalist in south america. with map. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ ball, sir robert, the cause of an ice age. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_modern science series._) ball, v., diamonds, coal, and gold of india: their mode of occurrence and distribution. fcp. vo. _s._ ballantyne, j. r., elements of hindi and braj bhakha grammar. compiled for the east india college at haileybury. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ ballantyne, j. r., first lessons in sanskrit grammar. fifth edition. vo. _s._ _d._ sankhya aphorisms of kapila. with illustrative extracts from the commentaries. third edition. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) ballin, ada s. and f. l., hebrew grammar. with exercises selected from the bible. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ bancroft, h. h., popular history of the mexican people. vo. _s._ banks, mrs. g. linnÆus, god's providence house. cr. vo. _s._ baring-gould, s., germany, present and past. new and cheaper edition. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ barlow, j. w., the ultimatum of pessimism. an ethical study. vo. _s._ barnes, william, poems of rural life in the dorset dialect. new edition. cr. vo. _s._ barriÈre, theodore, and capendu, ernest, les faux bonshommes. a comedy. mo. _s._ barth, a., religions of india. translated by the rev. j. wood. third edition. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) bartlett, j. r., dictionary of americanisms: a glossary of words and phrases colloquially used in the united states. fourth edition. vo. _s._ basu, k. p., students' mathematical companion. containing problems in arithmetic, algebra, geometry, and mensuration, for students of the indian universities. cr. vo. _s._ bastian, h. charlton, the brain as an organ of mind. with illustrations. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) baughan, rosa, the influence of the stars: a treatise on astrology, chiromancy, and physiognomy. second edition. vo. _s._ baur, ferdinand, philological introduction to greek and latin for students. translated and adapted from the german by c. kegan paul and e. d. stone. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ baynes, canon h. r., home songs for quiet hours. fourth and cheaper edition. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ beal, s., catena of buddhist scriptures. from the chinese. vo. _s._ romantic legend of sakya buddha. from the chinese-sanskrit. cr. vo. _s._ life of hiuen-tsiang. by the shamans hwui li and yen-tsung. with an account of the works of i-tsing. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) si-yu-ki: buddhist records of the western world. translated from the chinese of hiuen-tsiang (a.d. ). with map. vols. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) texts from the buddhist canon, commonly known as dhammapada. translated from the chinese. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) beames, john, outlines of indian philology. with a map showing the distribution of indian languages. enlarged edition. cr. vo. _s._ comparative grammar of the modern aryan languages of india: hindi, panjabi, sindhi, gujarati, marathi, oriya, and bengali. vols. vo. _s._ each. beard, charles, martin luther and the reformation in germany. vo. _s._ bell, a. m., elocutionary manual. fifth edition revised. mo. _s._ _d._ bellasis, edward, cardinal newman as a musician. sewed, _s._ _d._ bellows, john, french and english dictionary for the pocket. containing the french-english and english-french divisions on the same page; conjugating all the verbs; distinguishing the genders by different types; giving numerous aids to pronunciation, &c. fifty-third thousand of the second edition. mo. morocco tuck, _s._ _d._; roan, _s._ _d._ tous les verbes. conjugations of all the verbs in french and english. second edition. with tables of weights, measures, &c. mo. _d._ beneden, p. j. van, animal parasites and messmates. with illustrations. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) benedix, roderick, der vetter. comedy in three acts. mo. _s._ _d._ benfey, theodor, grammar of the sanskrit language. for the use of early students. second edition. roy. vo. _s._ _d._ benson, a. c., william laud, sometime archbishop of canterbury. with portrait. cr. vo. _s._ benson, mary eleanor, at sundry times and in divers manners. with portrait and memoir. vols. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ bentham, jeremy, theory of legislation. translated from the french of etienne dumont by r. hildreth. seventh edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ 'bernard,' from world to cloister; or, my novitiate. cr. vo. _s._ bernstein, prof., the five senses of man. with illustrations. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) bertin, george, abridged grammar of the languages of the cuneiform inscriptions. cr. vo. _s._ bevan, theodore f., toil, travel, and discovery in british new guinea. with maps. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ bhikshu, subhadra, buddhist catechism. mo. _s._ biddulph, c. e., four months in persia. vo. _s._ _d._ biller, emma, ulli: the story of a neglected girl. translated from the german by a. b. daisy rost. cr. vo. _s._ bible folk lore: a study in comparative mythology. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ binet, a., and fere, c., animal magnetism. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) bird, robert, jesus, the carpenter of nazareth. seventh edition, revised. cr. vo. _s._ also in two parts, price _s._ _d._ each. bishop, m. c., the prison life of marie antoinette and her children, the dauphin and the duchesse d'angoulême. new and revised edition. with portrait. cr. vo. _s._ blades, w., biography and typography of william caxton, england's first printer. vo. hand-made paper, imitation old bevelled binding, £ . _s._; cheap edition, cr. vo. _s._ account of the german morality play, entitled, 'depositio cornuti typographici.' as performed in the th or th centuries. with facsimile illustrations. sm. to. _s._ _d._ blake, william, selections from the writings of. edited, with introduction, by laurence housman. with frontispiece. elzevir vo. parchment, _s._; vellum, _s._ _d._ (_parchment library._) blaserna, prof. p., theory of sound in its relation to music. with numerous illustrations. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) bleek, w. h. i., reynard the fox in south africa, or, hottentot fables and tales. post vo. _s._ _d._ blogg, h. b., life of francis duncan. with introduction by the bishop of chester. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ bloomfield, the lady, reminiscences of court and diplomatic life. new and cheaper edition, with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ blumhardt, j. f., charitabali, the; or, instructive biography. by isvara-chandra vidyasagara. with vocabulary of all the words occurring in the text. mo. _s._ vocabulary only, _s._ _d._ blunt, wilfrid scawen, the wind and the whirlwind. vo. _s._ _d._ the love sonnets of proteus. fifth edition. elzevir vo. _s._ in vinculis. with portrait. elzevir vo. _s._ a new pilgrimage, and other poems. elzevir vo. _s._ esther, love lyrics, and natalia's resurrection. _s._ _d._ blyth, e. kell, life of william ellis, founder of the birkbeck schools. second edition. vo. _s._ _d._ bodemann, th. and karl, bruno: a treatise on the assaying of lead, copper, silver, gold, and mercury. translated by w. a. goodyear. illustrated with plates. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ boger, mrs. e., myths, scenes, and worthies of somerset. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ bojesen, maria, guide to the danish language. mo. _s._ bosanquet, bernard, introduction to hegel's philosophy of fine art. cr. vo. _s._ bowden fr. charles henry, life of b. john juvenal ancina. vo. _s._ bowen, h. c., studies in english. for the use of modern schools. tenth thousand. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ english grammar for beginners. fcp. vo. _s._ simple english poems. english literature for junior classes, s. parts i. ii. and iii. _d._ each. part iv. _s._ boyd, p., nágánanda; or, the joy of the snake world. from the sanskrit of sri-harsha-deva. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ brackenbury, major-general, field works: their technical construction and tactical application. vols. sm. cr. vo. _s._ (_military handbooks._) bradley, f. h., the principles of logic. vo. _s._ bradshaw's guide. dictionary of mineral waters, climatic health resorts, sea baths, and hydropathic establishments. with a map. _s._ _d._ brave men's footsteps: a book of example and anecdote for young people. by the editor of 'men who have risen' illustrations by c. doyle. ninth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ brentano, lujo, history and development of gilds, and the origin of trade unions. vo. _s._ _d._ bretschneider, e., mediæval researches from eastern asiatic sources: fragments towards the knowledge of the geography and history of central and western asia, from the th to the th century, with maps. vols. post vo. s. (_trübner's oriental series._) brette, p. h., thomas, f., french examination papers set at the university of london. part i. matriculation, and the general examination for women. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ key, _s._ part ii. first b. a. examinations for honours and d. litt. examinations. cr. vo. _s._ bridgett, t. e., blunders and forgeries: historical essays. cr. vo. _s._ history of the holy eucharist in great britain. vols. vo. _s._ brooke, rev. stopford a., the fight of faith: sermons preached on various occasions. sixth edition, cr. vo. _s._ the spirit of the christian life. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ theology in the english poets: cowper, coleridge, wordsworth, and burns. sixth edition. post vo. _s._ christ in modern life. eighteenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ sermons. two series. thirteenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ each. life and letters of f. w. robertson. with portrait. vols. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ library edition, vo. with portrait, _s._ popular edition, cr. vo. _s._ brown, c. p., sanskrit prosody and numerical symbols explained. vo. _s._ _d._ brown, horatio f., venetian studies. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ brown, rev. j. baldwin, the higher life: its reality, experience, and destiny. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ doctrine of annihilation in the light of the gospel of love. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ the christian policy of life: a book for young men of business. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ brown, j. c., people of finland in archaic times. cr. vo. _s._ brown, j. p., the dervishes; or, oriental spiritualism. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ browne, edgar a., how to use the ophthalmoscope. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ browning, oscar, introduction to the history of educational theories. second edition. _s._ _d._ (_education library._) brugmann, karl, comparative grammar of the indo-germanic languages. vols. vo. vol. i. introduction and phonology, _s._ vol. ii. morphology (stem-formation and inflexion), part i, _s._ vol. iii. _s._ _d._ brun, l. le, materials for translating english into french. seventh edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ bryant, sophie, celtic ireland. with maps. cr. vo. _s._ bryant, w. cullen, poems. cheap edition. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ bryce, j., handbook of home rule: being articles on the irish question. second edition. cr. vo, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ two centuries of irish history. vo. _s._ budge, e. a., history of esarhaddon (son of sennacherib), king of assyria, b.c. - . translated from the cuneiform inscriptions in the british museum. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) archaic classics: assyrian texts, being extracts from the annals of shalmaneser ii., sennacherib, and assur-bani-pal, with philological notes. sm. to. _s._ _d._ bunge, prof. g., text-book of physiological and pathological chemistry, for physicians and students. translated from the german by l. c. wooldridge. vo. _s._ bunsen, ernest de, islam; or, true christianity. crown vo. _s._ burgess, james, the buddhist cave-temples and their inscriptions, containing views, plans, sections, and elevation of façades of cave-temples; drawings of architectural and mythological sculptures; facsimiles of inscriptions, &c.; with descriptive and explanatory text, and translations of inscriptions. with plates and woodcuts. royal to. half-bound, £ . _s._ [_archæological survey of western india._] elura cave-temples and the brahmanical and jaina caves in western india. with plates and woodcuts. royal to. half-bound, £ . _s._ [_archæological survey of western india._] reports of the amaravati and jaggayyapeta buddhist stupas, containing numerous collotype and other illustrations of buddhist sculpture and architecture, &c., in south-eastern india; facsimiles of inscriptions, &c., with descriptive and explanatory text; together with transcriptions, translations, and elucidations of the dhauli and jaugada inscriptions of asoka. with numerous plates and woodcuts. royal to. half-bound, £ . _s._ [_archæological survey of southern india._] burnell, a. c., elements of south indian palæography, from the th to the th century: an introduction to the study of south indian inscriptions and mss. enlarged edition. with map and plates. to. £ . _s._ _d._ the ordinances of manu. translated from the sanskrit, with introduction by the late a. c. burnell. completed and edited by e. w. hopkins. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) burney, capt., r. n., the young seaman's manual and rigger's guide. tenth edition, revised and corrected. with illustrations and sheets of signals. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ burns, robert, selected poems of. with an introduction by andrew lang. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) butler, f., spanish teacher and colloquial phrase-book. mo. half-roan, _s._ _d._ buxton, major, elements of military administration. first part: permanent system of administration. small cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_military handbooks._) byrne, dean james, general principles of the structure of language. vols. second and revised edition. vo. _s._ origin of greek, latin, and gothic roots. second and revised edition. vo. _s._ cable, g. w., strange true stories of louisiana. vo. _s._ _d._ caird, mona, the wing of azrael. cr. vo. _s._ calderon's dramas. translated by denis florence maccarthy. post vo. _s._ camerini, e., l'eco italiano: a guide to italian conversation, with vocabulary. mo. _s._ _d._ cameron, miss, soups and stews and choice ragoûts. cr. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ camoens' lusiads. portuguese text, with translation, by j. j. aubertin. second edition. vols. cr. vo. _s._ campbell, prof. lewis, sophocles. the seven plays in english verse. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ Æschylus. the seven plays in english verse. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ candid examination of theism. by physicus. second edition, post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) candolle, alphonse de, origin of cultivated plants. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) carlyle, thomas, sartor resartus. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) carpenter, r. l., personal and social christianity: sermons and addresses by the late russell lant carpenter. with a short memoir by frances e. cooke. edited by j. estlin carpenter. cr. vo. _s._ carpenter, w. b., principles of mental physiology, with their applications to the training and discipline of the mind, and the study of its morbid conditions. illustrated. sixth edition. vo. _s._ nature and man. with a memorial sketch by j. estlin carpenter. portrait. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ carreÑo, metodo para aprender a leer, escribir y hablar el inglés segun el sistema de ollendorff. vo. _s._ _d._ key, _s._ carrington, h., of the imitation of christ. by thomas À kempis. a metrical version. cr. vo. _s._ cassal, charles, glossary of idioms, gallicisms, and other difficulties contained in the senior course of the 'modern french reader.' cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cassal, ch., and karcher, theodore. modern french reader. junior course. nineteenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ senior course. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ senior course and glossary in vol. cr. vo. _s._ little french reader: extracted from the 'modern french reader.' third edition. cr. vo. _s._ catlin, george, o-kee-pa: a religious ceremony; and other customs of the mandans. with coloured illustrations. small to. _s._ the lifted and subsided rocks of america, with their influence on the oceanic, atmospheric, and land currents, and the distribution of races. with maps. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ shut your mouth and save your life. with illustrations. ninth edition, cr. vo. _s._ _d._ chamberlain, prof. b. h., classical poetry of the japanese. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) simplified japanese grammar. cr. vo. _s._ romanised japanese reader. consisting of japanese anecdotes and maxims, with english translations and notes. mo. _s._ handbook of colloquial japanese. vo. _s._ _d._ things japanese. second, revised edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ chambers, j. d., theological and philosophical works of hermes trismegistus, christian neoplatonist. translated from the greek. vo. _s._ _d._ chaucer, g., canterbury tales. edited by a. w. pollard. vols. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) cheyne, canon t. k., the prophecies of isaiah. with notes and dissertations. vols. fifth edition, revised. vo. _s._ job and solomon; or, the wisdom of the old testament. vo. _s._ _d._ the book of psalms; or, the praises of israel. with commentary. vo. _s._ the book of psalms. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) the origin and religious contents of the psalter. the bampton lectures, . vo. _s._ chichele, mary, doing and undoing. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ childers, r. c., pali-english dictionary, with sanskrit equivalents. imp. vo. £ . _s._ christian, john, behar proverbs, classified and arranged according to subject matter, with notes. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) civil war (american), campaigns of the. vols., and supplement. with maps and plans. mo. _s._ each vol. navy in the civil war. vols. _s._ each. clairaut, elements of geometry. translated by dr. kaines. with figures. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ clapperton, jane hume, scientific meliorism and the evolution of happiness. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ clarke, henry w., history of tithes from abraham to queen victoria. cr. vo _s._ clarke, james freeman, ten great religions: an essay in comparative theology. vols. vo. _s._ _d._ each. clery, gen. c. francis, minor tactics. with maps and plans. eleventh edition, revised. cr. vo. _s._ cliff, maria, poems on true incidents, and other poems. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ clifford, w. kingdon, common sense of the exact sciences. second edition. with figures. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) clodd, edward, childhood of the world: a simple account of man in early times. ninth edition. cr. vo. _s._ special edition for schools, _s._ childhood of religions. including a simple account of the birth and growth of myths and legends. ninth edition. cr. vo. _s._ special edition for schools, _s._ _d._ jesus of nazareth. with a brief sketch of jewish history to the time of his birth. second edition. revised throughout and partly re-written. sm. cr. vo. _s._ special edition for schools, in parts, _s._ _d._ each. coghlan, j. cole, d.d., the modern pharisee and other sermons. edited by the very rev. h. h. dickinson, d.d. new and cheaper edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ coleridge. memoir and letters of sara coleridge. edited by her daughter. cheap edition. with portrait. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ collette, c. h., life, times, and writings of thomas cranmer, d.d., the first reforming archbishop of canterbury. vo. _s._ _d._ pope joan. an historical study, from the greek of rhoïdis. mo. _s._ _d._ collins, mabel, through the gates of gold: a fragment of thought. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ light on the path. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ compton, a. g., first lessons in metal-working. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ compton, c. g., scot free: a novel. cr. vo. _s._ comte, auguste, catechism of positive religion, from the french, by r. congreve. third edition, revised and corrected. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ eight circulars of auguste comte. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ appeal to conservatives. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ positive philosophy of auguste comte, translated and condensed by harriet martineau. vols. new and cheaper edition. large post vo. _s._ subjective synthesis; or, universal system of the conceptions adapted to the normal state of humanity. vol. i., containing the system of positive logic. vo. paper covers, _s._ _d._ conte, joseph le, sight: an exposition of the principles of monocular and binocular vision. second edition. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) contopoulos, n., lexicon of modern greek-english and english-modern greek. vols. vo. _s._ modern-greek and english dialogues and correspondence. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ conway, m. d., emerson at home and abroad. with portrait. post vo, _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) conway, r. s., verner's law in italy: an essay in the history of the indo-european sibilants. vo. _s._ cook, keningale, the fathers of jesus. a study of the lineage of the christian doctrine and traditions. vols. vo. _s._ cook, louisa s., geometrical psychology; or, the science of representation. an abstract of the theories and diagrams of b. w. betts. plates. vo. _s._ _d._ cooke, m. c., british edible fungi: how to distinguish and how to cook them. with coloured figures of upwards of forty species. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ fungi: their nature, influences, uses, &c. edited by rev. m. j. berkeley. with numerous illustrations. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) introduction to fresh-water algæ. with an enumeration of all the british species. with plates. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) cooke, prof. j. p., new chemistry. with illustrations. ninth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) laboratory practice. a series of experiments on the fundamental principles of chemistry. cr. vo. _s._ cordery, j. g., homer's iliad. greek text, with translation. vols. vo. _s._ translation only, cr. vo. _s._ cory, w., guide to modern english history. part i. - . vo. _s._ part ii. - , vo. _s._ cotta, bernhard von, geology and history. a popular exposition of all that is known of the earth and its inhabitants in prehistoric times. mo. _s._ cotton, louise, palmistry and its practical uses. with plates. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cowell, e. b., short introduction to the ordinary prakrit of the sanskrit dramas. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ prakrita-prakasa; or, the prakrit grammar of vararuchi, with the commentary (manorama) of bhamaba. vo. _s._ cowell, e. b., and gough, a. e., the sarva-darsana-samgraha; or, review of the different systems of hindu philosophy. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) cowie, bishop, our last year in new zealand, . cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cox, samuel, d.d., commentary on the book of job. with a translation. second edition. vo. _s._ salvator mundi; or, is christ the saviour of all men? fourteenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ the larger hope: a sequel to 'salvator mundi.' second edition. mo. _s._ cox, samuel, d.d., the genesis of evil, and other sermons, mainly expository. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ balaam: an exposition and a study. cr. vo. _s._ miracles: an argument and a challenge. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cox, sir g. w., bart., mythology of the aryan nations. new edition. vo. _s._ tales of ancient greece. new edition. sm. cr. vo. _s._ tales of the gods and heroes. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ manual of mythology in the form of question and answer. new edition. fcap. vo. _s._ introduction to the science of comparative mythology and folk-lore. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cox, sir g. w., bart., and jones, e. h., popular romances of the middle ages. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ craven, mrs., a year's meditations. cr. vo. _s._ craven, t., english-hindustani and hindustani-english dictionary. new edition. mo. _s._ _d._ crawfurd, oswald, portugal, old and new. with illustrations and maps. new and cheaper edition. cr. vo. _s._ cruise, f. r., notes of a visit to the scenes in which the life of thomas à kempis was spent. with numerous illustrations. vo. _s._ cunningham, major-gen. alex., ancient geography of india. i. the buddhist period, including the campaigns of alexander and the travels of hwen-thsang. with maps. vo. £ . _s._ curteis, canon, bishop selwyn of new zealand and of lichfield: a sketch of his life and work, with further gleanings from his letters, sermons, and speeches. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cust, r. n., linguistic and oriental essays. post vo. first series, _s._ _d._; second series, with maps, _s._; third series, with portrait, _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) dana, e. s., text-book of mineralogy. with treatise on crystallography and physical mineralogy. third edition, with woodcuts and plate. vo. _s._ dana, j. d., text-book of geology, for schools. illustrated. cr. vo. _s._ manual of geology. illustrated by a chart of the world, and , figures. vo. _s._ the geological story briefly told. illustrated. mo. _s._ _d._ dana, j. d., and brush, g. j., system of mineralogy. sixth edition, entirely re-written and enlarged. roy. vo. £ . _s._ manual of mineralogy and petrography. fourth edition. numerous woodcuts. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ dante's treatise 'de vulgari eloquentiâ.' translated, with notes, by a. g. f. howell. _s._ _d._ the banquet (il convito). translated by katharine hillard. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ darmesteter, arsene, life of words as the symbols of ideas. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ d'assier, adolphe, posthumous humanity: a study of phantoms. from the french by h. s. olcott. with appendix. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ davids, t. w. rhys, buddhist birth-stories; or, jataka tales. the oldest collection of folk-lore extant. being the j[=a]takatthavannan[=a]. translated from the pali text of v. fausboll. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) the numismata orientalia. part vi. the ancient coins and measures of ceylon. with plate. royal to. paper wrapper, _s._ davidson, samuel, d.d., canon of the bible: its formation, history, and fluctuations. third edition. sm. cr. vo. _s._ doctrine of last things. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ davidson, t., compendium of the philosophical system of antonio rosmini-serbati. second edition, vo. _s._ _d._ davies, g. christopher, rambles and adventures of our school field club. with illustrations. new and cheaper edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ davies, j., s[=a]nkhya k[=a]rik[=a] of iswara krishna: an exposition of the system of kapila. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) the bhagavad gîtâ; or, the sacred lay. translated, with notes, from the sanskrit. third edition. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) davitt, michael, speech before the special commission. cr. vo. _s._ dawson, george, prayers. first series, edited by his wife. eleventh edition. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ prayers. second series. edited by george st. clair. second edition. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ sermons on disputed points and special occasions. edited by his wife. fifth edition. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ sermons on daily life and duty. edited by his wife. fifth edition. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ the authentic gospel. sermons. edited by george st. clair. fourth edition. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ every-day counsels. edited by george st. clair. cr. vo. s. biographical lectures. edited by george st. clair. third edition. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ shakespeare; and other lectures. edited by george st. clair. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ dawson, sir j. w., geological history of plants. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) dean, teresa h., how to be beautiful: nature unmasked. a book for every woman. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ delbruck, b., introduction to the study of language: the history and methods of comparative philology of the indo-european languages. vo. _s._ dennis, j., collection of english sonnets. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ dennys, n. b., folk-lore of china, and its affinities with that of the aryan and semitic races. vo. _s._ _d._ denvir, john, the irish in britain, from the earliest times to the fall and death of parnell. cr. vo. _s._ dewey, john, psychology. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ dewey, j. h., the way, the truth, and the life: a handbook of christian theosophy, healing and psychic culture. _s._ _d._ didon, father, jesus christ. cheaper edition. vols. vo. _s._ dillon, w., life of john mitchel. with portrait. vols. vo. _s._ dobson, austin, old world idylls, and other verses. with frontispiece. eleventh edition. elzevir vo. _s._ at the sign of the lyre. with frontispiece. eighth edition. elzevir vo. _s._ the ballad of beau brocade; and other poems of the eighteenth century. with fifty illustrations by hugh thomson. cr. vo. _s._ domvile, lady m., life of alphonse de lamartine. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ d'orsey, a. j. d., grammar of portuguese and english. adapted to ollendorff's system. fourth edition. mo. _s._ colloquial portuguese; or, the words and phrases of every-day life. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ doubter's doubt about science and religion, a. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ douglas, prof. r. k., chinese language and literature. cr. vo. _s._ the life of jenghiz khan. translated from the chinese. cr. vo. _s._ dowden, edward, shakspere: a critical study of his mind and art. tenth edition. large post vo. _s._ shakspere's sonnets. with introduction and notes. large post vo. _s._ _d._ shakspere's sonnets. edited, with frontispiece after the death mask. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) studies in literature, - . fifth edition. large post vo. _s._ transcripts and studies. large post vo. _s._ life of percy bysshe shelley. with portraits. vols. vo. _s._ downing, c., fruits and fruit trees of america: or, the culture and management of fruit trees generally. illustrated. vo. _s._ dowson, john, grammar of the urd[=u] or hind[=u]st[=a]n[=i] language. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ hind[=u]st[=a]n[=i] exercise book. passages and extracts for translation into hind[=u]st[=a]n[=i]. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ classical dictionary of hindu mythology and history, geography and literature. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) draper, j. w., the conflict between religion and science. st edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) drayson, major-general, untrodden ground in astronomy and geology. with numerous figures. vo. _s._ drummond. maria drummond: a sketch. pott vo. _s._ duff, e. gordon, early printed books. with frontispiece and ten plates. post vo. _s._ net. (_books about books._) duffy, sir c. gavan, thomas davis: the memoirs of an irish patriot, - . vo. _s._ duka, theodore, life and works of alexander csoma de körös between and . with a short notice of all his works and essays, from original documents. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) dunn, h. p., infant health: the physiology and hygiene of early life. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ duruy, victor, history of greece. with introduction by prof. j. p. mahaffy. vols. super royal vo. £ . _s._ dusar, p. friedrich, grammar of the german language. with exercises. nd edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ grammatical course of the german language. rd edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ dutt, romesh chunder, history of civilisation in ancient india, based on sanskrit literature. cr. vo. vol. i. vedic and epic ages, _s._ vol. ii. rationalistic age, _s._ vol. iii. buddhist and pauranik ages, _s._ dutt, toru, ancient ballads and legends of hindustan. with an introductory memoir by edmund gosse. mo. cloth extra, gilt top, _s._ eastwick, e. b., the gulistan; or, rose garden of shekh mushliu-'d-din sadi of shiraz. translated from the atish kadah. nd edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) edgren, h., compendious sanskrit grammar. with a brief sketch of scenic prakrit. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ edkins, j., d.d., religion in china. containing a brief account of the three religions of the chinese. rd edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library_ and _trübner's oriental series._) chinese buddhism: sketches historical and critical. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) edmonds, herbert, well-spent lives: a series of modern biographies. new and cheaper edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ eger, gustav, technological dictionary in the english and german languages. vols. roy. vo. £ . _s._ eighteenth century essays. edited by austin dobson. with frontispiece. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) cheap edition, fcap. vo. _s._ _d._ eitel, e. j., buddhism: its historical, theoretical, and popular aspects. third edition, revised, vo. _s._ handbook for the student of chinese buddhism. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ electricity in daily life: a popular account of its application to every-day uses. with illustrations. sq. vo. _s._ elliott, ebenezer, poems. edited by his son, the rev. edwin elliott, of st. john's, antigua. vols. crown vo. _s._ elliott, f. r., handbook for fruit growers. illustrated. sq. mo. _s._ handbook of practical landscape gardening. illustrated. vo. _s._ _d._ elliot, sir h. m., history, folk-lore, and distribution of the races of the north-western provinces of india. edited by j. beames. with coloured maps. vols. vo. £ . _s._ history of india, as told by its own historians: the muhammadan period. from the posthumous papers of the late sir h. m. elliot. revised and continued by professor john dowson. vols. vo. £ . _s._ elliot, sir w., coins of southern india. with map and plates. roy. to. _s._ (_numismata orientalia._) ellis, w. ashton, wagner sketches: . a vindication. cr. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper, _s._ richard wagner's prose works. translated by w. a. ellis. vol. i. the art work of the future. vo. _s._ _d._ elton, charles and mary, the great book collectors. with illustrations. post vo. _s._ net. (_books about books._) encyclopædia americana. vols. to. £ . _s._ english comic dramatists. edited by oswald crawfurd. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) english lyrics. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) english odes. edited by e. gosse. with frontispiece. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) english sacred lyrics. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) english poets (living). with frontispiece by walter crane. second edition. large cr. vo. printed on hand-made paper, vellum, _s._; cloth, _s._ english verse. chaucer to burns. translations. lyrics of the nineteenth century. dramatic scenes and characters. ballads and romances. edited by w. j. linton and r. h. stoddard. vols. cr. vo. _s._ each. eyton, robert, the apostles' creed: sermons. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ the true life, and other sermons. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ the lord's prayer: sermons. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ a rash investment: sermon on salvation army scheme of social reform. fcp. vo. _s._ the search for god, and other sermons. cr. vo _s._ _d._ faber, e., the mind of mencius; or, political economy founded upon moral philosophy. a systematic digest of the doctrines of the chinese philosopher, mencius. original text classified and translated. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) fausboll, v., the jataka, together with its commentary: being tales of the anterior birth of gotama buddha. vols. vo. _s._ each. fergusson, t., chinese researches: chinese chronology and cycles. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ feuerbach, l., essence of christianity. from the german, by marian evans. second edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) fichte, j. gottlieb, new exposition of the science of knowledge. translated by a. e. kroeger. vo. _s._ science of knowledge. from the german, by a. e. kroeger. with an introduction by prof. w. t. harris. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) science of rights. from the german by a. e. kroeger. with an introduction by prof. w. t. harris. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) popular works: the nature of the scholar; the vocation of the scholar; the vocation of man; the doctrine of religion; characteristics of the present age; outlines of the doctrine of knowledge. with a memoir by w. smith. post vo. vols. _s._ (_philosophical library._) finn, alexander, persian for travellers. oblong mo. _s._ fitzarthur, t., the worth of human testimony. fcp. vo. _s._ fitzgerald, r. d., australian orchids. part i., plates; part ii., plates; part iii., plates; part iv., plates; part v., plates; part vi, plates. each part, coloured, _s._; plain, _s._ _d._ part vii., plates. vol. ii., part i., plates. each, coloured, _s._ fitzpatrick, w. j., life of the very rev. t. n. burke. with portrait. vols. vo. _s._ fletcher, j. s., andrewlina. cr. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ the winding way. cr. vo. _s._ flinn, d. edgar, ireland: its health resorts and watering places. with frontispiece and maps. vo. _s._ flower, w. h., the horse: a study in natural history. cr. vo; _s._ _d._ (_modern science series._) fornander, a., account of the polynesian race: its origin and migrations, and the ancient history of the hawaiian people. post vo. vol. i., _s._ _d._ vol. ii., _s._ _d._ vol. iii., _s._ (_philosophical library._) forney, matthias n., catechism of the locomotive. second edition, revised and enlarged. fcp. to. _s._ fraser, sir william, bart., disraeli and his day. second edition. post vo. _s._ frazar, douglas, practical boat sailing: a treatise on management of small boats and yachts. sm. cr. _s._ _d._ freeborough, e., and ranken, c. e., chess openings, ancient and modern. revised and corrected up to the present time from the best authorities. large post vo. _s._ _d._ freeborough, e., chess endings. a companion to 'chess openings, ancient and modern.' edited and arranged. large post vo. _s._ _d._ freeman, e. a., lectures to american audiences. i. the english people in its three homes. ii. practical bearings of general european history. post vo. _s._ _d._ french jansenists. by the author of 'spanish mystics' and 'many voices.' cr. vo. _s._ french lyrics. edited by george saintsbury. with frontispiece. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) frewen, moreton, the economic crisis. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ friedlÄnder, m., text-book of jewish religion. third edition, revised. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ the jewish religion. cr. vo. _s._ friedrich, p., progressive german reader. with copious notes. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ frith, i., life of giordano bruno, the nolan. revised by prof. moriz carriere. with portrait. post vo. _s._ (_philosophical library._) froembling, f. otto, graduated german reader: a selection from the most popular writers. with a vocabulary. twelfth edition. mo. _s._ _d._ graduated exercises for translation into german: extracts from the best english authors, with idiomatic notes. cr. vo. _s._ _d._; without notes, _s._ gall, capt. h. r., tactical questions and answers on the infantry drill book . third edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ gardiner, linda, his heritage. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ gardner, percy, the numismata orientalia. part v. the parthian coinage. with plates. royal to. paper wrapper, _s._ garlanda, federico, the fortunes of words. cr. vo. _s._ the philosophy of words: a popular introduction to the science of language. cr. vo. _s._ gaster, m., greeko-slavonic literature, and its relation to the folk-lore of europe during the middle ages. large post vo. _s._ _d._ gay, john, fables. edited by austin dobson. with portrait. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) geiger, lazarus, contributions to the history of the development of the human race. from the german by d. asher. post vo. _s._ (_philosophical library._) geldart, e. m., guide to modern greek. post vo. _s._ _d._ key, _s._ _d._ simplified grammar of modern greek. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ george, henry, progress and poverty: an inquiry into the causes of industrial depressions, and of increase of want with increase of wealth; the remedy. fifth edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ cabinet edition, cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cheap edition, limp cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ protection or free trade: an examination of the tariff question, with especial regard to the interests of labour. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ cheap edition, limp cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ social problems. fourth thousand. cr. vo. _s._ cheap edition, limp cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ a perplexed philosopher: being an examination of mr. herbert spencer's various utterances on the land question, &c. cr. vo. _s._ gerard, e. and d., a sensitive plant: a novel. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ gibb, e. j. w., the history of the forty vezirs; or, the story of the forty morns and eves. translated from the turkish. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ gilbert, autobiography, and other memorials of mrs. gilbert. edited by josiah gilbert. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ glanvill, joseph, scepsis scientifica. edited, with introductory essay, by john owen. elzevir vo. _s._ glazebrook, r. t., laws and properties of matter. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_modern science._) glover, f., exempla latina: a first construing book, with notes, lexicon, and an introduction to analysis of sentences. second edition, fcp. vo. _s._ goethe's faust. translated from the german by john anster. with an introduction by burdett mason. with illustrations ( in black and white, in colour) by frank m. gregory. grand folio, £ . _s._ goldsmith, oliver, vicar of wakefield. edited by austin dobson. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) gomme, g. l., ethnology in folk-lore. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_modern science._) gooch, diaries of sir daniel gooch, bart. with an introductory notice by sir theodore martin, k.c.b. with portraits and an illustration. cr. vo. _s._ goodenough. memoir of commodore j. g. goodenough. edited by his widow. with portrait. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ gordon, major-general c. g., journals at khartoum. printed from the original ms. with introduction and notes by a. egmont hake. portrait, maps, and illustrations. vo. _s._ cheap edition, _s._ last journal: a facsimile of the last journal received in england from general gordon, reproduced by photo-lithography. imp. to. £ . _s._ gordon, sir h. w., events in the life of general gordon, from the day of his birth to the day of his death. with maps and illustrations. second edition. vo. _s._ _d._ gospel according to matthew, mark, and luke (the). elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) gosse, edmund, seventeenth century studies: a contribution to the history of english poetry. vo. _s._ _d._ new poems. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ firdausi in exile, and other poems. second edition. elzevir vo. gilt top, _s._ on viol and flute: lyrical poems. with frontispiece by l. alma tadema, and tailpiece by hamo thornycroft. elzevir vo. _s._ life of philip henry gosse. by his son. vo. _s._ gossip, g. h. d., the chess-player's text-book: an elementary treatise on the game of chess. numerous diagrams. mo. _s._ gough, a. e., philosophy of the upanishads. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) gough, edward, the bible true from the beginning: a commentary on all those portions of scripture that are most questioned and assailed. vols. i. to v. vo. _s._ each. gower, lord ronald, bric-à-brac. being some photoprints illustrating art objects at gower lodge, windsor. with letterpress descriptions. super roy. vo. _s._; extra binding, _s._ last days of marie antoinette: an historical sketch. with portrait and facsimiles. fcap. to. _s._ _d._ notes of a tour from brindisi to yokohama, - . fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ rupert of the rhine: a biographical sketch of the life of prince rupert. with portraits. cr. vo. buckram, _s._ stafford house letters. with portraits. vo. _s._ _d._ graham, jean carlyle, songs, measures, metrical lines. cr. vo. _s._ graham, william, the creed of science: religious, moral, and social. second edition, revised. cr. vo. _s._ the social problem, in its economic, moral and political aspects. vo. _s._ socialism new and old. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) gray, j., ancient proverbs and maxims from burmese sources; or, the niti literature of burma. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) gray, maxwell, silence of dean maitland. eighth edition. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ the reproach of annesley. fifth edition. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ in the heart of the storm. with frontispiece by gordon browne. cr. vo. _s._ westminster chimes, and other poems. sm. vo. _s._ green, f. w. edridge, colour blindness and colour perception. with coloured plates. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) greg, r. p., comparative philology of the old and new worlds in relation to archaic speech. with copious vocabularies. super royal vo. £ . _s._ _d._ greg, w. r., literary and social judgments. fourth edition. vols. cr. vo. _s._ the creed of christendom. eighth edition. vols. post vo. _s._ (_philosophical library_). enigmas of life. seventeenth edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library_). enigmas of life. with a prefatory memoir. edited by his wife. nineteenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ political problems for our age and country. vo. _s._ _d._ miscellaneous essays. two series. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ each. grey, rowland, in sunny switzerland: a tale of six weeks. second edition. sm. vo. _s._ lindenblumen, and other stories. sm. vo. _s._ by virtue of his office. cr. vo. _s._ jacob's letter, and other stories. cr. vo. _s._ griffin, sir lepel, the rajas of the punjab: history of the principal states in the punjab, and their political relations with the british government. royal vo. _s._ griffis, w. e., the mikado's empire. book i. history of japan from b.c. to a.d. . book ii. personal experiences, observations, and studies in japan, - . second edition, illustrated. vo. _s._ japanese fairy world: stories from the wonder-lore of japan. with plates. square mo. _s._ _d._ griffith, r. t. h., birth of the war-god: a poem from the sanskrit of kÁlidasÁ. second edition. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series_). yúsef and zulaikha: a poem by jami. translated from the persian into english verse. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) grimley, h. n., the prayer of humanity: sermons on the lord's prayer. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ tremadoc sermons, chiefly on the spiritual body, the unseen world, and the divine humanity. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ the temple of humanity, and other sermons. cr. vo. _s._ grimshaw, r., engine runner's catechism. a sequel to the author's 'steam engine catechism.' illustrated. mo. _s._ _d._ gubernatis, angelo de, zoological mythology; or, the legends of animals. vols. vo. £ . _s._ guicciardini, francesco, counsels and reflections. translated by n. h. thomson. cr. vo. _s._ gurney, alfred, the vision of the eucharist, and other poems. cr. vo. _s._ a christmas faggot. sm. vo. _s._ voices from the holy sepulchre, and other poems. cr. vo. _s._ wagner's parsifal: a study. second edition. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ our catholic inheritance in the larger hope. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ the story of a friendship. cr. vo. _s._ haddon, caroline, the larger life: studies in hinton's ethics. cr. vo. _s._ haeckel, prof. ernst, the history of creation. new edition. translation revised by professor e. ray lankester, with plates and numerous figures. fourth edition. vols. large post vo. _s._ the history of the evolution of man. with numerous illustrations. vols. post vo. _s._ a visit to ceylon. post vo. _s._ _d._ freedom in science and teaching. with a prefatory note by prof. t. h. huxley. cr. vo. _s._ haggard, h. rider, cetywayo and his white neighbours; or, remarks on recent events in zululand, natal, and the transvaal. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ haggard, w. h., and le strange, g., the vazir of lankuran: a persian play. with a grammatical introduction, translation, notes, and vocabulary. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ hahn, t., tsuni-[||]goam, the supreme being of the khoi-khoi. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) hall, h. e., leadership, not lordship. cr. vo. _s._ halleck's international law; or, rules regulating the intercourse of states in peace and war. third edition, thoroughly revised by sir sherston baker, bart. vols. vo. _s._ hallock, charles, the sportsman's gazetteer and general guide to the game animals, birds, and fishes of north america. maps and portrait. cr. vo, _s._ hamilton. memoirs of arthur hamilton, b.a., of trinity college, cambridge. cr. vo. _s._ hardy, w. j., book plates. with frontispiece and illustrations of book plates. post vo. _s._ net. (_books about books._) harrison, clifford, in hours of leisure. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ harrison, col. r., officer's memorandum book for peace and war. fourth edition, revised. oblong mo. red basil, with pencil, _s._ _d._ harrison, j. a., and baskervill, w., handy dictionary of anglo-saxon poetry. sq. vo. _s._ hart, j. w. t., autobiography of judas iscariot. a character study. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ hartmann, eduard von, philosophy of the unconscious. translated by w. c. coupland. vols. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) hartmann, franz, magic, white and black; or, the science of finite and infinite life, fourth edition, revised. cr. vo. _s._ the life of paracelsus, and the substance of his teachings. post vo. _s._ _d._ life and doctrines of jacob boehme: an introduction to the study of his works. post vo. _s._ _d._ hartmann, r., anthropoid apes. with illustrations. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) harvey, w. f., simplified grammar of the spanish language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ haug, m., essays on the sacred language, writings, and religion of the parsis. third edition. edited and enlarged by e. w. west. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) haweis, h. r., current coin. materialism--the devil--crime--drunkenness--pauperism--emotion--recreation--the sabbath. sixth edition. cr. vo. _s._ arrows in the air. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ speech in season. sixth edition. cr. vo. _s._ thoughts for the times. fourteenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ unsectarian family prayers. fourth edition. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ hawthorne, nathaniel, works. complete in vols. large post vo. _s._ _d_ each. (scarlet letter. new illustrated edition. post vo. _s._ _d._) head, barclay v., the numismata orientalia. part iii. the coinage of lydia and persia, from the earliest times to the fall of the dynasty of the achæmenidæ. with plates. royal to. paper wrapper, _s._ _d._ heales, major alfred, the architecture of the churches of denmark. vo. _s._ heath, francis george, autumnal leaves. with coloured plates. third and cheaper edition. vo. _s._ sylvan winter. with illustrations. _s._ heath, richard, edgar quinet: his early life and writings. with portraits, illustrations, and an autograph letter. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) hegel. lectures on the history of philosophy. translated by e. s. haldane. vols. vol. i. _s._ the introduction to hegel's philosophy of fine art, translated by bernard bosanquet. cr. vo. _s._ heidenhain, rudolph, hypnotism, or animal magnetism. with preface by g. j. romanes. second edition. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ heilprin, prof. a., bermuda islands. vo. _s._ geographical and geological distribution of animals. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) heine, h., religion and philosophy in germany. translated by j. snodgrass. post vo. _s._ (_philosophical library._) hendriks, dom lawrence, the london charterhouse: its monks and its martyrs. illustrated. vo. _s._ henslow, prof. g., origin of floral structures through insect and other agencies. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ hepburn, j. c., japanese and english dictionary. second edition. imp. vo. half-roan, _s._ japanese-english and english-japanese dictionary. third edition. royal vo. half-morocco, cloth sides, _s._ pocket edition, square l mo. _s._ hermes trismegistus, works. translated by j. d. chambers. post vo. _s._ _d._ the virgin of the world. translated and edited by the authors of 'the perfect way.' illustrations. to. imitation parchment, _s._ _d._ hershon, p. j., talmudic miscellany; or, one thousand and one extracts from the talmud, the midrashim, and the kabbalah. post vo. s. (_trübner's oriental series._) hillebrand, karl, france and the french in the second half of the th century. from the third german edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ hinton. life and letters of james hinton. with an introduction by sir w. w. gull, and portrait engraved on steel by c. h. jeens. sixth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ philosophy and religion. selections from the manuscripts of the late james hinton. edited by caroline haddon. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ the law-breaker and the coming of the law. edited by margaret hinton. cr. vo. _s._ the mystery of pain. new edition. fcp. vo. _s_. hirschfeld, h., arabic chrestomathy in hebrew characters. with a glossary. vo. _s._ _d._ hodgson, b. h., essays on the languages, literature, and religion of nepal and tibet. roy. vo. _s._ essays relating to indian subjects. vols. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) hodgson, j. e., academy lectures. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ holborow, a., evolution and scripture; with an inquiry into the nature of the scriptures and inspiration. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ holmes-forbes, a. w., the science of beauty: an analytical inquiry into the laws of Æsthetics. second edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ holmes, oliver wendell, john lothrop motley: a memoir. cr. vo. _s._ life of ralph waldo emerson. with portrait. english copyright edition. cr. vo. _s._ holtham, e. g., eight years in japan, - . with maps. large cr. vo. _s._ homer's iliad. greek text, with translation by j. g. cordery. vols. vo. _s._ translation only, cr. vo. _s._ hooper, mary, little dinners: how to serve them with elegance and economy. twenty-second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cookery for invalids, persons of delicate digestion, and children. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ every-day meals: being economical and wholesome recipes for breakfast, luncheon, and supper. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ hopkins, ellice, work amongst working men. sixth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ horatius flaccus, q., opera. edited by f. a. cornish. with frontispiece. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) hornaday, w. t., two years in a jungle. with illustrations. vo. _s._ taxidermy and zoological collecting; with chapters on collecting and preserving insects, by w. j. holland, d.d. with plates and illustrations. vo. _s._ _d._ hospitalier, e., the modern applications of electricity. translated and enlarged by julius maier. second edition, revised, with many additions and numerous illustrations. vols. vo. _s._ howard, h. c., christabel (concluded), with other poems. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ howe, henry marion, the metallurgy of steel. vol. i. second edition, revised and enlarged. royal to. £ . _s._ _d._ hulme, f. edward, mathematical drawing instruments, and how to use them. with illustrations. fifth edition, imperial mo, _s._ _d._ humboldt, baron w. von, the sphere and duties of government. from the german by j. coulthard. post vo, _s._ hunter, hay, and whyte, walter. my ducats and my daughter. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ husmann, g., american grape growing and wine making. illustrated. mo. _s._ _d._ hutchinson, a. b., the mind of mencius; or, political economy founded upon moral philosophy. a systematic digest of the doctrines of the chinese philosopher mencius. translated from the german of faber, with additional notes. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) hutchinson, colonel, and macgregor, major, military sketching and reconnaissance. fifth edition, with plates. sm. cr. vo. _s._ (_military handbooks._) huxley, prof. t. h., the crayfish: an introduction to the study of zoology. with illustrations. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) ihne, w., latin grammar for beginners. ahn's system. mo. _s._ im thurn, everard f., among the indians of guiana: sketches, chiefly anthropologic, from the interior of british guiana. with illustrations and a map. vo. _s._ ingelow, jean, off the skelligs: a novel. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ inman, james, nautical tables. designed for the use of british seamen. new edition, revised and enlarged. vo. _s._ ivanoff's russian grammar. sixteenth edition. translated, enlarged, and arranged for use of students by major w. e. gowan. vo. _s._ jacob, g. a., manual of hindu pantheism: the vedântasâra. third edition, post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) japp, alexander h., days with industrials: adventures and experiences among curious industries. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ jÄschke, h. a., tibetan grammar. prepared by dr. h. wenzell. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ jeaffreson, herbert h., magnificat: a course of sermons. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ jenkins, e., a modern paladin: contemporary manners. cr. vo. _s._ jenkins, e., and raymond, j., architect's legal handbook. fourth edition, revised. cr. vo. _s._ jenkins, jabez, vest-pocket lexicon. an english dictionary of all except familiar words, including the principal scientific and technical terms. mo. roan, _s._ _d._; cloth, _s._ jenkins, canon r. c., heraldry, english and foreign. with a dictionary of heraldic terms and illustrations. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ jennings, hargrave, the indian religions; or, results of the mysterious buddhism. vo. _s._ _d._ jessop, c. moore, past and future; or, fable and fact. cr. vo. _s._ jevons, w. stanley, money and the mechanism of exchange. ninth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) joel, l., consul's manual, and shipowner's and shipmaster's practical guide in their transactions abroad. vo. _s._ johns hopkins university studies in history and politics. edited by herbert b. adams. nine annual series, and nine extra volumes. vo. £ . _s._ also sold separately. johnson, j. b., theory and practice of surveying. designed for use of students in engineering. illustrated. second edition. vo. _s._ johnson, s. w., how crops feed: a treatise on the atmosphere and the soil as related to nutrition of plants. illustrated. cr. vo. _s._ how crops grow: a treatise on the chemical composition, structure, and life of the plant. illustrated. cr. vo. _s._ johnson, samuel, oriental religions and their relation to universal religion--persia. vo. _s._ oriental religions and their relation to universal religion--india. vols. _s._ (_philosophical library._) johnston, h. h., the kilima-njaro expedition: a record of scientific exploration in eastern equatorial africa. with maps and illustrations. vo. _s._ history of a slave. with illustrations. square vo. _s._ jolly, julius, naradiya dharma-sastra: or, the institutes of narada. translated from the sanskrit. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ manava-dharma-castra: the code of manu. original sanskrit text. with critical notes. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) joly, n., man before metals. with illustrations. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) joncourt, madame marie de, wholesome cookery. fifth edition. cr. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ judd, prof. j. w., volcanoes: what they are and what they teach. with illustrations on wood. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) kalender of shepherdes. facsimile reprint. with introduction and glossary by dr. h. oskar sommer. £ . _s._ net. karcher, thÉodore, questionnaire français: questions on french grammar, idiomatic difficulties, and military expressions. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._; interleaved with writing paper, _s._ _d._ karmarsch, karl, technological dictionary. fourth edition, revised. imp. vo. vols. vol. .--german-english-french, _s._ vol. .--english-german-french, _s._ vol. .--french-german-english, _s._ kaufmann, m., socialism: its nature, its dangers, and its remedies considered. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ utopias; or, schemes of social improvement, from sir thomas more to karl marx. cr. vo. _s._ christian socialism. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ kay, joseph, free trade in land. edited by his widow. with preface by right hon. john bright. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ cheap edition. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ keats, john, poetical works. edited by w. t. arnold. large cr. vo. choicely printed on hand-made paper, with etched portrait, vellum, _s._; parchment or cloth, _s._ cheap edition, crown vo, cloth, _s._ _d._ keble, j., christian year. with portrait. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) kelke, w. h. h., an epitome of english grammar. for the use of students. adapted to london matriculation course. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ kellogg, g. h., grammar of the hindi language. second edition, revised and enlarged. vo. _s._ kempis, thomas À, the imitation of christ. revised translation. elzevir vo. (_parchment library_), vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ red line edition, fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ cabinet edition, sm. vo. _s._ _d._; cloth limp, _s._ miniature edition, mo. with red lines, _s._ _d._; without red lines, _s._ a metrical version. by h. carrington. cr. vo. _s._ de imitatione christi. latin text, rhythmically arranged, with translation on opposite pages. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ kettlewell, s., thomas à kempis and the brothers of common life. with portrait. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ khayyÁm, omar, the quatrains of. persian text, with an english verse translation. post vo. _s._ _d._ translation only, _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) kidd, joseph, laws of therapeutics. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ kinahan, g. h., valleys and their relation to fissures, fractures, and faults. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ king, mrs. hamilton, the disciples. eleventh edition. elzevir vo. _s._ fourteenth edition. sm. vo. _s._ a book of dreams. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ sermon in the hospital (from 'the disciples'). fifth edition. fcp. vo. _s._ cheap edition, _d._ ballads of the north, and other poems. cr. vo. _s._ kingsford, anna, the perfect way in diet: a treatise advocating a return to the natural and ancient food of our race. sixth edition. sm. vo. _s._ spiritual hermeneutics of astrology and holy writ. illustrated. to. parchment, _s._ _d._ kingsford, anna, and maitland, edward, the virgin of the world of hermes mercurius trismegistus, rendered into english. to. imit. parchment, _s._ _d._ kingsford, w., history of canada. vols. vo. _s._ each. kistna, otto, buddha and his doctrines: a bibliographical essay. to. _s._ _d._ kitton, fred. g., john leech, artist and humourist: a biographical sketch. mo. _s._ knowles, j. hinton, folk-tales of kashmir. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) knox, a. a., the new playground; or, wanderings in algeria. new and cheaper edition. large cr. vo. _s._ kolbe, f. w., a language-study based on bantu: an inquiry into the laws of root-formation. vo. _s._ kramer, j., pocket dictionary of the dutch language. fifth edition. mo. _s._ krapf, l., dictionary of the suahili language. vo. _s._ kraus, j., carlsbad: its thermal springs and baths, and how to use them. fourth edition, revised and enlarged. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ kunz, g. f., gems and precious stones of north america. illustrated with coloured plates and numerous engravings. super-royal vo. £ . _s._ _d._ lagrange, f., physiology of bodily exercise. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) landon, joseph, school management; including a general view of the work of education, organisation, and discipline. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_education library._) lane, e. w., selections from the koran. new edition, with introduction by stanley lane-poole. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) lang, andrew, in the wrong paradise, and other stories. cr. vo. _s._ ballades in blue china. elzevir vo. _s._ rhymes à la mode. with frontispiece. fourth edition. elzevir vo. _s._ lost leaders. cr. vo. _s._ second edition. lange, prof. f. a., history of materialism, and criticism of its present importance. authorised translation by ernest c. thomas. fourth edition. vols. post vo. _s._ _d._ each. (_philosophical library._) lange, f. k. w., germania: a german reading-book. part i. anthology of prose and poetry, with vocabulary. part ii. essays on german history and institutions. vo. vols. _s._ _d._; separately, _s._ _d._ each. langstroth on the hive and honey bee. revised and enlarged edition. with numerous illustrations. vo. _s._ larmoyer, m. de, practical french grammar. cr. vo. new edition, in one vol. _s._ _d._ two parts, _s._ _d._ each. larsen, a., dano-norwegian dictionary. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ laurie, s. s., rise and early constitution of universities. with a survey of mediæval education. cr. vo. _s._ lee, g., manual of politics. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ lee, matthew henry, diaries and letters of philip henry, m.a., of broad oak, flintshire. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ lefevre, right hon. g. shaw, peel and o'connell. vo. _s._ _d._ incidents of coercion: a journal of visits to ireland. third edition. cr. vo. limp cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ irish members and english gaolers. cr. vo. limp cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ combination and coercion in ireland: sequel to 'incidents of coercion.' cr. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ leffmann, henry, and beam, w., examination of water for sanitary and technical purposes. second edition, revised and enlarged. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ legend of maandoo, the: a poem. with fifteen collotype plates. second edition. vo. _s._ _d._ legge, j., chinese classics. translated into english. popular edition. cr. vo. vol. i. life and teachings of confucius. th edition, _s._ _d._ vol. ii. works of mencius, _s._ vol. iii. she-king, or book of poetry, _s._ leland, c. g., breitmann ballads. the only authorised edition. including nineteen original ballads, illustrating his travels in europe. cr. vo. _s._ cheap edition, _s._ _d._ (_lotos series._) gaudeamus: humorous poems from the german of joseph victor scheffel and others. mo. _s._ _d._ english gipsies and their language. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ fu-sang; or, the discovery of america by chinese buddhist priests in the th century. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ pidgin-english sing-song; or, songs and stories in the china-english dialect. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ the gipsies. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ leopardi, giacomo, essays and dialogues. translated by charles edwardes, with biographical sketch. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) lesley, j. p., man's origin and destiny. sketches from the platform of the physical sciences. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ lessing, gotthold e., education of the human race. from the german by f. w. robertson. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ levi, prof. leone, international law, with materials for a code of international law. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) lewes, george henry, problems of life and mind. vo. series i. foundations of a creed. vols. _s._ series iii. the study of psychology. vols. _s._ _d._ the physical basis of mind. with illustrations. new edition, with prefatory note by prof. j. sully. large post vo. _s._ _d._ life's greatest possibility: an essay on spiritual realism. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ light on the path. for the personal use of those who are ignorant of the eastern wisdom. written down by m. c. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ lillie, arthur, popular life of buddha. containing an answer to the hibbert lectures of . with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ buddhism in christendom; or, jesus the essene. with illustrations. vo. _s._ lilly, w. s., characteristics from the writings of cardinal newman. selections from his various works. ninth edition. with portrait. cr. vo. _s._ linton, w. j., rare poems of the th and th centuries. cr. vo. _s._ linton, w. j., and stoddard, r. h., english verse. chaucer to burns--translations--lyrics of the nineteenth century--dramatic scenes and characters--ballads and romances. vols. cr. vo. _s._ each. lioy, diodato, the philosophy of right, with special reference to the principles and development of law. translated from the italian by w. hastie, b.d. vols. post vo. _s._ (_philosophical library._) locher, carl, explanation of organ stops. with hints for effective combinations. vo. _s._ locker, f., london lyrics. twelfth edition. with portrait. elzevir vo. _s._ lockyer, j. norman, studies in spectrum analysis. with photographic illustrations of spectra, and numerous engravings on wood. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_i.s.s._) lommel, dr. eugene, nature of light. with a general account of physical optics. with illustrations and a table of spectra in chromo-lithography. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) long, j., eastern proverbs and emblems, illustrating old truths. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) longfellow. life of h. wadsworth longfellow. by his brother. with portraits and illustrations. vols. vo. _s._ lonsdale, margaret, sister dora: a biography. with portrait. thirtieth edition. small vo. _s._ _d._ lovat, lady, seeds and sheaves: thoughts for incurables. cr. vo. _s._ lowder. charles lowder: a biography. by the author of 'st. teresa.' twelfth edition. with portrait. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ lowe, r. w., thomas betterton. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_eminent actors._) lowell, james russell, biglow papers. edited by thomas hughes, q.c. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ lubbock, sir john, ants, bees, and wasps: a record of observations on the habits of the social hymenoptera. with chromo-lithographic plates. tenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) on the senses, instincts, and intelligence of animals. with special reference to insects. with illustrations. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) a contribution to our knowledge of seedlings. with nearly figures in text. vols. vo. _s._ net. lÜckes, eva c. e., lectures on general nursing, delivered to the probationers of the london hospital training school for nurses. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ lukin, j., amateur mechanics' workshop: plain and concise directions for the manipulation of wood and metals. sixth edition. numerous woodcuts. vo. _s._ the lathe and its uses: or, instruction in the art of turning wood and metal. seventh edition. illustrated. vo. _s._ _d._ amongst machines: a description of various mechanical appliances used in the manufacture of wood, metal, &c. a book for boys. third edition. with engravings. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ the boy engineers: what they did, and how they did it. a book for boys. with engravings. third edition. imp. mo. _s._ _d._ the young mechanic: a book for boys. containing directions for the use of all kinds of tools, and for the construction of steam-engines and mechanical models, including the art of turning in wood and metal. seventh edition. with engravings. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ luys, j., the brain and its functions. with illustrations. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) lyall, sir alfred, verses written in india. second edition. elzevir vo. gilt top, _s._ lytton, earl of, life, letters, and literary remains of edward bulwer, lord lytton. with portraits, illustrations, and facsimiles. vo. vols. _s._ lucile. illustrated. mo. _s._ _d._ macaulay's essays on men and books: lord clive, milton, earl of chatham, lord byron. edited by alex. h. japp. pott vo. _s._ _d._ (_lotos series._) maccarthy, denis florence, calderon's dramas. translated by. post vo. _s._ macdonald, george, malcolm. with portrait of the author engraved on steel. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ castle warlock. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ there and back. with frontispiece. _s._ donal grant. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ home again. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ the marquis of lossie. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ st. george and st. michael. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ what's mine's mine. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ annals of a quiet neighbourhood. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ the seaboard parish: a sequel to 'annals of a quiet neighbourhood.' with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ wilfrid cumbermede: an autobiographical story. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ thomas wingfold, curate. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ paul faber, surgeon. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ new and cheaper edition, _s._ _d._ the elect lady. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ flight of the shadow. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ mcgrath, terence, pictures from ireland. new edition. cr. vo. _s._ machiavelli, niccolo, discourses on the first decade of titus livius. from the italian by n. hill thompson. large cr. vo. _s._ mackay, donald j., bishop forbes: a memoir. with portrait and map. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ mackay, eric, a lover's litanies, and other poems. with portrait of author. _s._ _d._ (_lotos series._) mac kenna, s. j., plucky fellows: a book for boys. with illustrations. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ mackonochie. alexander heriot mackonochie: a memoir. by e. a. t. edited, with preface, by e. f. russell. with portrait and views. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cheap edition, cr. vo. _s._ _d._ macmaster, j., the divine purpose of capital punishment. cr. vo. _s._ macneill, j. g. swift, how the union was carried. cr. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ madan, falconer, books in manuscript. with plates. post vo. _s._ net. (_books about books._) madden, f. w., coins of the jews; being a history of the jewish coinage and money in the old and new testaments. with woodcuts and a plate of alphabets. roy. to. £ . _s._ the numismata orientalia. vol. ii. coins of the jews. being a history of the jewish coinage, and money in the old and new testaments. with woodcuts and plate. royal to. £ . magnus, lady, about the jews since bible times. sm. cr. vo. _s._ magnus, sir philip, industrial education. cr. vo. _s._ (_education library._) maguire, w. r., domestic sanitary drainage and plumbing. vo. _s._ mahaffy, prof., old greek education. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_education library._) maimonides, guide of the perplexed. translated and annotated by m. friedlÄnder. vols. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) maisey, gen. f. c., sanchi and its remains. with introductory note by maj. gen. sir alex. cunningham, k.c.i.e. with plates. royal to. £ . _s._ malet, lucas, little peter: a christmas morality for children of any age. with numerous illustrations. fourth thousand. imp. mo. _s._ colonel enderby's wife. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ a counsel of perfection. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ mallet, right hon. sir louis, free exchange. papers on political and economical subjects, including chapters on the law of value and unearned increment. edited by bernard mallet. vo. _s._ manning. towards evening: selections from the writings of cardinal manning. fifth edition. with facsimile. mo. _s._ many voices. extracts from religious writers of christendom from the st to the th century. with biographical sketches. cr. vo. _s._ marchant, w. t., in praise of ale: songs, ballads, epigrams, and anecdotes. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ marey, prof. e. j., animal mechanism: a treatise on terrestrial and aerial locomotion. with illustrations. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) markham, capt. albert hastings, r.n., the great frozen sea: a personal narrative of the voyage of the _alert_ during the arctic expedition of - . with illustrations and maps. sixth and cheaper edition. cr. vo. _s._ marsden, j. pennington, the personal history of jim duncan: a chronicle of small beer. vols. _s._ _d._ marsden, william, numismata orientalia illustrata. plates of oriental coins, from the collection of the late william marsden, f.r.s., engraved from drawings made under his directions. to. _s._ _d._ martin, g. a., the family horse: its stabling, care, and feeding. cr. vo _s._ _d._ martineau, gertrude, outline lessons on morals. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ martineau, harriet, the positive philosophy of august comte. translated and condensed. new and cheaper edition. vols. large post vo. martineau, james, essays, philosophical and theological. vols. cr. vo. £ . _s._ mason, charlotte m., home education: a course of lectures to ladies. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ mason, capt. f. h., life and public service of james a. garfield, president u.s.a. with a preface by bret harte. portrait. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ mather, g., and blagg, c. j., bishop rawle: a memoir. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ mathers, s. l. m., the key of solomon the king. translated from ancient mss. in the british museum. with plates. cr. to. _s._ the kabbalah unveiled. containing the three books of the zohar, translated from the chaldee and hebrew text. post vo. _s._ _d._ the tarot: its occult signification, use in fortune-telling, and method of play. with pack of tarot cards, _s._; without the cards, _s._ _d._ matuce, h. ogram, a wanderer. cr. vo. _s._ maudsley, h., body and will: an essay concerning will, in its metaphysical, physiological, and pathological aspects. vo. _s._ natural causes and supernatural seemings. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ responsibility in mental disease. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) maxwell, w. e., manual of the malay language. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ mead, c. m., d.d., supernatural revelation: an essay concerning the basis of the christian faith. royal vo. _s._ meakin, j. e. budgett, introduction to the arabic of morocco. english-arabic vocabulary, grammar, notes, &c. fcp. vo. _s._ meditations on death and eternity. translated from the german by frederica rowan. published by her majesty's gracious permission. cr. vo. _s._ meditations on life and its religious duties. translated from the german by frederica rowan. published by her majesty's gracious permission. cr. vo. _s._ mendelssohn's letters to ignaz and charlotte moscheles. translated by felix moscheles. numerous illustrations and facsimiles. vo. _s._ merrill, g. p., stones for building and decoration. royal vo. _s._ meyer, g. hermann von, organs of speech and their application in the formation of articulate sounds. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) meynell, wilfrid, john henry newman, the founder of modern anglicanism, and a cardinal of the roman church. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ mill, john stuart, auguste comte and positivism. fourth edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) miller, edward, the history and doctrines of irvingism; or, the so-called catholic and apostolic church. vols. large post vo. _s._ miller, ellen e., alone through syria. with introduction by prof. a. h. sayce. with illustrations. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ millhouse, john, italian dictionary. vols. vo. _s._ manual of italian conversation. mo. _s._ mills, herbert, poverty and the state; or, work for the unemployed. cr. vo. _s._; cheap edition, limp cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ milne, j., earthquakes and other earth movements. with figures. third and revised edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) milton, john, prose writings. edited by e. myers. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) poetical works. vols. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) sonnets. edited by mark pattison. with portrait. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) mitchell, lucy m., history of ancient sculpture. with numerous illustrations: super-royal vo. _s._ mivart, st. george, on truth. vo. _s._ origin of human reason. vo. _s._ _d._ moltke, count von, notes of travel. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ moncel, count du, the telephone, the microphone, and the phonograph. with illustrations. rd edition. sm. vo. _s._ monier-williams, sir m., modern india and the indians: a series of impressions, notes, and essays. fifth edition. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) moore, aubrey l., essays, scientific and philosophical. with memoir of the author. cr. vo. _s._ lectures and papers on the history of the reformation in england and on the continent. vo. _s._ science and the faith: essays on apologetic subjects. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ moore, t. w., treatise and handbook of orange culture in florida, louisiana, and california. fourth edition enlarged. mo. _s._ morfill, w. r., simplified grammar of the polish language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ simplified serbian grammar. crown vo. _s._ _d._ morfit, campbell, manufacture of soaps. with illustrations. vo. £ . _s._ _d._ pure fertilizers, and the chemical conversion of rock guanos, &c, into various valuable products. with plates. vo. £ . _s._ morison, j. cotter, the service of man: an essay towards the religion of the future. cr. vo. _s._ morris. diary and letters of gouverneur morris, minister of the u.s. to france. with portraits. vols. vo. _s._ morris, henry, simplified grammar of the telugu language. with map of india showing telugu country. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ morris, lewis, poetical works. new and cheaper edition. vols. fcap. vo. _s._ each. songs of two worlds. fourteenth edition. fcap. vo. _s._ gwen, and the ode of life. ninth edition. fcap. vo. _s._ songs unsung, and gycia. fifth edition. fcap. vo. _s._ songs of britain. fourth edition. fcap. vo. _s._ a vision of saints. fourth edition. fcap. vo. _s._ poetical works. eighth thousand. in vol. cr. vo. _s._ cloth extra, gilt edges, _s._ _d._ the epic of hades. thirty-fifth thousand. fcap. vo. _s._ the epic of hades. with autotype illustrations, after the drawings of the late george r. chapman. to. cloth extra, gilt edges, _s._ the epic of hades. presentation edition. to. cloth extra, gilt edges, _s._ _d._ elzevir edition, _s._ ode on the marriage of h.r.h. the duke of york and h.s.h. princess victoria mary of teck, july , . royal to. hand-made paper, _s._ _d._ net. birthday book. edited by s. s. copeman. with frontispiece. mo. cloth extra, gilt edges, _s._; cloth limp, _s._ _d._ morse, e. s., first book of zoology. with numerous illustrations. new edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ morselli, prof. h., suicide: an essay on comparative moral statistics. second edition, with diagrams. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) mosenthal, j. de, and harting, james e., ostriches and ostrich farming. second edition. with full-page illustrations and woodcuts, royal vo. _s._ _d._ muir, john, original sanskrit texts, on the origin and history of the people of india. vols. vo. mythical and legendary accounts of the origin of caste. third edition. £ . _s._ also issued as a volume of _trübner's oriental series_, at the same price. the trans-himalayan origin of the hindus. second edition. £ . _s._ muir, john, the vedas. second edition. _s._ comparison of the vedic with the principal indian deities. second edition. £l. _s._ cosmogony, mythology, &c., of the indians in the vedic age. third edition. £ . _s._ metrical translations from sanskrit writers. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) mulhall, m. g. & e. t., handbook of the river plate, comprising the argentine republic, uruguay, and paraguay. with railway map. sixth edition. cr. vo. _s._ mulholland, rosa, marcella grace: an irish novel. cr. vo. _s._ a fair emigrant. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ mÜller, e., simplified grammar of the pali language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ mÜller, f. max, outline dictionary, for the use of missionaries, explorers, and students of language. mo. morocco, _s._ _d._ sacred hymns of the brahmins, as preserved in the oldest collection of religious poetry, the rig-veda-sanhita. vol. i. hymns to the maruts, or the storm-gods. vo. _s._ _d._ hymns of the rig-veda, in the sanhita and pada texts. vols. second edition. vo. £ . _s._ munchausen's travels and surprising adventures. illustrated by alfred crowquill. _s._ _d._ (_lotos series._) my lawyer; or, the people's legal adviser. a concise abridgement of and popular guide to the laws of england. by a barrister-at-law. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ naradiya dharma-sastra; or, the institutes of narada. translated by dr. julius jolly. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ newhouse, s., trapper's guide; a manual of instructions for capturing all kinds of fur-bearing animals, and curing their skins, &c. eighth, revised edition. vo. _s._ newman. characteristics from the writings of cardinal newman. selections from his various works, arranged by w. s. lilly. ninth edition. with portrait. cr. vo. _s._ **portrait of the late cardinal newman, mounted for framing, _s._ _d._ newman, f. w., miscellanies. vo. vol. i., chiefly addresses, academical and historical, _s._ _d._ a handbook of modern arabic. post vo. _s._ nicols, arthur, chapters from the physical history of the earth: an introduction to geology and palæontology. with numerous illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ nilsson, l. g., widmark, p. f., and collin, a. z., swedish dictionary. new edition. vo. _s._ noel, hon. roden, a modern faust, and other poems. sm. cr. vo. _s._ essays on poetry and poets. vo. _s._ noirit, jules, french course in ten lessons. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ french grammatical questions, for the use of gentlemen preparing for the army, civil service, oxford examinations, &c. cr. vo. _s._; interleaved, _s._ _d._ nops, m., class lessons on euclid. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ northall, g. f., english folk rhymes. a collection of traditional verses relating to places and persons, customs, superstitions, &c. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ notes on cavalry tactics, organisation, &c. by a cavalry officer. with diagrams. vo. _s._ nugent's french pocket dictionary. mo. _s._ numismata orientalia (the), royal to. in paper wrapper. part i. ancient indian weights, by e. thomas, with a plate and map, _s._ _d._ part ii. coins of the urtuki turkumáns, by s. lane poole, with plates, _s._ part iii. coinage of lydia and persia, by barclay v. head, with plates, _s._ _d._ part iv. coins of the tuluni dynasty, by e. t. rogers, with plate, _s._ part v. parthian coinage, by percy gardner, with plates, _s._ part vi. ancient coins and measures of ceylon, by t. w. rhys davids, with plate, _s._ vol. i. containing six parts, as specified above, half-bound, £ . _s._ _d._ vol. ii. coins of the jews: being a history of the jewish coinage in the old and new testaments. by f. w. madden. with woodcuts and plate. royal to. £ . vol. iii. part i. the coins of arakan, of pegu, and of burma. by lieut.-general sir arthur phayre. also contains the indian balhara, and the arabian intercourse with india in the ninth and following centuries. by edward thomas. with illustrations. royal to. _s._ _d._ vol. iii. part ii. the coins of southern india. by sir w. elliot. with map and plates. royal to. _s._ oates, frank, matabele land and the victoria falls: a naturalist's wanderings in the interior of south africa. edited by c. g. oates. with numerous illustrations and maps. second edition. vo. _s._ o'brien, r. barry, irish wrongs and english remedies, with other essays. cr. vo. _s._ home ruler's manual. cr. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ life and letters of thomas drummond, under-secretary in ireland, - . vo. _s._ o'clery, the, the making of italy, - . with sketch maps. vo. _s._ o'connell, mrs. morgan j., the last colonel of the irish brigade, count o'connell, and old irish life at home and abroad, - . vols. vo. _s._ o'connor, evangeline, index to shakspere's works. cr. vo. _s._ o'hagan, john, joan of arc: an historical essay. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ olcott, colonel, posthumous humanity: a study of phantoms, from the french of adolphe d'assier. with appendix and notes. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ theosophy, religion, and occult science, with glossary of eastern words. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ ollendorff. metodo para aprender a leer, escribir y hablar el inglés, segun el sistema de ollendorff. vo. _s._ _d._ key, _s._ metodo para aprender a leer, escribir y hablar el frances, segun el sistema de ollendorff. cr. vo. _s._ key, _s._ _d._ oman, f. g., swedish dictionary. cr. vo. _s._ o'meara, kathleen, henri perreyve and his counsels to the sick. sm. cr. vo. _s._ one-and-a-half in norway. by either and both. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ ottÉ e. c., dano-norwegian grammar: a manual for students of danish, based on the ollendorffian system. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ key, _s._ simplified grammar of the danish language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ simplified grammar of the swedish language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ owen, robert dale, footfalls on the boundary of another world. with narrative illustrations. post vo. _s._ _d._ debatable land between this world and the next. with illustrative narrations. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ threading my way: twenty-seven years of autobiography. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ packard, a. s., the labrador coast. a journal of two summer cruises to that region. with maps and illustrations. vo. _s._ palgrave, w. gifford, hermann agha: an eastern narrative. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ palmer, e. h., english-persian dictionary. with simplified grammar of the persian language. royal mo. _s._ _d._ persian-english dictionary. second edition. royal mo. _s._ _d._ simplified grammar of hindustani, persian, and arabic. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ papers relating to indo-china. reprinted from dalrymple's 'oriental repertory,' 'asiatic researches,' and the 'journal' of the asiatic society of bengal. post vo. vols. _s._ miscellaneous essays on subjects connected with the malay peninsula and the indian archipelago. from the journals of the royal asiatic, royal geographical societies, &c. edited by r. rost. with plates and a map. second series, vols. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) paravicini, frances de, early history of balliol college. vo. _s._ parker, g. w., concise grammar of the malagasy language. cr. vo. _s._ parker, theodore, discourse on matters pertaining to religion. people's edition. cr. vo. cloth, _s._; paper covers, _s._ _d._ collected works of theodore parker, minister of the twenty-eighth congregational society at boston, u.s., vols. cr. vo. _s._ each. parry, edward abbott, charles macklin. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_eminent actors._) parry, e. gambier, biography of reynell taylor, c.b., c.s.i. with portrait and map. vo. _s._ parsloe, joseph, our railways: sketches, historical and descriptive. with information as to fares and rates, &c. cr. vo. _s._ pascal, blaise, thoughts. translated by c. kegan paul. large cr. vo. parchment, _s._; vellum, _s._ cheap edition. cr. vo. _s._ paton, a. a., history of the egyptian revolution, from the period of the mamelukes to the death of mohammed ali. second edition. vols. vo. _s._ _d._ paul, alexander, short parliaments. history of national demand for frequent general elections. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ paul, c. kegan, faith and unfaith, and other essays. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ biographical sketches. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ confessio viatoris. fcp. vo. _s._ thoughts of blaise pascal. translated. large cr. vo. parchment, _s._; vellum, _s._ cheap edition, cr. vo. _s._ paul of tarsus. by the author of 'rabbi jeshua.' cr. vo. _s._ _d._ pauli, reinhold, simon de montfort, earl of leicester, the creator of the house of commons. cr. vo. _s._ pemberton, t. edgar, charles dickens and the stage: a record of his connection with the drama. cr. vo. _s._ perry, arthur latham, principles of political economy. large post vo. _s._ peschel, oscar, the races of man and their geographical distribution. second edition. large cr. vo. _s._ pettigrew, j. b., animal locomotion; or, walking, swimming, and flying. with illustrations. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) phayre, lieut.-gen. sir a., history of burma. including burma proper, pegu, taungu, tenasserim, and arakan, from the earliest time to the end of the first war with british india. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) phayre, lieut.-gen. sir a., and thomas, e., coins of arakan, of pegu, and of burma. with illustrations. royal to. _s._ _d._ (_numismata orientalia._) phillips, col. a. n., hindustani idioms. with vocabulary and explanatory notes. cr. vo. _s._ phillips, w., manual of british discomycetes. with descriptions of all the species of fungi hitherto found in britain included in the family, and illustrations of the genera. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) 'physicus,' candid examination of theism. third edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) picard, a., pocket dictionary of the dutch language. fifth edition. mo. _s._ pickford, john, maha-vira-charita; or, the adventures of the great hero rama. from the sanskrit of bhavabhÜti. cr. vo. _s._ piesse, c. h., chemistry in the brewing room: a course of lessons to practical brewers. fcp. vo. _s._ pilcher, j. e., first aid in illness and injury. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ plowright, c. b., british uredineæ and ustilagineæ. with illustrations. vo. _s._ _d._ plumptre, c. j., lectures on elocution, delivered at king's college. fourth edition. post vo. _s._ poe, edgar allan, poems. edited by andrew lang. with frontispiece. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) the raven. with commentary by john h. ingram. cr. vo. parchment, _s._ pole, w., philosophy of music. lectures delivered at the royal institution. third edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) pollen, john, rhymes from the russian. translations from the best russian poets. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ ponsard, f., charlotte corday: a tragedy. edited by professor c. cassal. fourth edition. mo. _s._ _d._ l'honneur et l'argent: a comedy. edited by professor c. cassal. fourth edition. mo. _s._ _d._ pontopiddan, henrik, the apothecary's daughters. translated from the danish by gordius nielsen. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ poole, stanley lane, the numismata orientalia. part ii. coins of the urtuki turkumáns. with plates. royal to. paper wrapper, _s._ poole, w. f., index to periodical literature. revised edition. royal vo. £ . _s._ _d._ net. first supplement, to . royal vo. £ net. second supplement, to . royal vo. £ net. posnett, h. m., comparative literature. crown vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) poulton, e. b., colours of animals: their meaning and use, especially considered in the case of insects. with coloured frontispiece and illustrations in text. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) practical guides, to see all that ought to be seen in the shortest period and at the least expense. th thousand, illustrated. sm. vo. paper covers. france, belgium, holland, and the rhine, _s._ italian lakes, _s._ wintering places of the south, _s._ switzerland, savoy, and north italy, _s._ _d._ general continental guide, _s._ geneva, _s._ paris, _s._ bernese oberland. _s._ italy, _s._ pratt, george, grammar and dictionary of the samoan language. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ pratt, lieut.-colonel s. c., field artillery: its equipment, organisation, and tactics. fourth edition. sm. cr. vo. _s._ (_military handbooks._) military law: its procedure and practice. seventh revised edition. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_military handbooks._) prel, carl du, philosophy of mysticism. translated from the german by c. c. massey. vols. vo. cloth, _s._ price, prof. bonamy, chapters on practical political economy. new edition. cr. vo. _s._ prig, the prigment: 'the life of a prig,' 'prig's bede,' 'how to make a saint,' 'black is white.' second edition. in vol. cr. vo. _s._ a romance of the recusants. cr. vo. _s._ dulce domum. fcap. vo. _s._ black is white; or, continuity continued. second edition. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ prig's bede: the venerable bede expurgated, expounded, and exposed. second edition. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ riches or ruin. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ egosophy. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ prior, matthew, selected poems. edited by austin dobson. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) prothero, g. w., henry bradshaw: a memoir, with portrait and facsimile. vo. _s._ psalms of the west. second edition. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ pulpit commentary, the (old testament series). edited by the very rev. dean h. d. m. spence, d.d., and the rev. j. s. exell. super royal vo. genesis, by the rev. t. whitelaw, d.d.; homilies by the very rev. j. f. montgomery, d.d., rev. prof. r. a. redford, rev. f. hastings, rev. w. roberts; introduction to the study of the old testament, by ven. archdeacon farrar, d.d.; introductions to the pentateuch, by the right rev. h. cotterill, d.d., and rev. t. whitelaw, d.d. ninth edition. _s._ exodus, by the rev. canon rawlinson; homilies by the rev. j. orr, d.d., rev. d. young, rev. c. a. goodhart, rev. j. urquhart, and the rev. h. t. robjohns. fifth edition. vols. _s._ each. leviticus, by the rev. prebendary meyrick; introductions by the rev. r. collins, rev. professor a. cave; homilies by the rev. prof. redford, rev. j. a. macdonald, rev. w. clarkson, rev. s. r. aldridge, and rev. mccheyne edgar. fifth edition. _s._ numbers, by the rev. r. winterbotham; homilies by the rev. prof. w. binnie, d.d., rev. e. s. prout, rev. d. young, rev. j. waite; introduction by the rev. thomas whitelaw, d.d. fifth edition. _s._ deuteronomy, by the rev. w. l. alexander, d.d.; homilies by the rev. c. clemance, d.d., rev. j. orr, d.d., rev. r. m. edgar, rev. j. d. davies. fourth edition. _s._ joshua, by the rev. j. j. lias; homilies by the rev. s. r. aldridge, rev. r. glover, rev. e. de pressensÉ, d.d., rev. j. waite, rev. w. f. adeney; introduction by the rev. a. plummer, d.d. sixth edition. _s._ _d._ judges and ruth, by the bishop of bath and wells, and rev. j. morison, d.d.; homilies by the rev. a. f. muir, rev. w. f. adeney, rev. w. m. statham, and rev. prof. j. thomson. fifth edition. _s._ _d._ and samuel, by the very rev. r. payne smith, d.d.; homilies by the rev. donald fraser, d.d., rev. prof. chapman, rev. b. dale, and rev. g. wood. seventh edition. vols. _s._ each. kings, by the rev. joseph hammond; homilies by the rev. e. de pressensÉ, d.d., rev. j. waite, rev. a. rowland, rev. j. a. macdonald, and rev. j. urquhart. fifth edition. _s._ kings, by the rev. canon rawlinson; homilies by the rev. j. orr, d.d., rev. d. thomas, d.d., and rev. c. h. irwin. second edition. _s._ chronicles, by the rev. prof. p. c. barker; homilies by the rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. r. tuck, rev. w. clarkson, rev. f. whitfield, and rev. richard glover. second edition. _s._ chronicles, by the rev. philip c. barker; homilies by the rev. w. clarkson and rev. t. whitelaw, d.d. second edition. _s._ ezra, nehemiah, and esther, by the rev. canon g. rawlinson homilies, by the rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. prof. r. a. redford, rev. w. s. lewis, rev. j. a. macdonald, rev. a. mackennal, rev. w. clarkson, rev. f. hastings, rev. w. dinwiddie, rev. prof. rowlands, rev. g. wood, rev. prof. p. c. barker, and the rev. j. s. exell. seventh edition. _s._ _d._ job, by the rev. canon g. rawlinson. homilies by the rev. t. whitelaw, d.d., the rev. prof. e. johnson, the rev. prof. w. f. adeney, and the rev. r. green. _s._ proverbs, by the rev. w. j. deane and the rev. s. t. taylor-taswell. homilies by the rev. prof. w. f. adeney, the rev. prof. e. johnson, and the rev. w. clarkson. second edition. _s._ ecclesiastes and song of solomon, by the rev. w. j. deane and rev. prof. r. a. redford. homilies by the rev. t. whitelaw, d. d., rev. b. c. caffin, rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. s. conway, rev. d. davies, rev. w. clarkson, and rev. j. willcock. _s._ isaiah, by the rev. canon g. rawlinson; homilies by the rev. prof. e. johnson, rev. w. clarkson, rev. w. m. statham, and rev. r. tuck. third edition. vols. _s._ each. jeremiah and lamentations, by the rev. canon t. k. cheyne, d.d.; homilies by the rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. w. f. adeney, rev. a. f. muir, rev. s. conway, rev. d. young, rev. j. waite. vols. fourth edition. _s._ each. ezekiel, by the very rev. e. h. plumptre, d.d. homilies by the rev. prof. w. f. adeney, the rev. prof. j. r. thomson, the rev. j. d. davies, the rev. w. jones, and the rev. w. clarkson. introduction by the rev. t. whitelaw, d.d. vols. _s._ _d._ each. hosea and joel, by the rev. prof. j. j. given, d.d.; homilies by the rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. a. rowland, rev. c. jerdan, rev. j. orr, d.d., and rev. d. thomas, d.d. second edition. _s._ amos, obadiah, jonah, and micah, by the rev. w. j. deane; homilies by the rev. j. edgar henry, rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. s. d. hillman, rev. a. rowland, rev. d. thomas, rev. a. c. thiselton, rev. e. s. prout, rev. g. t. coster, rev. w. g. blaikie. _s._ pulpit commentary, the (new testament series). edited by the very rev. h. d. m. spence, d.d., and rev. joseph s. exell. st. matthew, by the rev. a. l. williams. homilies by the rev. b. c. caffin, rev. prof. w. f. adeney, rev. p. c. barker, rev. m. dods, d.d., rev. j. a. macdonald, and rev. r. tuck. st. mark, by the very rev. dean e. bickersteth, d.d.; homilies by the rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. prof. j. j. given, d.d., rev. prof. e. johnson, rev. a. rowland, rev. a. f. muir, and rev. r. green. sixth edition. vols. _s._ _d._ each. st. luke, by the very rev. dean h. d. m. spence; homilies by the rev. j. marshall lang, d.d., rev. w. clarkson, and rev. r. m. edgar. second edition. vols. _s._ _d._ each. st. john, by the rev. prof. h. r. reynolds, d.d.; homilies by the rev. prof. t. croskery, d.d., rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. d. young, rev. b. thomas, and rev. g. brown. third edition. vols. _s._ each. the acts of the apostles, by the right rev. bishop of bath and wells; homilies by the rev. prof. p. c. barker, rev. prof. e. johnson, rev. prof. r. a. redford, rev. r. tuck, rev. w. clarkson. fifth edition. vols. _s._ _d._ each. romans, by the rev. j. barmby; homilies by rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. c. h. irwin, rev. t. f. lockyer, rev. s. r. aldridge, and rev. r. m. edgar. _s._ corinthians and galatians, by the ven. archdeacon farrar, d.d., and rev. prebendary e. huxtable; homilies by the rev. ex-chancellor lipscomb, rev. david thomas, d.d., rev. donald fraser, d.d., rev. r. tuck, rev. e. hurndall, rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. r. finlayson, rev. w. f. adeney, rev. r. m. edgar, and rev. t. croskery, d.d. vols. vol i., containing i. corinthians, fifth edition, _s._ vol. ii., containing corinthians and galatians, second edition, _s._ ephesians, philippians, and colossians, by the rev. prof. w. g. blaikie, d.d., rev. b. c. caffin, and rev. g. g. findlay; homilies by the rev. d. thomas, d.d., rev. r. m. edgar, rev. r. finlayson, rev. w. f. adeney, rev. prof. t. croskery, d.d., rev. e. s. prout, rev. canon vernon hutton, and rev. u. r. thomas, d.d. third edition. _s._ thessalonians, timothy, titus, and philemon, by the right rev. bishop of bath and wells, rev. dr. gloag, and rev. dr. eales; homilies by the rev. b. c. caffin, rev. r. finlayson, rev. prof. t. croskery, d.d., rev. w. f. adeney, rev. w. m. statham, and rev. d. thomas, d.d. second edition. _s._ hebrews and james, by the rev. j. barmby, and rev. prebendary e. c. s. gibson; homilies by the rev. c. jerdan and rev. prebendary e. c. s. gibson, rev. w. jones, rev. c. new, rev. d. young, rev. j. s. bright, and rev. t. f. lockyer. third edition. _s._ peter, john, and jude, by the rev. b. c. caffin, rev. a. plummer, d.d., and rev. prof. s. d. f. salmond, d.d.; homilies by the rev. a. maclaren, d.d., rev. c. clemance, d.d., rev. prof. j. r. thomson, rev. c. new, rev. u. r. thomas, rev. r. finlayson, rev. w. jones, rev. prof. t. croskery, d.d., and rev. j. s. bright, d.d. second edition. _s._ revelation. introduction by the rev. t. randell, principal of bede college, durham. exposition by the rev. a. plummer, d.d., assisted by rev. t. randell and a. t. bott. homilies by the rev. c. clemance, d.d., rev. s. conway, rev. r. green, and rev. d. thomas, d.d. second edition. _s._ pusey. sermons for the church's seasons from advent to trinity. selected from the published sermons of the late edward bouverie pusey, d.d. cr. vo. _s._ pye, w., surgical handicraft: a manual of surgical manipulations, &c. with illustrations. third edition, revised and edited by t. h. r. crowle. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ elementary bandaging and surgical dressing, for the use of dressers and nurses. twelfth thousand. mo. _s._ public schools (our): eton, harrow, winchester, rugby, westminster, marlborough, and the charterhouse. cr. vo. _s._ quatrefages, prof. a. de, the human species. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) quincey, de, confessions of an english opium eater. edited by richard garnett. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) ralston, w. r. s., tibetan tales, derived from indian sources. done into english from the german of f. anton von schiefner. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) rare poems of the th and th centuries. edited by w. j. linton. cr. vo. _s._ rask, erasmus, grammar of the anglo-saxon tongue. from the danish, by b. thorpe. third edition. post vo, _s._ _d._ reade, winwood, the martyrdom of man. fourteenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ reaney, mrs. g. s., waking and working; or, from girlhood to womanhood. new and cheaper edition, with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ blessing and blessed: a sketch of girl life. new and cheaper edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ rose gurney's discovery: a story for girls, dedicated to their mothers. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ english girls: their place and power. with preface by the rev. r. w. dale. fifth edition. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ just anyone, and other stories. with illustrations. mo. _s._ _d._ sunbeam willie, and other stories. with illustrations. mo. _s._ _d._ sunshine jenny, and other stories. with illustrations. mo. _s._ _d._ redhouse, j. w., simplified grammar of the ottoman-turkish language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ turkish vade-mecum of ottoman colloquial language. english-turkish and turkish-english, the whole in english characters, the pronunciation being fully indicated. third edition. mo. _s._ the mesnevi (usually known as the mesnev[=i]yi sher[=i]f, or holy mesnev[i]) of mevl[=a]n[=a] (our lord) jel[=a]lu'd-din muhammed er-r[=u]mi. illustrated by a selection of characteristic anecdotes. post vo. £ . _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) history, system, and varieties of turkish poetry. illustrated by selections in the original english paraphrase. vo. _s._ _d._ tentative chronological synopsis of the history of arabia and its neighbours, from b.c. , (?) to a.d. . vo. _s._ rees, j. d., h.r.h. the duke of clarence and avondale in southern india. with a narrative of elephant catching in mysore, by g. p. sanderson. with map, portraits, and illustrations. medium vo. _s._ _d._ lord connemara's tours in india, - . vo. _s._ renan, ernest, age and antiquity of the book of nabathæan agriculture. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ life of jesus. cr. vo. _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ the apostles. cr. vo. _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ rendell, j. m., handbook of the island of madeira. with plan and map. second edition. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ reynolds, j. w., the supernatural in nature: a verification by free use of science. third edition, revised and enlarged. vo. _s._ mystery of the universe our common faith. vo. _s._ mystery of miracles. third edition, enlarged. cr. vo. _s._ the world to come: immortality a physical fact. cr. vo. _s._ reynolds, sir joshua, discourses. edited by e. gosse. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) rhoidis, emmanuel, pope joan: an historical study. from the greek by c. h. collÉtte. mo. _s._ _d._ rhys, john, lectures on welsh philology. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ ribot, prof. th., diseases of memory: an essay in the positive psychology. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) heredity: a psychological study of its phenomena, laws, causes, and consequences. second edition. large cr. vo. _s._ english psychology. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ richard, ap, marriage and divorce. including the religious, practical, and political aspects of the question. cr. vo. _s._ richardson, austin, 'what are the catholic claims?' with introduction by rev. luke rivington. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ richardson, m. t., practical blacksmithing. with illustrations. vols. cr. vo. _s._ each. practical horse-shoer. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ richter, prof. victor von, text-book of inorganic chemistry. authorised translation. by edgar f. smith. third american edition, from the fifth german edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ chemistry of the carbon compounds; or, organic chemistry. authorised translation. by edgar f. smith. second american edition, from the sixth german edition. cr. vo. _s._ riola, henry, how to learn russian: a manual for students. based upon the ollendorffian system. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ key, _s._ russian reader. with vocabulary. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ rivington, luke, authority; or, a plain reason for joining the church of rome. sixth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ dependence; or, the insecurity of the anglican position. cr. vo. _s._ the english martyrs. sewed, _d._ the church visible. sewed, _d._ the appeal to history: a letter to the bishop of lincoln. sewed, _d._ roberts, h., grammar of the khassi language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ robertson, f. w., life and letters. edited by stopford brooke. i. library edition. with portrait. vo. _s._ ii. two vols. with portrait. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ iii. popular edition. cr. vo. _s._ sermons. vols. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ each. notes on genesis. new and cheaper edition. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ st. paul's epistles to the corinthians: expository lectures. new edition. sm. vo. _s._ lectures and addresses. with other literary remains. new edition. sm. vo. _s._ analysis of tennyson's 'in memoriam.' dedicated by permission to the poet-laureate. fcp. vo. _s._ education of the human race. translated from the german of gotthold ephraim lessing. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ **portrait of the late rev. f. w. robertson, mounted for framing, _s._ _d._ robinson, a. mary f., the fortunate lovers. twenty-seven novels of the queen of navarre. frontispiece by g. p. jacomb hood. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ the crowned hippolytus. sm. cr. vo. _s._ robinson, e. forbes, the early history of coffee houses in england. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ roche, a., french grammar. adopted by the imperial council of public instruction. cr. vo. _s._ prose and poetry, from english authors. for reading, composition, and translation. second edition. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ rockhill, w. w., life of the buddha and the early history of his order. derived from tibetan works in the bkah-hgyur and the bstan-hgyur. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) udanavarga: a collection of verses from the buddhist canon. compiled by dharmatrÂta and translated from the tibetan. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) rodd, e. h., birds of cornwall and the scilly islands. edited by j. e. harting. with portrait and map. vo. _s._ rogers, e. t., the numismata orientalia. part iv. the coins of the tulun dynasty. with plate. royal to. paper wrapper, _s._ rogers, william, reminiscences. compiled by r. h. hadden. with portrait. cr. vo. _s._; cheap edition, _s._ _d._ romanes, g. j., mental evolution in animals. with posthumous essay on instinct by charles darwin. vo. _s._ mental evolution in man: origin of the human faculty. vo. _s._ animal intelligence. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) jelly-fish, star-fish, and sea-urchins: being a research on primitive nervous systems. with illustrations. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) rood, ogden n., colour: a text-book of modern chromatics. with applications to art and industry. with original illustrations. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) root, a. i., the a b c of bee culture. a cyclopædia of everything pertaining to the care of the honey bee. illustrated. royal vo. _s._ _d._ roosevelt, blanche, victorien sardon: a personal study. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ roosevelt, theodore, hunting trips of a ranchman. with illustrations. royal vo. _s._ rosenthal, prof. j., general physiology of muscles and nerves. third edition. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) rosing, s., danish dictionary. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ ross, janet, italian sketches. with full-page illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ ross, percy, a professor of alchemy. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ ross, lieut.-col. w. a., alphabetical manual of blowpipe analysis. cr. vo. _s._ pyrology, or fire chemistry. sm. to. _s._ routledge, canon c. f., history of st. martin's church, canterbury. cr. vo. _s._ routledge, james, english rule and native opinion in india. vo. _s._ _d._ rowley, a. c., the christ in the two testaments. with an introduction by the bishop of lincoln. cr. vo. _s._ rule, martin, life and times of st. anselm, archbishop of canterbury and primate of the britains. vols. vo. _s._ st. clair, george, buried cities and bible countries. second edition. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ saintsbury g., specimens of english prose style from malory to macaulay. selected and annotated. with introductory essay. large cr. vo. printed on hand-made paper. vellum, _s._; parchment antique or cloth, _s._ salaman, j. s., trade marks: their registration and protection. cr. vo. _s._ salmonÉ, h. a., arabic-english dictionary, comprising about , arabic words, with english index of about , words. vols. post vo. _s._ samuelson, james, bulgaria, past and present: historical, political, and descriptive. with map and numerous illustrations. vo. _s._ _d._ sandwith, f. m., egypt as a winter resort. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ santiagoe, daniel, curry cook's assistant. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ sayce, a. h., introduction to the science of language. new and cheaper edition. vols. cr. vo. _s._ the principles of comparative philology. fourth edition, revised and enlarged. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ scannell, thomas b., and wilhelm, joseph, d.d., manual of catholic theology, based on scheeben's 'dogmatik.' vol. i. _s._ schaw, col. h., defence and attack of positions and localities. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ schlagintweit, emil, buddhism in tibet. illustrated by literary documents and objects of religious worship. with plates. vols. roy. vo. and folio, £ . _s._ schleicher, august, comparative grammar of the indo-european, sanskrit, greek, and latin languages. from the third german edition by h. bendall. vo. _s._ _d._ schleiermacher, f., on religion: speeches to its cultured despisers. translated, with introduction, by j. oman. vo. _s._ _d._ schmidt, prof. o., doctrine of descent and darwinism. with illustrations. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) mammalia in their relation to primeval times. with woodcuts. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) schooling, j. holt, handwriting and expression: a study of written gesture, with facsimile reproductions of the handwritings of men and women of various nationalities. translated. vo. _s._ schopenhauer, a., the world as will and idea. from the german by r. b. haldane and j. kemp. third edition. vols. post vo. £ . _s._ (_philosophical library._) schÜtzenberger, prof., fermentation. with illustrations. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) schwendler, louis, instructions for testing telegraph lines. vols. vo. _s._ scoones, w. b., four centuries of english letters: a selection of letters by writers, from the period of the paston letters to the present time. third edition. large cr. vo. _s._ scott, james george, burma as it was, as it is, and as it will be. cheap edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ scott, robert h., elementary meteorology. fifth edition. with numerous illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) sedding, john d., gardencraft, old and new. with memorial notice by the rev. e. f. russell. illustrations. second edition. vo. _s._ art and handicraft. six essays. vo. _s._ _d._ selby, h. m., shakespeare classical dictionary; or, mythological allusions in the plays of shakespeare explained. fcap. vo. _s._ semper, karl, natural conditions of existence as they affect animal life. with maps and woodcuts. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) serjeant, w. c. eldon, the astrologer's guide (anima astrologiæ). vo. _s._ _d._ severne, florence, the pillar house. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ seymour, w. digby, home rule and state supremacy. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ shakspere. works. avon edition. in one volume. with glossarial index. super roy. vo. _s._ _d._ works. avon edition. vols. elzevir vo. (_parchment library_), vellum, _s._ _d._ per vol.; parchment or cloth, _s._ per vol.; cheap edition, _s._ _d._ per vol. **the cheap edition may also be had complete, vols. in cloth box, _s._, or bound in vols. _s._ works. new variorum edition. edited by horace howard furness. roy. vo. vol. i. romeo and juliet, _s._ vol. ii. macbeth, _s._ vols. iii. and iv. hamlet, vols. _s._ vol. v. king lear, _s._ vol. vi. othello, _s._ vol. vii. merchant of venice, _s._ vol. viii. as you like it, _s._ concordance to shakspere's poems. by mrs. furness. roy. vo. _s._ sonnets. edited by edward dowden. with frontispiece. elzevir vo. (_parchment library_), vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ shaw, flora l., castle blair: a story of youthful days. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ shaw, lieut.-col. wilkinson, elements of modern tactics practically applied to english formations. seventh edition. with plates and maps. small cr. vo. _s._ (_military handbooks._) shelley. life of p. b. shelley. by edward dowden, ll.d. with portraits. vols. vo. _s._ poems. edited, with preface, by richard garnett. frontispiece. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) select letters. edited by richard garnett. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) shore. journal of emily shore. with portrait and facsimile. cr. vo. _s._ sibree, james, the great african island, madagascar: its physical geography, &c. with maps and illustrations. vo. _s._ _d._ sidgwick, a., fallacies: a view of logic from the practical side. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) sidney, sir philip, knt., the countess of pembroke's arcadia. edited by h. oskar sommer. the original to. edition ( ) in photographic facsimile, with bibliographical introduction. £ . _s._ simcox, edith, episodes in the lives of men, women, and lovers. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ natural law: an essay in ethics. second edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library._) sime, james, lessing: his life and writings. second edition, with portraits. vols. post vo. _s._ (_philosophical library._) simonnÉ, metodo para aprender a leer escribir y hablar el frances, segun el verdadero sistema de ollendorff. cr. vo. _s._ key, _s._ _d._ simpson, m. c. m., letters and recollections of julius and mary mohl. with portraits and illustrations. vo. _s._ singer, i., simplified grammar of the hungarian language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ sinnett, a. p., the occult world. sixth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ incidents in the life of madame blavatsky. with portrait. vo. _s._ _d._ the rationale of mesmerism. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ sister augustine, superior of the sisters of charity at the st. johannis hospital at bonn. translated by hans tharau. cheap edition. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ skinner. james skinner: a memoir. by the author of 'charles lowder.' with preface by the rev. canon carter, and portrait. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ cheap edition, cr. vo. _s._ _d._ smith, a. h., chinese characteristics. vo. _s._ _d._ smith, e., foods. with numerous illustrations. ninth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) smith, edgar f., electro-chemical analysis. with illustrations. square mo. _s._ smith, h. percy, glossary of terms and phrases. cheap edition. medium vo. _s._ _d._ smith, hamilton, hydraulics: the flow of water through orifices, over weirs, and through open conduits and pipes. with plates. royal to. _s._ smith, huntington, a century of american literature: benjamin franklin to james russell lowell. cr. vo. _s._ smith, james c., the distribution of the produce. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ smith, l. a., the music of the waters: sailors' chanties and working songs of the sea. words and music. vo. _s._ smith, m., and horneman, h., norwegian grammar. with a glossary for tourists. post vo. _s._ smyth, r. brough, the aborigines of victoria. compiled for the government. with maps, plates, and woodcuts. vols. royal vo. £ . _s._ sophocles. the seven plays in english verse. translated by prof. lewis campbell. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ spanish mystics. by the editor of 'many voices.' cr. vo. _s._ specimens of english prose style from malory to macaulay. selected and annotated. with an introductory essay by george saintsbury. large cr. vo, printed on hand-made paper, vellum, _s._; parchment antique or cloth, _s._ spencer, herbert, study of sociology. fifteenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) spinoza. life, correspondence, and ethics of spinoza. by r. willis. vo. _s._ sprague, charles e., handbook of volapük, the international language. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ stallo, j. b., concepts and theories of modern physics. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) stanhope, the british army and our defensive position in . preface by rt. hon. e. stanhope. cr. vo. _s._ starcke, c. n., the primitive family in its origin and development. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) stebbing, t. r. r., the naturalist of cumbrae: a true story, being the life of david robertson. cr. vo. _s._ a history of crustacea. recent malacostraca. with numerous illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) steele, th., an eastern love-story: kusa játakaya. cr. vo. _s._ stevenson, w. fleming, hymns for the church and home. mo. _s._ stewart, balfour, conservation of energy. with illustrations. seventh edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) stone, j. m., faithful unto death: an account of the sufferings of the english franciscans during the th and th centuries. with preface by rev. j. morris, s.j. vo. _s._ _d._ storr, f., and turner, h., canterbury chimes; or, chaucer tales retold to children. with illustrations from the ellesmere manuscript. third edition. fcap. vo. _s._ _d._ strachey, sir john, india. with map. vo. _s._ strahan, s. a. k., marriage and disease. a study of heredity and the more important family degenerations. cr. vo. _s._ stray papers on education, and scenes from school life. by b. h. second edition. sm. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ strecker, adolph, text-book of organic chemistry. edited by prof. wislicenus. translated and edited, with extensive additions, by w. r. hodgkinson and a. j. greenaway. second and cheaper edition. vo. _s._ _d._ street, j. c., the hidden way across the threshold; or, the mystery which hath been hidden for ages and from generations. with plates. large vo. _s._ stretton, hesba, david lloyd's last will. with illustrations. new edition. royal mo, _s._ _d._ through a needle's eye; a story. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ sully, james, pessimism: a history and a criticism. second edition. vo. _s._ _d._ illusions: a psychological study. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) swinburne, algernon charles, a word for the navy. (only copies printed.) imperial mo. paper covers, _s._ swinburne. bibliography of a. c. swinburne, - . cr. vo. vellum gilt, _s._ symonds, john addington, vagabunduli libellus. cr. vo. _s._ swift, jon., letters and journals. edited by stanley lane-poole. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) prose writings. edited by stanley lane-poole. with portrait. elzevir vo. vellum, _s._ _d._; parchment or cloth, _s._ (_parchment library._) tarring, c. j., elementary turkish grammar. cr. vo. _s._ 'tasma,' a sydney sovereign, and other tales. crown vo. cloth, _s._ in her earliest youth. cheap edition. cr. vo. _s._ taylor, col. meadows, seeta: a novel. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ tippoo sultaun: a tale of the mysore war. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ ralph darnell. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ a noble queen. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ the confessions of a thug. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ tara: a mahratta tale. with frontispiece. crown vo. _s._ taylor, canon isaac, the alphabet: an account of the origin and development of letters. with numerous tables and facsimiles. vols. vo. _s._ leaves from an egyptian note-book. cr. vo. _s._ taylor, r. whateley cooke, the modern factory system. vo. _s._ taylor, sir h., works. vols. cr. vo. _s._ philip van artevelde. fcap. vo. _s._ _d._ the virgin widow, &c. fcap. vo. _s._ _d._ the statesman. fcap. vo. _s._ _d._ technological dictionary of the terms employed in the arts and sciences (architecture, engineering, mechanics, shipbuilding and navigation, metallurgy, mathematics, &c.), with preface by karl kamarsch. fourth revised edition. vols. imperial vo. vol. i. german-english-french. _s._ vol. ii. english-german-french. _s._ vol. iii. french-german-english. _s._ thackeray, s. w., the land and the community. crown vo. _s._ _d._ thackeray, w. m., essay on the genius of george cruickshank. reprinted verbatim from the _westminster review_. with illustrations. royal vo. _s._ _d._ sultan stork, and other stories and sketches, - , now first collected; to which is added the bibliography of thackeray. large vo. _s._ _d._ thom, j. hamilton, laws of life after the mind of christ. two series. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ each. thomas, e., the numismata orientalia. part i. ancient indian weights. with plate and map of the india of manu. royal to. paper wrapper, _s._ _d._ thompson, e. maunde, handbook of greek and latin palæography. with numerous facsimiles. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) thompson, sir h., diet in relation to age and activity. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ modern cremation. second edition, revised and enlarged. cr. vo. _s._; paper covers, _s._ through north wales with a knapsack. by four schoolmistresses. with a sketch map. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ thurston, prof. r. h., history of the growth of the steam engine. with numerous illustrations. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) manual of the steam engine. for engineers and technical schools. parts i. and ii. royal vo. _s._ _d._ each part. tiele, prof. c. p., outlines of the history of religion to the spread of the universal religions. from the dutch by j. estlin carpenter. fifth edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_philosophical library, and trübner's oriental series._) history of the egyptian and mesopotamian religions. translated by j. ballingal. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) tirard, h. m. and n., sketches from a nile steamer, for the use of travelers in egypt. with map and numerous illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ tisdall, w. st. clair, simplified grammar and reading book of the panj[=a]b[=i] language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ simplified grammar of the gujaroti language. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ tolstoi, count leo, christ's christianity. translated from the russian. large cr. vo. _s._ _d._ torceanu, r., simplified grammar of the roumanian language. cr. vo. _s._ torrend, j., comparative grammar of the south african bantu languages, comprising those of zanzibar, mozambique, the zambezi, kafir-land, benguela, angola, the congo, the ogowe, the cameroons, the lake region, &c. super-royal vo. _s._ trant, william, trade unions: their origin, objects, and efficacy. sm. vo. _s._ _d._; paper covers, _s._ trench. letters and memorials of archbishop trench. by the author of 'charles lowder.' with portraits. vols. vo. _s._ trench, archbishop, english past and present. fourteenth edition, revised and improved. fcp. vo. _s._ on the study of words. twenty-third edition, revised. fcp. vo. _s._ notes on the parables of our lord. fifteenth edition. vo. _s._; cheap edition, st thousand, _s._ _d._ notes on the miracles of our lord. twelfth edition. vo. _s._; cheap edition, fourteenth edition, _s._ _d._ trench, archbishop, household book of english poetry. fifth edition, revised. extra fcp. vo. _s._ essay on the life and genius of calderon. with translations from his 'life's a dream' and 'great theatre of the world.' second edition, revised and improved. extra fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ gustavus adolphus in germany, and other lectures on the thirty years' war. fourth edition, enlarged. fcp. vo. _s._ plutarch: his life, his lives, and his morals. second edition, enlarged. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ remains of the late mrs. richard trench. being selections from her journals, letters, and other papers. edited by her son, archbishop trench. new and cheaper edition. with portraits. vo. _s._ lectures on mediæval church history. being the substance of lectures delivered at queen's college, london. nd edition, vo. _s._ poems. eleventh edition. fcp. vo. _s._ _d._ library edition. vols. sm. vo. _s._ proverbs and their lessons. eighth edition, enlarged. fcp. vo. _s._ sacred latin poetry, chiefly lyrical. third edition, corrected and improved. fcp. vo. _s._ select glossary of english words used formerly in senses different from their present. seventh edition, revised and enlarged. fcp. vo. _s._ brief thoughts and meditations on some passages in holy scripture. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ commentary on the epistles to the seven churches in asia. fifth edition, revised. vo. _s._ _d._ on the authorised version of the new testament. second edition. vo. _s._ sermons new and old. cr. vo. _s._ westminster and other sermons. cr. vo. _s._ the sermon on the mount: an exposition drawn from the writings of st. augustine. fourth edition, enlarged. vo. _s._ _d._ shipwrecks of faith: three sermons preached before the university of cambridge. fcap. vo. _s._ _d._ studies in the gospels. fifth edition, revised. vo. _s._ _d._ synonyms of the new testament. eleventh edition, enlarged. vo. _s._ trench, major-general, cavalry in modern war. sm. cr. vo. _s._ (_military handbooks._) trimen, roland, south african butterflies: a monograph of the extra-tropical species. with coloured plates. vols. vo. £ . _s._ _d._ trouessart, e. l., microbes, ferments, and moulds. with illustrations. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) trowbridge, j. m., the cider maker's handbook: a complete guide for making and keeping pure cider. illustrated. cr. vo. _s._ trÜbner's bibliographical guide to american literature. from to . vo. half-bound, _s._ catalogue of dictionaries and grammars of the principal languages and dialects of the world. second edition. vo. _s._ trumbull, h. clay, the blood-covenant: a primitive rite and its bearings on scripture. post vo. _s._ _d._ turner, c. e., count tolstoï, as novelist and thinker. lectures delivered at the royal institution. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ modern novelists of russia. lectures delivered at the taylor institution, oxford. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ tyll owlglass' marvellous and rare conceits. translated by kenneth mackenzie. illustrated by alfred crowquill. _s._ _d._ (_lotos series._) tynan, katharine, louise de la vallière, and other poems. sm. vo. _s._ _d._ shamrocks. sm. cr. vo. _s._ ballads and lyrics. sm. cr. vo. _s._ a nun: her friends and her order. being a sketch of the life of mother mary xaveria fallon. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ tyndall, j., forms of water: in clouds and rivers, ice and glaciers. with illustrations. tenth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) tyrrell, walter, nervous exhaustion: its causes, outcomes, and treatment. cr. vo. _s._ umlauft, prof. f., the alps. translated by louisa brough. with illustrations. vo. _s._ under king constantine. cr. vo. _s._ van eys, w., outlines of basque grammar. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ van laun, h., grammar of the french language. cr. vo. accidence and syntax, _s._; exercises, _s._ _d._ velasquez, m. de la cadena, dictionary of the spanish and english languages. for the use of young learners and travellers. cr. vo. _s._ pronouncing dictionary of the spanish and english languages. royal vo. £ . _s._ new spanish reader. passages from the most approved authors, with vocabulary. post vo. _s._ introduction to spanish conversation. mo. _s._ _d._ velasquez and simonnÉ, new method of learning the spanish language. adapted to ollendorff's system. revised and corrected by senor vivar. post vo. _s._; key, _s._ vieyra's pocket dictionary of the portuguese and english languages. vols. post vo. _s._ vignoli, tito, myth and science: an essay. third edition. with supplementary note. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) vincent, frank, around and about south america. twenty months of quest and query. with maps, plans, and illustrations. medium vo. _s._ virgil. the georgics of virgil. translated into english verse by j. rhoades. sm. cr. vo. second edition, _s._ _d._ ogel, hermann, chemistry of light and photography. with illustrations. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) volckxsom, e. w. von, catechism of elementary modern chemistry. sm. cr. vo. _s._ wagner. richard wagner's prose works. translated by w. ashton ellis. vol. i.: the art work of the future &c. vo. _s._ _d._ waite, a. e., lives of alchemystical philosophers. vo. _s._ _d._ magical writings of thomas vaughan. sm. to. _s._ _d._ real history of the rosicrucians. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ mysteries of magic: a digest of the writings of eliphas lévi. with illustrations. vo. _s._ _d._ the occult sciences. cr. vo. _s._ wake, c. s., serpent-worship, and other essays. with a chapter on totemism. vo. _s._ _d._ development of marriage and kinship. vo. _s._ wallace, alfred russell, miracles and modern spiritualism. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ wallace, wilfrid, life of st. edmund of canterbury from original sources. with five illustrations and map. vo. _s._ walpole, c. g., short history of ireland. with maps and appendices. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ walshe, w. h., dramatic singing physiologically estimated. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ wanklyn, j. a., milk analysis: a practical treatise on the examination of milk and its derivatives, cream, butter, and cheese. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ tea, coffee, and cocoa: a practical treatise on the analysis of tea, coffee, cocoa, chocolate, and maté (paraguay tea). cr. vo. _s._ wanklyn, j. a., and cooper, w. j., bread analysis: a practical treatise on the examination of flour and bread. cr. vo. _s._ air analysis: a practical treatise. with appendix on illuminating gas. cr. vo. _s._ wanklyn, j. a., and chapman, e. t., water analysis: a treatise on the examination of potable water. eighth edition. entirely re-written. cr. vo. _s._ ward, bernard, history of st. edmund's college, old hall (ware). with illustrations. vo. _s._ _d._ ward, h. marshall. the oak: a popular introduction to forest botany. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ (_modern science series._) ward, w. g., essays on the philosophy of theism. edited, with an introduction, by wilfrid ward. vols. vo. _s._ warner, prof. f., physical expression: its modes and principles. with illustrations. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) warter, j. w., an old shropshire oak. vols. vo. _s._ waterhouse, col. j., preparation of drawings for photographic reproduction. with plates. cr. vo. _s._ watson, john forbes, index to the native and scientific names of indian and other eastern economic plants and products. imp. vo. £ . _s._ _d._ watson, r. g., spanish and portuguese south america during the colonial period. vols. post vo. _s._ weaver, f. w., wells wills. arranged in parishes, and annotated. vo. _s._ _d._ weber, a., history of indian literature. from the german by j. mann and t. zachariae. third edition. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) wedding's basic bessemer process. translated from the german by w. b. phillips and ernst prochaska. roy. vo. _s._ wedgwood, h., dictionary of english etymology. fourth edition. revised and enlarged. vo. £ . _s._ contested etymology in the dictionary of the rev. w. w. skeat. cr. vo. _s._ wedgwood, julia, the moral ideal: an historic study. second edition. vo. _s._ weisbach, julius, theoretical mechanics: a manual of the mechanics of engineering. designed as a text-book for technical schools and for the use of engineers. from the german by e. b. coxe. with woodcuts, second edition. vo. _s._ _d._ weller, e., improved french dictionary. roy. vo. _s._ _d._ westropp, hodder m., primitive symbolism as illustrated in phallic worship; or, the reproductive principle. with introduction by major-gen. forlong. vo. _s._ _d._ wheeldon, j.p., angling resorts near london: the thames and the lea. cr. vo. paper covers, _s._ _d._ wheeler, j. talboys, history of india from the earliest ages. vo. (vol. i. _out of print_.) vol. ii., _s._ vol. iii., _s._ vol. iv., part i., _s._ vol. iv., part ii., _s._ **vol. iii. is also published as an independent work under the title of 'history of india: hindu, buddhist, and brahmanical.' early records of british india: a history of the english settlements in india, as told in the government records and other contemporary documents. roy. vo. _s._ wherry, e. m., comprehensive commentary to the quran. with sale's preliminary discourse, translation and additional notes. post vo. (vol. i. _out of print_.) vols. ii. and iii. _s._ _d._ each. vol. iv. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) whibley, chas., in cap and gown: three centuries of cambridge wit. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ whinfield, e. h., the quatrains of omar khayyám. the persian text, with an english verse translation. post vo. _s._ _d._; translation only, _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) masnavi i ma'navi: the spiritual couplets of maulána jalálu-'d-din muhammad i rúmí. translated and abridged. post vo. _s._ _d._ (_trübner's oriental series._) whitaker, florence, christy's inheritance: a london story. illustrated. roy. mo, _s._ _d._ whitney, prof. w. d., life and growth of language. sixth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) essentials of english grammar. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ language and the study of language. fourth edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ language and its study. with especial reference to the indo-european family of languages. edited by r. morris. second edition. cr. vo. _s._ sanskrit grammar. including both the classical language and the older dialects of veda and brahmana. second edition. vo. _s._ whitworth, g. c., anglo-indian dictionary: a glossary of indian terms used in english, and of such english or other non-indian terms as have obtained special meanings in india. vo. cloth, _s._ wickson, e. j., california fruits, and how to grow them. vo. _s._ wiechmann, ferdinand g., sugar analysis. for refineries, sugar-houses, experimental stations, &c. vo. _s._ _d._ wilberforce. life of bishop wilberforce of oxford and winchester. by his son. cr. vo. _s._ wilde, henry, origin of elementary substances. to. _s._ wildridge, t. tyndal, the dance of death, in painting and in print. with woodcuts. sm. to. _s._ _d._ willard, x. a., practical dairy husbandry. complete treatise on dairy farms and farming. illustrated. vo. _s._ practical butter book. complete treatise on butter making, &c. mo. _s._ williams, s. wells, syllabic dictionary of the chinese language: arranged according to the wu-fang yuen yin, with the pronunciation of the characters as heard in pekin, canton, amoy, and shanghai. third edition. to. £ . _s._ willis, r., life, correspondence, and ethics of benedict de spinoza. vo. _s._ wilson, h. h., rig-veda-sanhita: a collection of ancient hindu hymns. from the sanskrit. edited by e. b. cowell and w. f. webster. vols. vo. (vols. i. v. vi. _s._ each; vol. iv. _s._; vols. ii. and iii. in sets only.) the megha-duta (cloud messenger). translated from the sanskrit of kali-dasa. new edition. to. _s._ _d._ essays and lectures, chiefly on the religion of the hindus. collected and edited by dr. reinhold rost. vols. _s._ essays, analytical, critical, and philological, on subjects connected with sanskrit literature. collected and edited by dr. reinhold rost. vols. _s._ vishnu puráná: a system of hindu mythology and tradition. from the original sanskrit. illustrated by notes derived chiefly from other puránás. edited by fitzedward hall. vols. (including index), £ . _s._ _d._ select specimens of the theatre of the hindus. from the original sanskrit. third edition. vols. _s._ wilson, mrs. r. f., the christian brothers: their origin and work. with sketch of life of their founder. cr. vo. _s._ within sound of the sea. with frontispiece. cr. vo. _s._ woltmann, alfred, and woermann, karl, history of painting. with numerous illustrations. med. vo. vol. i. painting in antiquity and the middle ages, _s._ vol. ii. the painting of the renascence, _s._ the two volumes may be had bound in cloth with bevelled boards and gilt leaves, price _s._ and _s._ respectively. woman's crusade, a. by a dame of the primrose league. vols. _s._ _d._ wood, m. w., dictionary of volapük: volapük-english and english-volapük. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ woodbury, chas. j., talks with ralph waldo emerson. cr. vo. _s._ wooldridge, l. c., on the chemistry of the blood, and other scientific papers. arranged by victor horsley and ernest starling. with introduction by victor horsley. with illustrations. vo. _s._ wordsworth birthday book. edited by adelaide and violet wordsworth. mo. _s._; cloth limp, _s._ _d._ wordsworth, selections from. by william knight and other members of the wordsworth society. printed on hand-made paper. large cr. vo. with portrait. vellum, _s._; parchment, _s._ cheap edition, cr. vo. _s._ _d._ worsaae, chamberlain j. j. a., the pre-history of the north. based on contemporary memorials. translated by h. f. morland simpson. cr. vo. _s._ wortham, b. hale, satakas of bhartrihari. translated from the sanskrit. post vo. _s._ (_trübner's oriental series._) worthy, charles, practical heraldry: an epitome of english armoury. with illustrations. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ wright, g. frederick, the ice age in north america, and its bearing upon the antiquity of man. with maps and illustrations. vo. _s._ man and the glacial period. with illustrations and map. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) wright, thomas, the celt, the roman, and the saxon: a history of the early inhabitants of britain down to the conversion of the anglo-saxons to christianity. fifth edition, corrected and enlarged. with nearly engravings. cr. vo. _s._ wright, w., the book of kalilah and dimnah. translated from arabic into syriac, with preface and glossary in english. vo. _s._ wurtz, prof., the atomic theory. translated by e. cleminshaw. fifth edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) wylde, w. the inspection of meat: a guide and instruction book to officers supervising contract meat, and to all sanitary inspectors. with coloured plates. vo. _s._ _d._ young, prof. c. a., the sun. with illustrations. third edition. cr. vo. _s._ (_i.s.s._) youmans, eliza a., first book of botany. designed to cultivate the observing powers of children. with engravings. new and cheaper edition. cr. vo. _s._ _d._ shakspere's works. _the avon edition_, printed on thin opaque paper, and forming handy volumes, cloth, _s._, or bound in volumes, _s._ the set of volumes may also be had in a cloth box (_see illustration_), price _s._, or bound in roan, persian, crushed persian levant, calf, or morocco, and enclosed in an attractive leather box, at prices from _s._ _d._ upwards. [illustration] _the parchment library edition_, in volumes elzevir vo., choicely printed on hand-made paper, and bound in parchment or cloth, price £ . _s._, or in vellum, price £ . _s._ the set of volumes may also be had in a strong cloth box, price £ _s._, or with an oak hanging shelf (_see illustration_), £ . _s._ [illustration] london: kegan paul, trench, trÜbner, & co., ltd the american patent revolving bookcase. the revolving bookcase will be found a great convenience by those who wish to have from to volumes accessible while seated at a table or by the fireside. this bookcase occupies no more space than an ordinary whatnot, and can be wheeled from one part of a room to another. it is particularly suitable for private libraries, for studies, and for the consulting chambers of barristers, physicians, &c. [illustration: size no. , inches high.] price from guineas. these bookcases are made in various sizes, inches square, to inches high, with eight, twelve, or sixteen shelves, in ash, walnut, mahogany, oak, and ebonised, and neatly finished so as to form handsome pieces of furniture. a special form of revolving bookcase has been designed to hold the set of 'encyclopædia britannica.' specimens of the different sizes and woods can be seen in use at _paternoster house_, charing cross road, london. kegan paul, trench, trÜbner, & co., ltd., sole authorised agents. illustrated price list on receipt of one stamp. * * * * * transcriber's note: footnotes have been moved closer to their reference points in the text. missing punctuation has been added and obvious punctuation errors have been corrected. mismatched quotation marks are as in the original text. obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. inconsistent, archaic and alternate spellings have been retained. page vii: "rye" changed to "bye" (the bye plot). page : " " changed to " " (the battle of towton in ). page : "imforming" changed to "informing" (had lost no time in informing him). page : "catesbyes" changed to "catesby's" (with mr catesby's proceedings with him) page : "conspirtors" changed to "conspirators" (the leading conspirators). page : "expresssd" changed to "expressed" (he had expressed a fear). page of ads: " a." changed to " d." (cr. vo. s. d.). the lost treasure of trevlyn a story of the days of the gunpowder plot by evelyn everett-green. chapter : the inmates of the old gate house. chapter : the inmates of trevlyn chase. chapter : the lost treasure. chapter : a night on hammerton heath. chapter : the house on the bridge. chapter : martin holt's supper party. chapter : the life of a great city. chapter : cuthbert and cherry go visiting. chapter : the wise woman. chapter : the hunted priest. chapter : the lone house on the river. chapter : may day in the forest. chapter : the gipsy's tryst. chapter : long robin. chapter : petronella. chapter : the pixies' dell. chapter : brother and sister. chapter : "saucy kate." chapter : the cross way house. chapter : how it fared with cherry. chapter : the gipsy's warning. chapter : whispers abroad. chapter : peril for trevlyn. chapter : kate's courage. chapter : "on the dark flowing river." chapter : jacob's devotion. chapter : yuletide at the cross way house. chapter : the inmates of the old gate house. "dost defy me to my face, sirrah?" "i have no desire to defy you, father, but--" "but me no 'buts,' and father me no 'fathers,'" stormed the angry old man, probably quite unconscious of the shakespearian smack of his phrase; "i am no father to heretic spawn--a plague and a curse be on all such! go to, thou wicked and deceitful boy; thou wilt one day bitterly rue thy evil practices. thinkest thou that i will harbour beneath my roof one who sets me at open defiance; one who is a traitor to his house and to his faith?" a dark flush had risen in the face of the tall, slight youth, with the thoughtful brow and resolute mouth, as his father's first words fell upon his ears, and throwing back his head with a haughty gesture, he said: "i am not deceitful. you have no call to taunt me with that vice which i despise above all others. i have never used deceit towards you. how could you have known i had this day attended the service of the established church had i not told you so myself?" the veins on the old man's forehead stood out with anger; he brought his fist heavily down on the table, with a bang that caused every vessel thereon to ring. a dark-eyed girl, who was listening in mute terror to the stormy scene, shrank yet more into herself at this, and cast an imploring look upon the tall stripling whose face her own so much resembled; but his fiery eyes were on his father's face, and he neither saw nor heeded the look. "and have i not forbid--ay, and that under the heaviest penalties--any child of mine from so much as putting the head inside one of those vile heretic buildings? would god they were every one of them destroyed! heaven send some speedy judgment upon those who build and those who dare to worship therein! what wonder that a son turns in defiance upon his father, when he stuffs his ears with the pestilent heresies with which the wicked are making vile this earth!" nicholas trevlyn's anger became so great at this point as well nigh to choke him. he paused, not from lack of words, but from inability to utter them; and his son, boldly taking advantage of the pause, struck in once more in his own defence. "father, you talk of pestilent heresies, but what know you of the doctrines taught within walls you never enter? is it a pestilent heresy that christ died to save the world; that he rose again for our justification; that he sent the holy spirit into the world to sanctify and gather together a church called after his name? that is the doctrine i heard preached today, and methinks it were hard to fall foul of it. if you had heard it yourself from one of our priests, sure you would have found it nothing amiss." "silence, boy!" thundered the old man, his fury suddenly changing to a white heat of passion, which was more terrible than the bluster that had gone before. "silence, lest i strike thee to the ground where thou standest, and plunge this dagger in thine heart sooner than hear thee blaspheme the holy church in which thou wast reared! how darest thou talk thus to me? as though yon accursed heretic of a protestant was a member of the church of christ. thou knowest that there is but one fold under one shepherd, and he the pope of rome. a plague upon those accursed ones who have perverted the true faith and led a whole nation astray! but they shall not lead my son after them; nicholas trevlyn will look well to that!" father and son stood with the table between them, gazing fixedly at one another like combatants who, having tested somewhat the strength each of the other, feel a certain doubt as to the termination of the contest, but are both ready and almost eager for the final struggle which shall leave the victory unequivocally on one side or the other. "i had thought that the shepherd was christ," said cuthbert, in a low, firm tone, "and that the fold was wide enough to embrace all those baptized into his name." "then thou only thinkest what is one more of those damnable heresies which are ruining this land and corrupting the whole world," cried nicholas between his shut teeth. "thou hast learned none such vile doctrine from me." "i have learned no doctrine from you save that the pope is lord of all----of things temporal and things spiritual--and that all who deny this are in peril of hell fire," answered the young man, with no small bitterness and scorn. "and here, in this realm, those who hold this to be so are in danger of prison and death. truly this is a happy state of things for one such as i. at home a father who rails upon me night and day for a heretic--albeit i vow i hold not one single doctrine which i cannot stand to and prove from the word of god." "which thou hast no call to have in thine hands!" shouted his father; "a book which, if given to the people, stirs up everywhere the vilest heresies and most loathsome errors. the bible is god's gift to the church. it is not of private interpretation. it is for the priests to give of its treasures to the people as they are able to bear them." "ay, verily, and what are the people to do when the priests deny them their rightful food?" cried cuthbert, as hotly as his father. "listen to me, sir. yes, this once i wilt speak! in years gone by, when, however quietly, secretly, and privately, we were visited by a priest and heard the mass, and received at his hands the blessed sacrament, did i revolt against your wish in matters spiritual? was i not ever willing to please you? did i not love the church? was not i approved of the father, and taught many things by him, including those arts of reading and penmanship which many in my condition of life never attain unto? did i ever anger you by disobedience or revolt?" "what of that, since you are doing so now?" questioned nicholas in a quieter tone, yet one full of suspicion and resentment. "what use to talk of what is past and gone? thou knowest well of late years how thou hast been hankering after every vile and villainous heresy that has come in thy way. it is thy mother's blood within thee belike. i did grievous wrong ever to wed with one reared a protestant, however she might abjure the errors in which she was brought up. false son of a false mother--" "hold, sir! you shall not miscall my mother! no son will stand by and hear that!" "i will say what i will in mine own house, thou evil, malapert boy!" roared the old man. "i tell thee that thy mother was a false woman, that she deceived me bitterly. after solemnly abjuring the errors in which she had been reared, and being received into the true fold, she, as years went by, lapsed more and more into her foul heretical ways of thought and speech; and though she went to her last reckoning (unshriven and unassoiled, for she would have no priest at her dying bed) before ye twain were old enough to have been corrupted by her precept and example, ye must have sucked in heresy with your mother's milk, else how could son of mine act in the vile fashion that thou art acting?" "i am acting in no vile fashion. i am no heretic. i am a true son of the true church." cuthbert spoke with a forced calmness which gave his words weight, and for a moment even the angry man paused to listen to them, eying the youth keenly all the while, as though measuring his own strength against him. physically he was far more than a match for the slightly-built stripling of one-and-twenty, being a man of great height and muscular power--power that had in no wise diminished with advancing years, though time had turned his black locks to iron gray, and seamed his face with a multitude of wrinkles. pride, passion, gloomy defiance, and bitter hatred of his kind seemed written on that face, which in its youth must have been handsome enough. nicholas trevlyn was a disappointed, embittered man, who added to all other faults of temperament that of a hopeless bigot of the worst kind. he was the sort of man of whom inquisitors must surely have been made--without pity, without remorse, without any kind of natural feeling when once their religious convictions were at stake. as a young man he had watched heretics burning in smithfield with a fierce joy and delight; and when with the accession of elizabeth the tide had turned, he had submitted without a murmur to the fines which had ruined him and driven him, a poverty-stricken dependent, to the old gate house. he would have died a martyr with the grim constancy that he had seen in others, and never lamented what he suffered for conscience' sake. but he had grown to be a thoroughly soured and embittered man, and had spent the past twenty or more years of his life in a ceaseless savage brooding which had made his abode anything but a happy place for his two children, the offspring of a late and rather peculiar marriage with a woman by birth considerably his inferior. the firmness without the bitterness of his father's face was reflected in that of the son as cuthbert fearlessly finished his speech. "i am a true son of the church. i am no outcast--no heretic. but i will not suffer my soul to be starved. it is the law of this land that whatever creed men hold in their hearts--whether the tenets of rome or those of the puritans of scotland--that they shall outwardly conform themselves to the forms prescribed by the establishment, and shall attend the churches of the land; and you know as well as i do that there be many priests of our faith who bid their flocks obey this law, and submit themselves to the powers that be. and yet even with all this i would have restrained myself from such attendance, knowing that it is an abhorrence unto you, had there been any other way open to me of hearing the word of god or receiving the blessed sacrament. but since king james has come to the throne, the penal laws have been more stringently enforced against our priests than in the latter days of the queen. what has been the result for us? verily that the priest who did from time to time minister to us is fled. we are left without help, without guidance, without teaching, and this when the clouds of peril and trouble are like to darken more and more about our path." "and what of that, rash boy? would you think to lessen the peril by tampering with the things of the evil one; by casting aside those rules and doctrines in which you both have been reared, and consorting with the subverters of the true faith?" "but i cannot see that they are subverters of the faith," answered the youth hotly. "that is where the kernel of the matter lies. i have heard their preachings. i have talked with my cousins at the chase, who know what their doctrine is." but at these words the old man fairly gnashed his teeth in fury; he made a rush at his son and took him by the collar of his doublet, shaking him in a frenzy of rage. "so!" he cried, "so! now we get at the whole heart of the matter. you have been learning heresy from those false trevlyns at the chase--those renegade, treacherous, time-serving trevlyns, who are a disgrace to their name and their station! wretched boy! have i not warned you times and again to have no dealings with those evil relatives? kinsmen they may be, but kinsmen who have disgraced the name they bear. i would i had richard trevlyn here beneath my hand now, that i might stuff his false doctrine down his false throat to choke him withal! and to think that he has corrupted my son, as if the rearing of his own heretic brood was not enough!" cuthbert was unable to speak; his father's hand pressed too tightly on his throat. he did not struggle or resist. those were days when sons--ay, and daughters too--were used to receiving severe chastisement from the parental hand without murmur: and nicholas trevlyn had not been one to spare the rod where his son had been concerned. his wrath seemed to rise as he felt the slight form of the lad sway beneath his strong grasp. surely that slim stripling could be reduced to obedience; but the lesson must be a sharp one, for plainly the poison was working, and had already produced disastrous results. "miserable boy!" cried nicholas, his eyes blazing in their cavernous hollows, "the time has come when this matter must be settled betwixt us twain. swear that thou wilt go no more to the churches of the protestant faction, be the laws what they may; swear that thou wilt hold no more converse on matters of religion with thy cousins at the chase--swear these things with a solemn and binding oath, and all may yet be well. refuse, and thou shalt yet learn, as thou hast not learned before, what the wrath of a wronged and outraged father can be!" petronella, the dark-eyed girl, who had all this while been crouching back in her high-backed chair in an attitude of shrinking terror, now sprang suddenly towards her brother, crying: "o cuthbert, cuthbert! prithee do not anger him more! "father, o dear sir, let but him go this once! he does not willingly anger you; he does but--" "peace, foolish girl, and begone! this is no time for woman's whining. thy brother and i can settle this business betwixt us twain. but stay, go thou to my room and fetch thence the strong whip wherewith i chastise the unruly hounds. those who disobey like dogs must be beaten like dogs. "but, an thou wilt swear to do my bidding in the future, and avoid all pestilent controversy with those false scions of thy house, thy chastisement shall be light. defy me, and thou shalt feel the full weight of my arm as thou hast never felt it before." petronella had never seen her father so angry in all her life before. true, he had always been a harsh, stern man, an unloving father, a captious tyrant in his own house. but there had been limits to his anger. it had taken more generally the form of sullen brooding than of wild wrath, and the irritation and passion which had lately been increasing visibly in him was something comparatively new. of late, however, there had been growing friction between cuthbert and his father. the youth, who had remained longer a boy in his secluded life than he would have done had his lot been cast in a wider sphere, was awakening at last to the stirrings of manhood within him, and was chafing against the fetters, both physical and spiritual, laid upon him by the life he was forced to lead through the tyrannical will of his father. he was beginning, in a semi-conscious fashion, to pant for freedom, and to rebel against the harsh paternal yoke. when a struggle of wills commences, the friction continues a long while before the spark is produced; but when some unwonted contest has ignited this, the flame often bursts out in wonderful fury, and the whole scene is thence forward changed. if the old man's blood was up today, cuthbert's was no less so. he shook himself free for a moment from his father's grasp and stood before him, tall, upright, indignant, no fear in his face, but a deep anger and pain; and his words were spoken with great emphasis and deliberation. "i will swear nothing of all that. i claim for myself the right of a man to judge for myself and act for myself. i am a boy no longer; i have reached man's estate. i will be threatened and intimidated no longer by any man, even though he be my father. i am ready and willing to leave your house this very day. i am weary of the life here. i would fain carve out fortune for myself. it is plain that we cannot be agreed; wherefore it plainly behoves us to part. let me then go, but let me go in peace. it may be when i return to these doors you may have learned to think more kindly of me." but the very calmness of these words only stung nicholas to greater fury. he had in full force that inherent belief, so deeply rooted in the minds of many of the sons of rome, that conviction as well as submission could be compelled--could be driven into the minds and consciences of recalcitrant sons and daughters by sheer force and might. gnashing his teeth in fury, he sprang once more upon his son, winding his strong arms about him, and fairly lifting him from the ground in his paroxysm of fury. "go! ay, we will see about that. go, and carry your false stories and falser thoughts out into the world, and pollute others as you yourself have been polluted! we will think of that anon. here thou art safe in thy father's care, and it will be well to think further ere we let so rabid a heretic stray from these walls. wretched boy! the devil himself must sure have entered into thee. but fiends have been exorcised before now. it shall not be the fault of nicholas trevlyn if this one be not quickly forced to take flight!" all this while the infuriated man had been partly dragging, partly carrying his son to a dreary empty room in the rear of the dilapidated old house inhabited by nicholas and his children. it was a vault-like apartment, and the roof was upheld in the centre by a stout pillar such as one sees in the crypts of churches, and suspended round this pillar were a pair of manacles and a leather belt. cuthbert had many times been tied up to this pillar before, his hands secured above his head in the manacles, and his body firmly fastened to the pillar by the leather thong. sometimes he had been left many hours thus secured, till he had been ready to drop with exhaustion. sometimes he had been cruelly beaten by his stern sire in punishment for some boyish prank or act of disobedience. even the gentle and timid petronella had more than once been fastened to the pillar for a time of penance, though the manacles and the whip had been spared to her. the place was even now full of terrors for her--a gruesome spot, always dim and dark, always full of lurking horrors. her eyes dilated with agony and fear as she beheld her brother fastened up--not before his stout doublet had been removed--and her knees almost gave way beneath her as her father turned sharply upon her and said: "where is the whip, girl?" it was seldom that the maiden had the courage to resist her, stern father; but today, love for her brother overcoming every other feeling, she suddenly sank on her knees before him, clasping her hands in piteous supplication, as she cried, with tears streaming down her face: "o father, sweet father, spare him this time! for the love of heaven visit not his misdoings upon him! let me but talk to him; let me but persuade him! oh, do not treat him so harshly! indeed he may better be won by love than driven by blows!" but nicholas roughly repulsed the girl, so that she almost fell as he brushed past her. "tush, girl! thou knowest not what thou sayest. disobedience must be flogged out of the heretic spawn. i will have no son of mine sell himself to the devil unchecked. a truce to such tears and vain words! i will none of them. and take heed that thine own turn comes not next. i will spare neither son nor daughter that i find tampering with the pestilent doctrines of heretics!" so saying, the angry man strode away himself in search of the weapon of chastisement, and whilst petronella sobbed aloud in her agony of pity, cuthbert looked round with a strange smile to say: "do not weep so bitterly, my sister; it will soon be over, and it is the last beating i will ever receive at his hands. this settles it--this decides me. i leave this house this very night, and i return no more until i have won my right to be treated no longer as a slave and a dog." "alas, my brother! wilt thou really go?" "ay, that will i, and this very night to boot." "this night! but i fear me he will lock thee in this chamber here." "i trust he may; so may i the better effect my purpose. listen, sister, for he will return right soon, and i must be brief. i have been shut up here before, and dreaming of some such day as this, i have worked my way through one of yon stout bars to the window; and it will fall out now with a touch. night falls early in these dark november days. when the great clock in the tower of the chase tolls eight strokes, then steal thou from the house bearing some victuals in a wallet, and my good sword and dagger and belt. meet me by the ruined chantry where we have sat so oft. i will then tell thee all that is in my heart--for which time lacks me to speak now. "hist! there is his returning step. leave me now, and weep not. i care naught for hard blows; i have received too many in my time. but these shall be the last!" petronella, trembling in every limb, shrank silently away in the shadows as her father approached, the sight of his grim, stern face and the cruel-looking weapon in his hands bringing quick thrills of pain and pity to her gentle heart. petronella was a very tender floweret to have been reared amidst so much hardness and sorrow. it was wonderful that she had lived through the helpless years of infancy (her mother had died ere she had completed her second year) with such a father over her, or that having so lived she had preserved the sweetness and clinging softness of temperament which gave to her such a strange charm--at least in the opinion of one. doubtless she owed much of her well being to the kindly care of an old deaf and dumb woman, the only servant in that lonely old house, who had entered it to nurse the children's mother through her last illness, and had stayed on almost as a matter of course, receiving no wage for her untiring service, but only the coarse victuals that all shared alike, and such scanty clothing as was absolutely indispensable. to this old crone petronella fled with white face and tearful eyes, as the sound of those terrible blows smote upon her ears with the whistling noise that well betrayed the force with which they were dealt. she quickly made the faithful old creature aware of what was going on, and her sympathy was readily aroused on behalf of the sufferer. the dumb request for food was also understood and complied with. no doubt there had been times before when the girl had crept with bread and meat in her apron to the solitary captive, who was shut up alone without food till he should come to a better mind. of cuthbert's intended flight she made no attempted revelation. she must act now, and explain later, if she could ever make the old woman understand, that her brother had fled, and had not been done to death by his hard-hearted father. supper was over. it had been at the close of that meal that the explosion had taken place. she would not be called upon to meet her father again that day. fleeing up the broken stone staircase just as his feet were heard returning from the vaulted room, she heard him bang to the door of the living room before she dared to steal into the little bare chamber where her brother slept, and where all his worldly possessions were stored. the old gate house was a strange habitation. formerly merely the gateway to the castle, which had once reared its proud head upon the crest of the hill to the westward, it had but scant accommodation for a family--one living room below, flanked on one side by the kitchen, and on the other by the vaulted chamber, once possibly a guardroom, but so bitterly cold and damp now that it was never used save for such purposes as had been witnessed there that evening. a winding, broken stone stairway led upwards to a few very narrow chambers above of irregular shape, and all lighted by loophole windows deeply splayed. the lowest of these was the place where nicholas slept, and there was a slight attempt at furniture and comfort; but the upper chambers, where petronella and cuthbert retired out of the way of their father's sullen and morose temper, were bare of all but actual necessities, and lacked many things which would be numbered amongst essentials in later days. the stone floors had not even a carpeting of rushes, the pallet beds lay on the hard stone floor, and only the girl possessed a basin and ewer for washing. cuthbert was supposed to perform his ablutions in the water of the moat without, or at the pump in the yard. but petronella had small notion of the hardness of her life. she had known no other, and only of late had she begun to realize that other girls were more gently reared and tended. since the family had come to live at the chase--which had only happened within the past year--her ideas had begun to enlarge; but so far this had not taught her discontent with her surroundings. she knew that her father had fled to the gate house as a place of retirement in the hour of his danger and need, and that nobody had denied his right to remain there, though the whole property was in the possession of sir richard trevlyn, the nephew of her morose parent. nicholas, however, as may have been already gathered, bore no goodwill towards his nephew, and would fain have hindered his children from so much as exchanging a word with their kinsfolks. but blood is thicker than water, and the young naturally consort together. nicholas had married so late in life that his children were much about the same age as those of his nephew--indeed the trevlyns of the chase were all older than petronella. sir richard had striven to establish friendly relations with his uncle when he had first brought his family to the chase, and had only given up the attempt after many rebuffs. he encouraged his children to show kindness to their cousins, as they called each other, and since that day a ray of sunshine had stolen into petronella's life, though she was almost afraid to cherish it, lest it should only be withdrawn again. as she hurried to the tryst that evening, this fear was only second to the bitter thought of parting with cuthbert. yet she did not wish him to stay. her father's wrath and suspicion once fully aroused, no peace could be hoped for or looked for. terribly as she would miss him, anything was better than such scenes as the one of today. cuthbert was no longer a child; he was beginning to think and reason and act for himself. it was better he should fly before worse had happened; only the girl could not but wonder what her own life would be like if, after his departing, her stern father should absolutely forbid her seeing or speaking to her cousins again. she knew he would gladly do it; knew that he hated and grudged the few meetings and greetings that did pass between them from time to time. any excuse would gladly be caught at as a pretext for an absolute prohibition of such small overtures, and what would life be like, she wondered with a little sob, if she were to lose cuthbert, and never to see philip? her brother was at the trysting place first. she could not see his face, but could distinguish the slight figure seated upon the crumbling fragment of the wall. he was very still and quiet, and she paused as she drew near, wondering if he had not heard her light footfall upon the fallen leaves. "is that thou, my sister?" asked a familiar voice, though feeble and hollow in its tones. the girl sprang quickly to his side. "yes, cuthbert, it is i; and i have brought all thou biddest me, and as much beside as i could make shift to carry. alack, cuthbert are you sorely hurt? i heard that cruel whip!" "think no more of that! i will think no more myself once the smart be past. think of the freedom thy brother will enjoy; would that thou couldst share it, sweet sister! i like not faring thus forth and leaving thee, but for the nonce there be no other way. "petronella, i know thou wouldst ask whither i go and what i do. and that i scarce know myself as yet. but sitting here in the dark there has come a new purpose, a new thought to my mind. what if i were to set myself to the discovery of the lost treasure of trevlyn chase?" the girl started in the darkness, and laid her hand on her brother's arm. "ah, cuthbert, that lost treasure! would that thou couldst find it! but how canst thou hope to do so when so many besides have failed?" "that is not the fashion in which men think when they mean to triumph, my sister," said cuthbert, and she knew by his voice that he was smiling. "how this thing may be done i know not. where the long-lost treasure be hid i know not, nor that i may ever be the one to light on it. but this i do know, that it is somewhere; that some hand buried it; that even now some living soul may know the secret of the hiding place. petronella, hast thou ever thought of it? hast thou ever wondered if our father may know aught of it?" "our father! nay, cuthbert; but he would be the first to show the place and claim his share of spoil." "i know not that. he hates sir richard. methinks he loved not his own brother, the good knight's father. he was in the house what time the treasure vanished. might he not have had some hand in the mystery?" the girl shook her head again doubtfully. "nay, how can i say? yet methinks our father, who sorely laments his poverty and dependence for a home upon sir richard's kindness, would no longer live at the old gate house had he riches hidden away upon which he might lay his hand. nay, cuthbert, methinks thou art not on the right track in thinking of him. but i do not rightly know the story of that lost treasure." "marry, nor i neither. i have heard our father rave of it. i have heard a word here, a whisper there, but never a full account of the matter. but that there is some great treasure lost or made away with all men who know aught of the trevlyns know well. and if, as all affirm, this same treasure is but buried in some hiding place, the clue to which none possesses, why should not i find it? why should not i be the man at last to track and to discover it?" why not indeed? petronella, full of ardent youthful imaginings, fired instantly with the thought. why should not her brother do this thing? why not indeed? she looked at him with eyes that shone in the gloom like stars. "yes, cuthbert, be it thine to do what none else has been able. be it thine to discover this lost treasure. would that i could help thee in that quest! but i can give thee just this one morsel of counsel. start not till thou hast been to the chase and heard all the story from our cousins there. they will tell thee what there is to know, and he is twice armed who has this knowledge." "i will follow thy good counsel, my sister, and commend thee to their kindly care. and now, let us say farewell, and be brief; for such moments do but wring the heart and take the manliness from one. farewell, and farewell, my sweetest sister. heaven be thy guide and protector; and be sure of one thing, that if i live i will see thee soon again, and that if i have success in my search thou and i will rejoice in it together." chapter : the inmates of trevlyn chase. trevlyn chase was a fine tudor structure, standing on the site of the more ancient castle that had been destroyed during the tumultuous days of the wars of the roses. instead of the grim pile of gray masonry that had once adorned the crest of the wooded hill, its narrow loopholes and castellated battlements telling of matters offensive and defensive, a fair and home-like mansion of red brick overlooked the peaceful landscape, adorned with innumerable oriel windows, whose latticed casements shone brilliantly in the south sunlight as it fell upon the handsome frontage of the stately house. great timbers deeply carved adorned the outer walls, and the whole building was rich in those embellishments which grace the buildings of that period. a fine terrace ran the whole length of the south front, and was bounded at either side by a thick hedge of yew. stone steps led down into a terraced garden upon which much care had been bestowed, and which in summer was bright with all the flowers then known and cultivated in this country. even in gloomy winter there was more of order and trimness than was often found in such places, and the pleasaunces and shrubberies and gardens of trevlyn chase, with the wide fish ponds and terraced paths, formed a pleasant place of resort almost at any season, and were greatly delighted in by the children of the present owner, who had only recently made acquaintance with their ancient family home. the setting sun was shining brightly now upon the windows of the house which faced the south, with half a point of west, so that in winter the sunlight shone to the very time of its setting into the lofty and decorated chambers. the glow from blazing fires within likewise shone and twinkled hospitably through the clear glass, and one long window of one of the rooms stood open to the still evening air, and a little group was gathered together just outside. a tall young man of some five-and-twenty summers, with the regular trevlyn features and a pair of honest gray eyes, was standing out on the terrace with his face towards the red sky, a couple of sporting dogs frisking joyously about him, as if hoping he was bent upon a stroll in the woods. by his side stood a tall slim maiden, bright faced and laughing eyed, straight as a dart, alert and graceful in her movements, with an expression of courage and resolution on her fair face that stamped it at once with a strong individuality of its own. she was dressed simply, though in soft and rich textures, as became her station, and she held her hood in her hands, leaving her ruffled curly hair to be the sport of the light night breeze. she had very delicate features and an oval face, and from the likeness that existed between them the pair were plainly brother and sister. just within the open window were two more girls, dressed in the same fashion as the first, and plainly her sisters, though they were more blonde in type, and whilst very pretty, lacked the piquant originality that was the great characteristic of the dark girl's beauty. they were not quite so tall, and the elder of the blonde pair was not nearly so slim, but had something of womanly deliberation and dignity about her. she was plainly the eldest of the three sisters, as the little maid beside her was the youngest. all three were engrossed in some sort of talk that appeared full of interest for them. "i wish he would not do it," said philip, turning his eyes in an easterly direction, towards a hollow in the falling ground, where the ruins of the ancient wall could still be dimly traced. the old gate house itself could not be seen from this side of the house, but it was plain that the thoughts of all had turned in that direction. "it is brave of him to obey his conscience rather than his father; but yon man is such a veritable tiger, that i fear me there will be dark work there betwixt them if the lad provoke him too far. nicholas trevlyn is not one to be defied with impunity. i would that cuthbert had as much prudence as he has courage." "so do not i," answered kate quickly, turning her flashing eyes full upon her brother. "i hate prudence--the prudence of cowardice! i am right glad that cuthbert thinks first of his conscience and second of his father's wrath. what man who ever lived to do good in the world was deterred from the right by craven fears? i honour him for his single mindedness. he is a bold youth, and i would fain help him an i could see the way." "we would all gladly do that," answered philip; "the hard thing being to find the way." "we shall find it anon, i doubt not," answered kate. "things cannot go on ever as they are now." "no; methinks one day we may chance to hear that the old papist has done his son to death in a fit of blind fury. then perhaps, my sister, thou wilt join with me in wishing that the lad had shown more regard for his stern sire's word." "nay, philip, sure thou fearest too much," spoke cecilia from her station beside the window. "nicholas trevlyn may be a dark and sour man, but he scarce would lift a hand against his own flesh and blood! i cannot believe it of any father." "fathers of his type have done as bad ere now," answered philip, with gravity, "and there is no bigot like the papist bigot, who is soured and embittered by persecution himself. cuthbert has told me things ere this which show what an iron soul his father's is. he believes that he would wring the neck of little petronella sooner than see her turn out of the path of unreasoning papistry in which he has brought her up," and philip's face darkened suddenly as he turned it towards his sisters. "but sure the king would protect them if he knew," said bessie, the youngest of the sisters. "why, the law bids all loyal subjects go to church, and punishes those who stay away. the king would be sorely angry, would he not, were he to hear that any man dared use force to hinder his children from going." kate's delicate lips curved into a smile of derision, and philip shrugged his broad shoulders. "the king, my dear bessie, is naught but a miserable pedant, who loves nothing so well as hearing himself talk, and prating by the hour together on matters of law and religion, and on the divine right of kings. he is not the king such as england has been wont to know--a king to whom his subjects might gain access to plead his protection and ask his aid. i trow none but a fool would strive to win a smile from the scottish james. he is scarce a man, by all we hear, let alone a king. i sometimes think scorn of us as a nation that we so gladly and peaceably put our necks beneath the sceptre of such an atomy. sure had the lady arabella but been a man, we should scarce have welcomed so gladly this son of mary stuart as our monarch." "have a care, my children, and talk not rank treason in such open fashion," said a deep voice behind them, and the daughters started to see the tall form of their father in the room behind them. "we trevlyns are none too safe from suspicion that we need endanger ourselves wilfully. whatever else james stuart may be, he has shown that he means to be a monarch as absolute as any who have gone before him. wherefore it behoves us to be cautious even in the sanctuary of this peaceful home. "what is the matter, kate, that thou art thus scornful towards his majesty? in what has he offended thee, my saucy princess?" as kate stepped within the room, followed by her brother, it was plain from the lighting of her father's eyes that she was the favourite daughter with him. he laid his hand lightly on her shoulder, and she stood up close beside him, her bright face upraised, a saucy gleam in her eyes, and both her attitude and bearing bespoke an affectionate confidence between father and child less common in those ceremonious days than it has since become. "father, we were talking of cuthbert. did you see him at church today? he was there both in the morning and the afternoon." "i thought i saw him. i was not sure. i am glad his father has had the sense to relent thus far with him." "but he has not relented," answered kate quickly. "cuthbert comes in defiance of his commands; and philip says he misdoubts if his father may not do him some grievous bodily harm in his rage and fury. bessie did ask if the king would not interfere to save him;" and then kate broke off with her rippling, saucy laugh. "i was just answering that question when you came. but sure, father, something might be done for him. it is a cruel thing for a boy to be treated as he is treated, and all for striving to obey the law of the land." sir richard trevlyn stood in silent thought awhile. he was a fine-looking man, with a thoughtful, benevolent countenance, and eyes that kate had inherited. he had known something of peril and trouble himself in his day, and could feel for the troubles of others. but he also knew the difficulties of dealing with such a man as his kinsman nicholas; and without bringing him to the notice of the authorities as a concealed papist--an idea repugnant to him where one of his own name and blood was concerned--it was difficult to see what could be done for the protection of the hapless cuthbert and his sister. sir richard trevlyn did not wish to draw public attention upon himself. it was his desire to live as quietly and privately as possible. the trevlyns had been for many generations a family stanch to the doctrines and traditions of the church of rome, and they had won for themselves that kind of reputation which clings tenaciously to certain families even when it has ceased to be a fact. the present sir richard's father had broken through the traditions of his race in marrying a lady of the reformed faith. it was a love match, and all other considerations went to the winds. the lady was no theologian, and though believing all she had been taught, had no horror of popery or of her husband's creed. they had lived happily together in spite of their respective opinions; but either through the influence of his wife, or through other causes less well understood, sir richard the elder in his later life became gradually weaned from the old faith, and embraced that of his wife. some said this was done from motives of policy, since elizabeth was on the throne, and the edicts against papists, though only rigidly enforced by fits and starts, were always in existence, and had been the ruin of many ancient families. however that may have been, the only son of this union had been trained up a protestant, and had brought up his own children as members of the established church of the land. but still the old tradition remained that all trevlyns must of necessity be rank papists, and nicholas had certainly done all he could to encourage this idea, and had ruined himself by his contumacious resistance to the laws. both his brother and his nephew had suffered through their close relationship to such an unruly subject, and there had been dark days enough for the family during the armada scare, when every papist became a mark for popular hatred, and professions of loyalty and good faith were regarded with distrust. now, however, the family seemed to have lived through its darkest days. peace had been made with men in high places. sir richard had done good service to the state on more than one occasion; and latterly he had felt sufficiently safe to retire from the neighbourhood of the court, where he had been holding some small office, and settle down with his wife and family in his ancestral home. his marriage with lady frances de grey, the daughter of the earl of andover, had given him excellent connections; for the andovers were stanch supporters of the reformed faith, and had been for several generations, so that they were high in favour, and able to further the fortunes of their less lucky kinsman. it had taken many years to work matters to a safe and happy conclusion, but at the present moment there seemed to be no clouds in the sky. the new king had been as gracious as it was in his nature to be to sir richard, and did not appear to regard him with any suspicion. the knight breathed freely again after a long period of anxiety, for the tenacious memory and uncertain temper of the late queen had kept him in a constant ferment. it had been a kindly and courageous thing for sir richard to permit his contumacious and inimical kinsman to retain the possession of the old gate house. nicholas had no manner of right to it, though he was fond of putting forward a pretended claim; and the close proximity of a rank and bitter papist of his own name and race was anything but a pleasant thing. but the sense of family feeling, so strongly implanted in the english race, had proved stronger than prudential scruple, and nicholas had not been ejected, his nephew even striving at the first to establish some kind of friendly relations with the old man, hoping perhaps to draw him out of his morose ways, and lead him to conformity and obedience to the existing law. nicholas had refused all overtures; but his lonely son and daughter had been only too thankful for notice, and the whole family at the chase became keenly interested in them. it was plain from the first that their father's bitterness and rigid rule had done anything but endear his own views to his children. petronella accepted the creeds and dogmas instilled into her mind with a childlike faith, and dreamed her own devotional dreams over her breviary and her book of saints--the only two volumes she possessed. she was content, in the same fashion that a little child is content, with just so much as was given her. but cuthbert's mind was of a different stamp, and he had long been panting to break the bonds that held both body and soul in thrall, and find out for himself the meaning of those questions and controversies that were convulsing the nation and the world. intercourse with his kinsfolk had given him his first real insight into the burning questions of the hour, and his attendance from time to time at the parish church had caused him fresh access of wonder at what his father could object to in the doctrines there set forth. they might not embody everything a popish priest would bid him believe, but at least they appeared to the boy to contain all the integral truths of christianity. he began dimly to understand that the papists were not half so much concerned in the matter of cardinal doctrines of the faith as in asserting and upholding the temporal as well as the spiritual power of the pope; and that this should be made the matter of the chiefest moment filled the boy's soul with a loathing and disgust which were strong enough to make him half a protestant at once. sir richard had seen almost as much, and was greatly interested in the lad; but it was difficult to know how to help him in days when parental authority was so absolute and so rigidly exercised. "we must do what we can," said sir richard, waking from his reverie and shaking his head. "but we must have patience too; and it will not be well for the boy to irritate his father too greatly. tomorrow i will go to the gate house and see my uncle, and speak for the boy. he ought to have the liberty of the law, and the law bids all men attend the services of the established church. but it is ill work reasoning with a papist of his type; and short of reporting the case to the authorities, meaning more persecution for my unlucky kinsman, i know not what may be done." "we must strive so to win upon him by gentle means that he permits his children free intercourse with ours," said gentle lady frances from her seat by the glowing hearth. "it seems to me that that is all we may hope to achieve in the present. perchance as days and weeks pass by we may find a way to that hard and flinty heart." "and whilst we wait it may well be that cuthbert will be goaded to desperation, or be done to death by his remorseless sire," answered impetuous kate, who loved not counsels of prudence. "methinks that waiting is an ill game. i would never wait were i a man. i would always aet--ay, even in the teeth of deadly peril. sure the greatest deeds have been achieved by men of action, not by men of counsel and prudence." sir richard smiled, as he stroked her hair, and told her she should have lived a hundred or so years back, when it was the fashion to do and dare regardless of consequences. and gradually the talk drifted away from the inmates of the old gate house, though philip was quite resolved to pay an early visit there on the morrow, and learn how it had fared with his cousin. supper followed in due course, and was a somewhat lengthy meal. then the ladies retired to the stately apartment they had been in before, and the mother read a homily to her daughters, which was listened to with dutiful attention. but kate's bright eyes were often bent upon the casement of one window, the curtain of which she had drawn back with her own hand before sitting down; and as the moon rose brighter and brighter in the sky and bathed the world without in its clear white beams, she seemed to grow a little restless, and tapped the floor with the point of her dainty shoe. kate trevlyn was a veritable sprite for her love of the open air, by night as well as day, in winter cold as well as summer heat. "the night bird" was one of her father's playful names for her, and if ever she was able to slip away on a fine night, nothing delighted her more than to wander about in the park and the woods, listening to the cries of the owls and night jars, watching the erratic flight of the bats, and admiring the grand beauty of the sleeping world as it lay beneath the rays of the peaceful moon. as the reading ceased, a step on the terrace without told kate that philip was out for an evening stroll. gliding from the room with her swift undulating motion, and quickly donning cloak and clogs, she slipped after him and joined him before he had got many yards from the house. "take me with thee, philip," she said. "it is a lovely night for a stroll. i should love to visit the chantry; it looks most witching at this hour of the night." they took the path that led thither. the great clock in the tower had boomed the hour of eight some time since. the moon had shaken itself free from the veil of cloud, and was sailing majestically in the sky. as they descended the path, kate suddenly laid her hand on her brother's arm, and whispered: "hist! methinks i hear the sound of steps. surely there is some one approaching us from below!" philip paused and listened. yes, kate's quick ears had not deceived her. there was the sound of a footstep advancing towards them along the lonely tangled path. philip instinctively felt for the pistol he always carried in his belt, for there were often doubtful and sometimes desperate men in hiding in woods and lonely places; but before he had time to do more than feel if the weapon were safe, kate had darted suddenly from his side, and was speeding down the path. "marry but it is cuthbert!" she called back to him as he bid her stop, and philip himself started forward to meet and greet the newcomer. "we have been talking of you and wondering how it fared with you," he said, as they reached the side of the youth "i am right glad to see you here tonight." cuthbert did not answer for a moment. he seemed to pant for breath. a ray of moonlight striking down upon his face showed it to be deadly white. his attitude bespoke the extreme of fatigue and weakness. "why, there is something amiss with you!" cried philip, taking his cousin by the arm. "some evil hap has befallen you." "his father has half killed him, i trow!" cried kate, with sudden energy. "he could not else have received injury in these few hours. speak, cuthbert; tell us! is it not so?" "i have been something rough handled," answered the lad in a low voice; "but i did not feel it greatly till i began to climb the hill. "i thank you, good philip. i will be glad of your arm. but i am better already." "you look like a veritable ghost," said kate, still brimming over with pity and indignation. "what did that miserable man do to you?" "why, naught that he has not done a score of times before--tied me to the pillar and flogged me like a dog. only he laid his blows on something more fiercely than is his wont, and doubled the number of them. perchance he had some sort of inkling that it was his last chance, and used it accordingly." the bare trees did not screen the beams of the moon, and both philip and kate could see the expression on cuthbert's face. what they read there caused kate to ask suddenly and eagerly: "what meanest thou by that, cuthbert? what plan hast thou in thine head?" "why, a mighty simple one--so simple that i marvel i have not carried it out before. i could not live worse were i to beg my bread from door to door, and i should at least have my liberty; and if whipped for a vagabond, should scarce be so badly used as my father uses me. moreover, i have a pair of strong arms and some book learning; and i trow i need never sink to beggary. i mind not what i do. i will dig the fields sooner than be worse treated than a dog. my mind is made up. i have left my father's house never to return. i am going forth into the world to see what may befall me there, certain that nothing can be worse than what i have left behind." "thou hast run away from thy cruel father? marry, that is good hearing!" cried kate, with sparkling eyes. "i marvel we had none of us thought of that plan ourselves; it is excellent." "it seemed the one thing left--the only thing possible. i could not endure such thralldom longer," answered cuthbert, speaking wearily, for he was in truth well nigh worn out with the tumult of his own feelings and the savage treatment he had received. "but i know not if i shall accomplish it even now. my father may discover my flight, pursue and bring me back. this very day i asked to leave his house, and he refused to let me go. if he overtakes me i shall be shut up in strait confinement; i shall be punished sorely for this night's work. i must make shift to put as many miles as may be betwixt myself and the gate house tonight." "nay, thou shalt do no such thing!" answered kate, quickly and warmly. "i have a better plan than that. thou shalt come home with us. my good father will gladly give thee shelter and protection. thou shalt remain in hiding with us till the hue and cry (if there be any) shall be over past, and till thy wounds be healed and thou hast regained thy strength and spirit; and then thou shalt start forth reasonably equipped to seek thy fortune in the world; and if thou wilt go to merry london, as i would were i a man with mine own fortune to carve out, methinks i can give thee a letter to one there that will secure thee all that thou needest in the present, and may lead to advancement and good luck." kate's thoughts always worked like magic. no sooner was an idea formed in her busy brain than she saw the whole story unwinding itself in glowing colours; and to hear her bright chatter as the three pursued their way to the house, one would have thought her cousin's fortune already made. a soft red glow had stolen into her cheeks as she had spoken of the missive she could furnish, and philip gave her a quick glance, a smile crossing his face. cuthbert was too faint and bewildered to take in all the sense of kate's words, but he understood that for the moment he was to be cared for and concealed, and that was enough. philip echoed his sister's invitation to his father's house as his first stage on his journey, and all that the lad remembered of the next few hours was the dancing of lights before his dazzled eyes, the sound of friendly voices in his ears, and the gentle ministrations of kindly hands, as he was helped to bed and cosseted up, and speedily made so comfortable that he fell off almost immediately into a calm refreshing sleep that was like to be the best medicine he could have. when sir richard rejoined his family, it was with a stern expression on his face. "the boy has been grossly maltreated," he said. "it is no mere paternal chastisement he has received this day, but such a flogging as none but the lowest vagabond would receive at the hands of the law. the very bone is in one place laid bare, and there be many traces of savage handling before this. were he not mine own uncle, bearing mine own name, i would not let so gross an outrage pass. but at least we can do this much--shelter the lad and send him forth, when he is fit for the saddle, in such sort that he may reach london in easy fashion, as becomes one of his race. the lad has brains and many excellent qualities. there is no reason why he should not make his way in life." "if he can be cured of his papist beliefs," said lady frances; "but no man holding them gets on in these days, and cuthbert has been bred up in the very worst of such tenets." "so bad that he is half disgusted with them before he can rightly say why," answered sir richard with a smile. "there is too much hatred and bitterness in nicholas trevlyn's religion to endear it to his children. the boy has had the wit to see that the established church of the land uses the same creeds and holds the same cardinal doctrines as he has been bred up in. for the pope he cares no whit; his british blood causes him to think scorn of any foreign potentate, temporal or spiritual. he has the making of a good churchman in him. he only wants training and teaching. methinks it were no bad thing to send him to his mother's kindred for that. they are as stanch to the one party as old nicholas to the other. the lad will learn all he needs there of argument and controversy, and will be able to weigh the new notions against the old. "verily, the more i think of it the better i like the plan. he is scarce fit for a battle with the world on his own account. food and shelter and a home of some sort will be welcome to him whilst he tries the strength of his wings and fits them for a wider flight." "his mother's kindred," repeated kate quickly, and with a shade of hauteur in her manner. "why, father, i have ever thought that on their mother's side our cousins had little cause to be proud of their parentage. was not their mother--" "the daughter of a wool stapler, one martin holt, foster brother to my venerated father, the third earl of andover," said lady frances, quietly. "truly, my daughter, these good folks are not in birth our equal, and would be the first to say so; nevertheless they are worthy and honest people, and i can remember that bridget, my mother's maid, who astonished us and deeply offended her relations by a sudden and ill-judged marriage with nicholas trevlyn, was a wonderfully well-looking woman. how and why such a marriage was made none may rightly know now. i can remember that the dark-browed nicholas, who was but little loved at our house, took some heed to this girl, greatly younger than himself, though herself of ripening age when she let herself be persuaded into that loveless wedlock. it was whispered that he had made a convert of her; the jesuits and seminary priests were hard at work, striving to win back their lost power by increasing the number of their flock and recruiting from all classes of the people. nicholas was then a blind tool in the hands of these men, and i always suspected that this was one of his chief motives for so ill judged a step. at any rate, bridget pronounced herself a romanist, and was married by a priest of that church according to its laws. her family cast her off, and nicholas would let us have no dealings with her. poor bridget! i trow she lived to rue the day; and the change of her faith was but a passing thing, for i know she returned to her old beliefs when time had allowed her to see things more clearly. "but to return to the beginning. if bridget's brother, martin holt, yet lives and carries on his father's business, as is most like, on london bridge, his house would be no bad shelter for this poor lad, who will scarce have means or breeding as yet to take his place with those of higher quality." "that is very true," said sir richard. "the lad is a right honest lad, and his gentle blood shows in a thousand little ways; but his upbringing has not fitted him for mingling with the high ones of the world, and it would be well for him to rub off something of his rustic shyness and awkwardness ere he tries to cut a fine figure. i doubt not that martin holt would receive his sister's son." "a wool stapler!" muttered kate, with a slight pout of her pretty lips. "i was going to have sent him to culverhouse with a letter, to see what he would do for my cousin." "lord culverhouse could not do much," answered her father, with a smile. "he is but a stripling himself, and has his own way yet to make. and remember too, dear lady disdain, that in these times of change and upheaval it boots not to speak thus scornfully of honest city folks, be they wool staplers or what you will, who gain their wealth by trading on the high seas and with foreign lands. bethink you that even the king himself, despite his fine phrases on divine right, has to sue something humbly to his good citizens of london and his lowlier subjects for those very supplies that insure his kingly pomp. so, saucy girl, put not into young cuthbert's head notions that ill befit one who has naught to call his own save the clothes upon his back. if he goes to these kinsfolk, as i believe it will be well for him to do, it will behove him to go right humbly and reverently. remember this in talking with him. it were an ill thing to do to teach him to despise the home where his mother first saw light, and the kinsfolks who are called by her name." kate's sound sense and good feeling showed her the truth of her father's words, and she dutifully promised not to transgress; but she did not altogether relish the thought of the prospect in store for her cousin, and as she went upstairs with bessie to the comfortable bed chamber they shared together, she whispered, with a mischievous light dancing in her eyes: "ah, it is one thing for the grave and reverend elders to plan, but it is another for the young to obey. methinks cuthbert will need no hint from me to despise the home of the honest wool stapler. he has been bred in woods and forests. he has the blood of the trevlyns in his veins. i trow the shop on london bridge will have small charms for him. were it me, i would sooner--tenfold sooner--join myself to one of those bands of freebooters who ravage the roads, and fatten upon sleek and well-fed travellers, than content myself with the pottering life of a trader! ah, we shall see, we shall see! i will keep my word to my father. but for all that i scarce think that when cuthbert starts forth again it will be for london bridge that he will be bound!" chapter : the lost treasure. "and so it is to london thou wilt go--to the worthy wool stapler on the bridge?" and kate, mindful of her promise to her parents, strove to suppress the little grimace with which she was disposed to accompany her words--"at least so my father saith." "yes: he has been giving me good counsel, and methinks that were a good beginning. i would gladly see london. men talk of its wonders, and i can but sit and gape. i am aweary of the life of the forest--the dreary life of the gate house. in london i shall see men--books--all the things my heart yearns after. and my mother's kindred will scarce deny me a home with them till i can find somewhat to do; albeit i barely know so much as their name, and my father has held no manner of communication with them these many years." "perchance they will not receive thee," suggested kate, with a laughing look in her eyes. "then, good cuthbert, thou wilt be forced to trust to thine own mother wit for a livelihood. then perchance thou wilt not despise my poor little letter to my good cousin lord culverhouse." "despise aught of yours, sweet kate! who has dared to say such a thing?" asked cuthbert hotly. "any missive delivered to my keeping by your hands shall be doubly precious. i will deliver it without fail, be it to mine own advancement or no." "belike i shall claim your good offices yet, master letter carrier," answered kate, with a laugh and a blush; "and i trow my cousin will like you none the less for being bearer of my epistle. but i am not to commend you to his good graces, as once i meant. it is to your relatives you are first to look for help. it is like rubbing the bloom off a ripe peach--all the romance is gone in a moment! i had hoped that a career of adventure and glory lay before you, and behold the goal is a home beneath a wool stapler's roof!" but there kate caught herself up and blushed, bethinking what her parents would say could they hear her words. but cuthbert did not read the underlying scorn in merry kate's tones. he was a very simple-minded youth, and his life and training had not been such as to teach him much about the various grades in the world, or how greatly these grades differed one from the other. he was looking at his cousin's bright face with thoughtful, questioning eyes, so much so that the girl asked him of what he was thinking. "marry of thee, mistress kate," he answered; for though encouraged to speak on terms of equality with his kinsfolk, he found some difficulty in remembering to do so, and they certainly appeared to him in the light of beings from another and a higher sphere than his own. "i was longing to ask of thee a question." "ask on, good master cuthbert," was the ready reply; "i will answer to the best of my humble ability." "i have heard of this lord culverhouse from many beneath this roof since i have been here. i would fain know who he is." "that is easy told. he is the eldest son of mine uncle, my mother's brother, the fourth earl of andover. his eldest son bears the title of viscount culverhouse, and he is, of course, our cousin. when we were in london we saw much of these relatives of ours, and were grieved to part from them when we left. now, is it understood?" "yes, verily. and tell me this one thing more, fair cousin, if it be not a malapert question. is it not true that thou art to wed with this lord culverhouse one day?" kate's face was dyed by a most becoming blush. her eyes sparkled in a charming fashion. her expression, half arch, half grave, was bewitching to see, but she laid her fingers on her lips as she whispered: "hush, hush! who told thee that, good cuthbert? methinks thou hast over-sharp eyes and ears." "i prithee pardon me if i have seen and heard too much," answered cuthbert; "but i had a fancy--" he stopped, stammering, blushing, and kate took pity on his confusion. "i am not vexed," she said, smiling; "and in very sooth thou hast divined what is in part the truth. but we do not dare talk of it yet. there be so many weighty matters against us." cuthbert looked keenly interested. he was very fond of this sprightly cousin of his, who was so amusing, so kindly, and so sisterly in her ways. she had more ease of manner, as well as brightness of temperament, than her sisters, and her company had been a source of great pleasure to him. the girl saw the look of sympathetic curiosity upon his face, and she drew her chair a little nearer to that which he occupied, stirring up the logs upon the glowing hearth into a brighter blaze. "i' faith, cuthbert, i will gladly tell thee all there is to know, it is not much; and i like thee well, and trust thee to boot. nor is it such a mighty secret that culverhouse would fain make me his bride, and that i would give myself to him tomorrow an i might. i am not ashamed of loving him," cried the girl, her dark eyes flashing as she threw hack her dainty head with a gesture of pride and womanly dignity, "for he is a right noble gentleman, and worthy of any maiden's love; but whether we shall ever be united in wedlock--ah, that is a vastly different matter!" and she heaved a quick little sigh. "but wherefore not?" asked cuthbert quickly. "where could he find a more beauteous or worthy wife?" kate gave him a little bow of acknowledgment for his compliment, but her face was slightly more grave as she made answer: "it is not, alack! a question of dislike to me. were that all, i might hope to win the favour of stern hearts, and bring the matter to a happy conclusion. but no; mine uncle of andover likes me well. he openly says as much, and he has been a kind friend to us. and yet i may not wed his son; and his kindness makes it the harder for culverhouse to do aught to vex or defy him." "but why may you not?" asked cuthbert quickly. "there be more reasons than one, but i will tell you all in brief. my own father mislikes the thought of the match, for that we are cousins of the first degree; and though we trevlyns of the older branch no longer call ourselves the servants and followers of rome, yet old traditions linger long in the blood, and my father has always set his face against a marriage betwixt cousins nearest akin." cuthbert looked thoughtful. that certainly was a difficulty hard to be got over. he made no comment, but merely asked: "and my lord of andover--is that the objection with him?" "not near so much. he would easily overlook that. there are no such strict rules with protestants, and his family have been for many generations of the reformed faith. but there is just as weighty an argument on his side--namely, that my father can give me but a scanty dower, and it is a very needful thing for culverhouse to wed with one who will fill his coffers with broad gold pieces. the trevlyns, as thou doubtless knowest, have been sorely impoverished ever since the loss of the treasure. my father can give no rich dower with his daughters; wherefore they be no match for the nobles of the land. oh, why was that treasure lost? why could no man be wise enough to trace and find it, when sure there must have been many in the secret? now that a generation has gone by, what hope is there left? but for that loss my lord of andover would have welcomed me gladly. the lost treasure of trevlyn has much to answer for." kate spoke half laughingly, half impatiently, and tapped the rush-strewn floor with the point of her shoe. into cuthbert's eyes a sudden light had sprung, and leaning forward in the firelight, he laid his hand upon his cousin's. "kate," he said, in a low voice, "i have said naught of it before--i feared it would sound but an idle boast, an idle dream; but i am pledged to the search after the lost treasure. if it yet lies hid, as men say it does, cuthbert trevlyn will find it." kate gazed at him with wide-open eyes; but there was no trace of mockery in them, rather an eager delight and excitement that was in itself encouragement and stimulus. "cuthbert, what meanest thou?" "verily no more and no less than i say. listen, kate. i too am a like sufferer with others of the race of trevlyn. i have nor wealth, nor hope, nor future, save what i may carve out for myself; and my heritage, as well as yours, lies buried somewhere in these great woods, no man may say where. it came upon me as i sat in pain and darkness, the last hour i passed beneath my father's roof, that this might be the work given to me to do--to restore to the house of trevlyn the treasure whose loss has been so sore a blow. i said as much to my sister when we bid each other adieu in the moonlit chantry; and she bid me, ere i started on the quest, come hither to you and ask the story of that loss. we know but little ourselves; our father tells us naught, and it is but a word here and a word there we have gathered. but you know--" "we know well. we have been told the story by our mother from the days of our childhood. i trow we know all there is to know. why hast thou not asked before, cuthbert?" the lad blushed a little at the question. "methought it would sound but folly in your ears," he said. "it was easier to speak to petronella in the dark chantry. kate, wilt thou tell me all thou knowest of this lost treasure? how and wherefore was it lost, and why has no man since been able to find it?" "ay, wherefore? that is what we all ask," answered kate, with eyes that flashed and glowed. "when we were children and stayed once a few months here, we spent days together scouring the woods and digging after it. we were sure we should succeed where others had failed; but the forest yet keeps its secret, and the treasure has never seen the light. again and yet again have i said to philip that were i a man i would never rest till it was found. but he shakes his wise head and says that our grandfather and father and many another have wasted time and expended large sums of money on the work of discovery, and without success. all of our name begin to give credence to the story that the concealed treasure was found and spirited away by the gipsy folks, who hated our house, and that it has long since been carried beyond the seas and melted into coin there. father and philip alike believe that the trevlyns will see it again no more." "dost thou believe that, too?" "nay, not i. i believe it will yet come back to us, albeit not without due search and travail and labour. o cuthbert, thy words rejoice me. would i were a man, to fare forth with thee on the quest! what wilt thou do? how wilt thou begin? and how canst thou search for the lost treasure an thou goest to thine uncle's house in london?" "i must fain do that for a while," answered cuthbert; "i dare not linger so close to my father's home at this time. moreover, the winter is fast coming upon us, when the ground will be deep in snow, and no man not bred to it could make shift to live in the forest. to london must i go first. i trow the time will not be wasted; for i will earn money in honest fashion, that i may have the wherewithal to live when i go to seek this lost treasure. "and now, my cousin, tell me all the tale. i know not rightly how the treasure was lost, and i have never heard of the gipsy folks or their hatred to our house. it behoves me to know all ere i embark on the quest." "yea, verily; and i will tell thee all i know. thou knowest well that of old the trevlyns were stanch sons to the church of rome, and that in the days of bloody mary, as men call her now (and well she merits the name), the trevlyns helped might and main in hunting down wretched protestants and sending them to prison and the stake?" "i have heard my father speak of these things," answered cuthbert, with a light shudder, calling to mind his father's fierce and terrible descriptions of the scenes he had witnessed and taken part in during those short but fearful years of mary's reign, "but i knew not it had aught to do with the loss of the treasure." "it had this much to do," answered kate, "that my grandfather and your father, who of course were brothers, were so vehemently hated by the protestant families, many of whose members had been betrayed to death by their means--your father in particular was relentless in his efforts to hunt down and spy out miserable victims--that when the queen was known to be dead, and her successor and protestant sister had been proclaimed in london, the trevlyns felt that they had cause to tremble for their own safety. they had stirred up relentless enmity by their own relentless conduct, and the sudden turn in fortune's wheel had given these enemies the upper hand." "ah!" breathed cuthbert, "i begin to see." "the trevlyns had not served the bloody queen and her minions without reward," continued kate, with flashing eyes; "they had heaped together no small treasure whilst this traffic in treachery had been going on, and in many cases the valuables of the victims they had betrayed to death had passed into the keeping of the betrayer. "oh, it is a detestable thing to think of!" cried the girl, stamping her foot. "no wonder the judgment of god fell upon that unhallowed treasure, and that it was taken from its possessors! no wonder it was doomed to lie hidden away till those who had gotten it had passed to their last account, and could never enjoy the ill-gotten gain. and they were punished too--ay, they were well punished. they were fined terrible sums; they had to give back sums equal to the spoil they had filched from others. thy father, as thou knowest, was ruined; and we still feel that pinch of poverty that will be slow to depart altogether from our house. yet it serves us right--it serves us right! it is meet that the children should suffer for the sins of their parents. i have not complained, and i will not complain;" and kate threw back her head, whilst her eyes flashed with the stress of her feeling. "but the treasure?" questioned cuthbert, eager to know more; "i have not yet heard how it was lost." thus recalled to her subject, kate took up her narrative again. "you doubtless know that queen mary died in november of the year of grace fifteen hundred and fifty-eight. in that year, some months earlier, my father was born, and at the time of the proclamation of the new queen he was a tender infant. my grandfather was in london about the court, and his wife and child were here in this house--the sumptuous mansion he and his father had built--not dreaming of harm or ill. they had not heard of the death of one queen or the proclamation of the other till one dark winter's night when, just as the household were about to retire to bed, my grandfather and your father, cuthbert, arrived at the house, their faces pale with anxiety and apprehension, their clothes stained with travel; the state of both riders and horses showing the speed with which they had travelled, and betraying plainly that something urgent had happened. the news was quickly told. queen mary was dead. bonfires in london streets were blazing in honour of elizabeth. the protestants were everywhere in a transport of joy and triumph. the papists were trembling for their lives and for their fortunes. no one knew the policy of the new queen. all felt that it was like enough she would inflict bloody chastisement on those who had been the enemies of herself and of her protestant subjects. even as the trevlyn brothers had passed through the streets of the city on their way out, they had been hissed and hooted and even pelted by the crowd, some amongst which knew well the part they had played in the recent persecutions. they had been not a little alarmed by threats and menaces hurled at them even in the precincts of st. james's, and it had become very plain to them that they would speedily become the objects of private if not of public vengeance. that being so, my grandfather was eager and anxious to return to the chase, to place his wife and child in some place of safety; whilst your father's fear was all for the treasure in gold and plate and valuables stored up in the house, which might well fall an easy prey to the rapacious hands of spoilers, should such (as was but too likely) swoop down upon the house to strive to recover the jewels and gold taken from them when they were helpless to oppose or resent such spoliation." "then it was all laid by at the chase--all the money and precious things taken from others?" "yes, and a vast quantity of silver and gold plate which had come into the possession of former trevlyns ever since the rise of the family in the early days of the tudors. the seventh henry and the eighth alike enriched our forefathers, and i know not what wealth was stored up in the treasure room of this house now so drearily void. but i mind well the story our grandam told us when we were little children, standing at her knee in the ruddy firelight, of that night when all this treasure was packed up in great chests and boxes, and carried at dead of night by trusty servants into the heart of the forest, and buried beneath a certain giant oak many times pointed out to us, and well-nigh killed in after years by the diggings around it in search of the missing hoard. to secure this treasure, and bury it out of the reach of rapacious and covetous hands, was the aim and object of that hurried journey taken on the evening of the queen's decease. none were in the secret save three old servants, whose faithful loyalty to the family had been tested in a thousand different ways. those three, together with my grandfather and your father, packed and transported with their own hands this great treasure into the wood, and there entombed it. none else knew of that night's work. no other eye saw what was done. they worked the whole night through, and by the tardy dawn all was done, and even the soil of the forest so cleverly arranged that none could guess at the existence of that deep grave. and who would guess the secret of that tangled forest? even were it thought that the gold and silver had been hid, who would have such skill as to guess the spot, and go and filch it thence? and yet it must have been carried away full soon. for nicholas trevlyn, in his anxious greed, visited the spot not many weeks later--visited it by stealth, for he and his brother were alike in hiding, waiting for the first burst of vengeful fury to be over--and he found it gone! he thought on the first survey that all was well; but on more closely examining the ground his heart misgave him, for it appeared to him as if the soil had been moved. with anxious haste he began to dig, and soon his spade struck the lid of one of the chests. for a moment he breathed again; but he was impelled to carry his search farther. he uncovered the chest and raised the lid--it was empty! in a wild fear and fury he dug again and again, and with the same result. every chest or box was in its place, but every one was empty! the treasure had been spirited away by some spoiler's hand; the treasure of trevlyn was lost from that night forward!" cuthbert was leaning forward drinking all in with eager curiosity. "my father discovered the loss--my father?" kate nodded her head, and seemed to divine the thought in his mind, for she answered as if he had spoken it aloud. "we have all thought of that. i know it is sometimes in my father's mind as he looks at his kinsman's grim face; but our grand sire never suspected him for a moment--nay, he vowed he was certain he had had no part nor lot in the matter. for there was nothing but accord between the brothers; they shared good and evil hap alike. it was with his son, my father, who abjured the old faith and became a protestant, that your father picked a quarrel. he hated his brother's wife, it is true; but he never appeared to hate his brother. and he suffered more than any in the years that followed. he lost his all, and has been a ruined man since. if he had a secret hoard, sure he would scarce live the life he does now." "i know not. it seems scarce like; and yet i can never answer for my father's moods, they are so wild and strange. but there is yet one thing more i would ask. you spoke awhile ago of gipsies--of a hatred they bore to our house. tell me of that, i pray. might it have somewhat to do with the stealing of the treasure?" "that is what some have thought, though with what truth none can say. the story of that is soon told. many long years agone now, the trevlyn whose portrait hangs below in the hall--our great grandfather--gave sentence upon an old gipsy woman that she should be burnt as a witch. men said of her that she had overlooked their children and their cattle: that the former had become sick or silly, and that the latter had incontinently died of diseases none had heard of before. there was such a hue and cry about her, and so many witnesses to testify the harm she had done, that all men held the case proven, and she was burnt in the sight of all the village out upon the common yonder by order of our forefather, whose office it was to see the law enforced. there were then many of these gipsy folk scattered about the common and forest, and this old witch belonged to them. they mustered strong upon the heath, and it was said that if the villagers had not been too strong for them they would have rescued the witch as she was led out to die. but the trevlyns, when a thing has to be done, are wont to carry it through; and your grandfather, cuthbert, was prepared against any such attempt, and the thing was done as had been decreed. the old woman went bravely to her death, but she turned as she passed sir richard and cursed him with a terrible curse. later on some rude verses were found fastened to the wall of the church, and it was said by those who had heard the curse that these verses contained the same words. the paper was burnt by the haughty knight; but my grandam remembered some of the lines--she had got a sight of the paper--and used to tell them to us. i cannot recall them to memory now, but there was something about loss of gold and coming woe, years of strife and vengeful foe. and when years after the trevlyn treasure was lost, there were many who vowed that it had been the work of the gipsy tribe, who had never forgotten or forgiven, and who had been waiting their turn to take vengeance upon the descendants of their old enemy." "it seems not unlike," said cuthbert, thoughtfully; "and if that be so, the treasure will most like be dissipated to the four winds by now. it would be divided amongst the tribe, and never be seen within the walls of trevlyn again." "that i know not," answered kate, and she drew a little nearer to her cousin. "cuthbert, dost thou believe in old saws? dost thou believe those predictions which run in old families, and which men say work themselves out sometimes--in after generations?" "i scarce know," answered cuthbert, "i hear so little and see so little. i know not why they should not be true. men of old used to look into the future, and why not now? but why speakest thou thus, sweet cousin?" "marry that will i tell thee, cuthbert; but my mother chides me for such talk, and says it befits not a discreet and godly maiden. yet i had it from mine own grandam, my father's mother, and she was a godly woman, too." "and what did she tell thee?" "my grandam was a wyvern," said kate, "as perchance thou knowest, since the match pleased not thy father. and she was not the first wyvern who had married a trevlyn. it was isabel wyvern, her aunt, who had wedded with the redoubtable sir richard who had burnt the old witch, and i trow had he been married when the old beldam was brought before him he would have dealt more mercifully with her; for the wyverns ever protected and helped the gipsy folk, and thought better of them than the rest of the world. well, be that as it may, my grandam had many stories about them and their strange ways, their fashion of fortune telling and divining, and the wonderful things they could foretell. many a time had a wyvern been saved from danger and perhaps from death by a timely warning from one of the gipsy folk; and from a child she went fearlessly amongst them, though all men else shunned and hated them." "but the prediction--the prediction?" demanded cuthbert eagerly. "i am coming to that," answered kate. "it is a prediction about the descendants of the wyverns. my grandam knew it by heart--she had a wondrous memory--but my mother would never let me write down such things. she loved them not, and said they had better be forgotten. but though i cannot recall the words, the meaning stays still with me. it was that though death might thin the ranks of the wyverns, and their name even die out amongst men, yet in the future they should bring good hap to those who wed with them, and that some great treasure trove should come to the descendants in another generation. now, cuthbert, though the name of wyvern has died out--for the sons went to the spanish main, and were killed fighting for the honour of england and the queen in the days of elizabeth; and the daughters are married, and have lost their title to the old name--yet thou and i have their blood in our veins. your grandam and mine were alike of the house of wyvern. wherefore it seems to me that if this treasure is to be the treasure trove of the old saw, it behoves some of us to find it, and why not thou as well as another? philip is like to our mother, who loves not and believes not such saws. our father says that if stolen the treasure must long since have been scattered and lost. of all our house methinks i am the only one who believes it will yet be found, as i know my grandam did. and so i say to thee, 'go forth, and good hap attend thee.' thou art as much a wyvern as i, and we will have faith that all will be yet restored." cuthbert rose to his feet and shook back his hair. his dark eyes flashed with the fixity of his purpose. "i will never despair till the treasure is found. prithee, good cousin, show me the spot where it was buried first." cuthbert never stirred outside the house till after dark. he was still in hiding from his father, who knew not his whereabouts, and was still on the watch for the truant, believing him to be lurking about in the forest around his home. philip had once contrived to see petronella and soothe her fears, telling her that her brother was safe, and would be sent forth to their kinsfolk in london so soon as he was fit for the long ride. but many evening rambles had been taken by the youth, who panted for the freedom of the forest, to which he was so well used; and kate delighted in any excuse for a moonlight stroll. the place was soon found. kate had visited it so often that the tangled path which led thither was as familiar to her as if it had been a well-beaten road. it lay right away in the very heart of the forest, and save for the majestic size of the oak beneath which the chests had been buried, had nothing to mark the spot. now there were traces of much digging. the ground all around had been disturbed again and yet again by eager searchers, each hopeful to come upon some clue missed by all the rest. but nothing, save the remains of a few iron-bound chests, served to show that anything had once been secreted there; and the moonlight shone steadily and peacefully down upon the scene of so many heart-burnings and grievous disappointments, as though such things did not and could not exist in such a still and lovely place. "ah, if she would but tell us all she has seen!" said kate, looking up towards the silver queen of night. but the moon kept her own secret, and presently the pair turned away. "shall we go back by the chantry?" asked cuthbert, with some hesitation; "i should like to see it once again." "let us," answered kate; "we are not like to meet thy father. he has given up by now his watch around the house. moreover, i have eyes and ears like a wildcat. none can approach unawares upon us. i can feel a human presence ere i see it." cuthbert did not lack courage, and was quite willing to chance the small risk there was of an encounter with his father. he felt that he could slip away unseen were that stern man to be on the watch. each day that had passed beneath his uncle's roof had helped him to realize more of the freedom of the subject; and very soon he would be beyond the reach of pursuit, and on his way to london. as they approached the chantry kate laid a hand upon his arm. "hist!" she said softly. "pause a moment; i hear voices!" he stopped instantly; and making a sign of caution to him, kate glided a few steps onward. then she paused again, and made a sign to him to come. "it is all well--there is no fear. it is philip and petronella." "petronella, my sister! nay, but this is a happy chance!" cried cuthbert, springing eagerly forward; and the next moment petronella, with a little cry of mingled joy and fear, had flung herself into her brother's arms. "cuthbert, dear cuthbert! how i have longed to see thee once again! hast thou come to say farewell?" "in truth, methinks it must be farewell," answered cuthbert, holding her tenderly to him, whilst he caressed her hair and her soft cheek with his hand. "i may not linger too long in my kind uncle's house, lest the matter should come to my father's ears, and a worse breach be made that might cause thee to suffer more, sweet sister. and now, since i may be faring forth tomorrow, tell me of thyself. how go matters at the gate house? what said our father to my flight?" "he is right furious thereat, and raged for two days like a madman, so that i durst not venture near him." "he laid no hand on thee?" asked cuthbert quickly clinching his hand in the darkness. "nay, he did but threaten; but as i told him all i knew, he could do no more. i said that thou hadst fled--that thou couldst brook such a life no longer, and had told him so many times thyself. i did not know myself where thou hadst gone when first he spoke, and he has asked me no question since. tell me not too much, lest i have to tell it to him." "nay, once in london and i fear him not," answered cuthbert. "there the law would protect me, since my father's only complaint against me is that i conform to that. i go first to our mother's relatives, sweet sister, they will give me food and shelter and a home, i trow, during the inclement months of the winter now before us. later on "--he bent his head and whispered in her ear--"later on, if kind fortune befriend me, i shall return to these parts and commence that search of which we have spoken before now. my sister, if thou canst glean anything from our father anent the treasure, when his less gloomy moods be upon him, store up in thine heart every word, for some think even yet that he knows more than others. i am sad at heart to leave thee in such a home! i would fain take thee with me." "nay, that may not be. i should be but a stay and a burden; and i can help thee better here at home by my prayers. i will pray each hour of the day that the holy virgin will watch over thee and bless thee, and give us a happy meeting in the days to come." "and i will charge myself to watch over petronella," said philip, stepping forward out of the shadow. "i will be a protector--a brother--to her whilst thou art away. she shall not feel too heavily her harsh father's rule. amongst us we will find a way to ease her of a part of that burden." the glance turned upon philip by those big shadowy eyes told a tale of trustful confidence that set the young man's heart beating in glad response. he took in his the little hand trustingly held out, and drew petronella towards him. "you will trust her to me, good cuthbert?" "gladly, thankfully, confidently!" answered the lad, with great earnestness; and he thought within himself that if he had the whole of the trevlyn treasure to lay at the feet of these kinsmen, it could hardly be enough to express his gratitude to them for their timely and generous help in his hour of sore need. "i will win it back--i will, i will!" he said in his heart, as he walked up the hill with kate tripping lightly beside him, philip having lingered to watch petronella safely within the shelter of the gloomy walls of the gate house. "she shall have her dower, that she may wed this gay lord culverhouse. my sweet sister shall be dowered, too, and in no danger of spending all her youth and sweetness shut up between those gloomy walls. fortune will smile once more upon all those who have the blood of the trevlyns and wyverns in their veins. i believe in the old prediction. i believe that the treasure trove will come, and that it will prove to be the lost treasure of the house of trevlyn!" chapter : a night on hammerton heath. "farewell, cuthbert, farewell, farewell! heaven speed you on your way! we shall look for tidings of you some day. and when the long summer days come upon the green world, perchance you may even make shift to ride or walk the twenty miles that separates us from london to tell of your own well being and ask of ours." these and many like words were showered on cuthbert as he sat his steed at the door of trevlyn chase, as the dusk was beginning to gather, and his uncle and cousins stood clustered together on the steps to see him ride forth to seek his fortune, as kate insisted on calling it, though her father spoke of it rather as a visit to his mother's kinsfolks. cuthbert had been very loath to go. he had found himself happier beneath his uncle's roof than ever he had been before (sir richard was in point of fact his cousin, but the lad had given him the title of uncle out of respect, and now never thought of him as anything else), but he knew that to linger long would be neither safe nor possible. only his strange and savage life had prevented the news of his son's present quarters from coming to the knowledge of the angry nicholas, and all were feeling it better for the young man to take his departure. now the moment of parting had really come, and already the hope of a flying visit to the chase in the summer next to follow was the brightest thought to lighten the regrets of the present. "ay, that will i gladly do!" cried the lad, with kindling eyes. "why, twenty miles is naught of a journey when one can rise with the midsummer sun. i trow i shall pine after the forest tracks again. i shall have had enough and to spare of houses and cities by the time the summer solstice is upon us." "we shall look for you, we shall wait for you!" cried kate, waving her hand; and as it was fast growing dark, sir richard made a sign of dismissal and farewell, and cuthbert moved slowly along the dark avenue, philip walking beside his bridle rein for a few last words. cuthbert would have liked his sister to have seen him go forth, but that was not thought advisable. he wore an old riding suit of philip's, which had fitted the latter before his shoulders had grown so broad and his figure assumed its present manly proportions. it suited cuthbert well, and in spite of its having seen some service from its former owner, was a far better and handsomer dress than anything he had ever worn before, his own meagre wardrobe and few possessions were packed in the saddlebag across the saddle. his uncle had made no attempt to send him out equipped as a relative of the house of trevlyn, and cuthbert was glad that there should be no false seeming as to his condition when he appeared at martin holt's door. sir richard had given him at parting a small purse containing a couple of gold pieces and a few silver crowns, and had told him that he might in london sell the nag he bestrode and keep the price himself. he was not an animal of any value, and had already seen his best days, but he would carry cuthbert soberly and safely to london town; and as the lad was still somewhat weak from his father's savage treatment, he was not sorry to be spared the long tramp over the deep mud of winter roads. "i would not have you travel far tonight," said philip, as he paced beside the sure-footed beast, who leisurely picked his way along the familiar road. "the moon will be up, to be sure, ere long; but it is ill travelling in the night. it is well to get clear of this neighbourhood in the dark, for fear your father might chance to espy you and make your going difficult. yet i would have you ask shelter for your steed and yourself tonight at the little hostelry you will find just this side hammerton heath. the heath is an ill place for travellers, as you doubtless know. if you should lose the road, as is like enough, it being as evil and rough a track as well may be, you will like enough plunge into some bog or morass from which you may think yourself lucky to escape with life. and if you do contrive to keep to the track, the light-heeled gentlemen of the road may swoop down upon you like birds of prey, and rob you of the little worldly wealth that you possess. wherefore i counsel you to pause ere you reach that ill-omened waste, and pass the night at the hostel there. the beds may be something poor, but they will be better than the wet bog, and you will be less like to be robbed there than on the road." "i will take your good counsel, cousin," said cuthbert. "i have not much to lose, but that little is my all. i will stop at the place you bid me, and only journey forth across the heath when the morrow's sun be up." "you will do well. and now farewell, for i must return. i will do all that in me lies to watch over and guard petronella. she shall be to me as a sister, and i will act a brother's part by her, until i may have won a right to call her something more. have no fears for her. i will die sooner than she shall suffer. her father shall not visit on her his wrath at your escape." the cousins parted on excellent terms, and cuthbert turned, with a strange smile on his brave young face, for a last look at the old gate house, the gray masonry of which gleamed out between the dark masses of the leafless trees, a single light flickering faintly in an upper casement. "petronella's light!" murmured cuthbert to himself. "i trow well she is thinking of me and praying for me before the little shrine in the turret. may the holy saints and blessed virgin watch over and protect her! i trust the day may come ere long when i may have power to rescue her from that evil home, and give to her a dower that shall make her not unworthy of being philip's wife." by which it may be seen that cuthbert's thoughts were still running on the lost treasure, and that he had by no means relinquished his dream of discovery through hearing how others had sought and failed. "if i may but win a little gold in these winter days when the forest is too inhospitable to be scoured and searched, i can give the whole of the summer to the quest. i will find these gipsies or their descendants and live amongst them as one of them. i will learn their ways, win their trust, and gradually discover all that they themselves know. who dare say that i may not yet be the one to bring back the lost luck to the house of trevlyn? has it always been the prosperous and rich that have won the greatest prize? a humble youth such as i may do far more in the wild forest than those who have been bred to ease and luxury, and have to keep state and dignity." thus musing, cuthbert rode slowly along in the light of the rising moon, his thoughts less occupied with the things he was leaving behind than with thoughts of the future and what it was to bring forth. the lad had all the pride of his house latent within him, and it delighted him to picture the day when he might return all sir richard's benefits a thousandfold by coming to him with the news of the lost treasure, and bidding him take the elder brother's share before ever his own father even knew that it had been found at last. his heart beat high as he pictured that day, and thought how he should watch the light coming into kate's bright eyes, as the obstacle to her nuptials should be thus removed. sure she could coax her father to remove his veto and overlook the cousinship if she had dower to satisfy lord andover. and if the trevlyn treasure were but half what men believed, there would be ample to dower all three daughters and fill the family coffers, too. "in truth it is a thing well worth living for!" cried the eager lad, as he pushed his way out of the wood and upon the highroad, where for a time travelling was somewhat better. "and why should i not succeed even though others have failed? my proud kinsmen have never lived in the forest themselves, learning its every secret winding track, making friends of its wild sons and daughters, learning the strange lore that only the children of the forest gather. what chance had they of learning secrets which but few may know? i trow none. i will not believe that great treasure has been cast away to the four winds. i verily believe it is still hidden away beneath the earth in some strange resting place known but to a few living souls. what do these wild gipsy folks want with gold and silver and jewels? they have all they need with the heavens above them and the earth beneath. they may love to have a buried hoard; they may love to feel that they have treasure at command if they desire it; but i can better believe they would keep it safe hidden in their forest or moorland home than that they would scatter it abroad by dividing it amongst their tribe. moreover, any such sudden wealth would draw upon them suspicion and contumely. they would be hunted down and persecuted like the jews in old days. no: they may well have stolen it out of revenge, but i believe they have hidden it away as they took it. it shall be my part to learn where it lies; and may the holy saints aid and bless me in the search!" cuthbert crossed himself as he invoked the saints, for at heart he was a romanist still, albeit he had had the wit to see that the same cardinal doctrines were taught by the established church of the land, whose services he had several times attended. and even as he made the gesture he became suddenly aware that he was not alone on the road. a solitary traveller mounted on a strong horse was standing beneath the shadow of a tree hard by, and regarding his approach with some curiosity, though the lad had not been aware of his close proximity until his horse paused and snorted. "good even, young man," said this traveller, in a pleasant voice that bespoke gentle birth. "i was waiting to see if i had an enemy to deal with in the shape of one of those rogues of the road, cutpurses or highwaymen, of whom one bears so many a long tale. but these travel in companies, and it behoves wise travellers to do likewise. how comes it that a stripling like you are out alone in this lone place? is it a hardy courage or stern necessity?" "i know not that it is one or the other," answered cuthbert. "but i have not far to go this night, and i have not much to lose, though as that little is my all i shall make a fight ere i part with it. but by what i hear there is little danger of molestation till one reaches hammerton heath. and i propose to halt on the edge of that place, and sleep at the hostelry there." "if you follow my counsel, my young friend," said the stranger as he paced along beside cuthbert, "you will not adventure yourself in that den of thieves. not long ago it was a safe place for a traveller, but now it is more perilous to enter those doors than to spend the darkest night upon the road. the new landlord is in league with the worst of the rogues and foot pads who frequent the heath, and no traveller who dares to ask a night's shelter there is allowed to depart without suffering injury either in person or pocket. whither are you bound, my young friend, if i may ask the question?" "for london, sir. i have an uncle there whom i am about to seek. but the way is something strange to me when the heath be passed, and i know not if i can find it in the dark." "i also am bound for london," answered the stranger, "and in these days it is better to travel two than one, and four than two. but being no more than two, we must e'en hope for the best if we fall not in with other belated travellers. my business brooked not delay; wherefore i came alone. i mislike the fetter of a retinue of servants, and i have had wonderful good hap on the roads; but there be others who tell a different tale, and i often join company when i find a traveller to my liking going my way." cuthbert was glad enough to have a companion. this man was many years his senior, so that he was somewhat flattered by the proposition of riding in his company; moreover, he was plainly a gentleman of some condition, whose fancy it was (not his necessity) to travel thus unattended. also he was speedily conscious of a strange sense of fascination which this stranger exercised upon him, for which he could not in the least account; and he quickly found himself answering the questions carelessly addressed to him with a freedom that surprised himself; for why should there be such pleasure in talking of himself and his prospects to one whose name he did not even know? when first he had pronounced his name, he observed that the stranger gave him a quick, keen glance; and after they had been some time in conversation, he spoke with a sudden gravity and earnestness that was decidedly impressive. "young man, i trust that you are loyal and true to the faith of those forefathers of yours who have been one of england's brightest ornaments. in these latter days there has been a falling away. men have let slip the ancient truths. love of the world has been stronger within them than love of the truth. they have let themselves be corrupted by heresy; they have lost their first love. i trust it is not so with you. i trust you are one of the faithful who are yet looking for brighter days for england, when she shall be gathered again to the arms of the true church. but a few minutes ago i saw you make the holy sign, and my heart went out to you as to a brother. these protestants deny and contemn that symbol, as they despise and contemn in their wantonness the ordinances of god and the authority of his vicar. i trust you have not fallen into like error; i trust that you are a true son of the old stock of trevlyn?" "i know little of such disputed matters," answered cuthbert, made a little nervous by the ardent glance bent upon him from the bright eyes of the speaker. he had a dark, narrow face, pale and eager, a small, pointed beard trimmed after the fashion of the times, and the wide-brimmed sugar-loaf hat drawn down upon his brows cast a deep shadow over his features. but his voice was peculiarly melodious and persuasive, and there was a nameless attraction about him that cuthbert was quick to feel. others in the days to follow felt it to their own undoing, but of that the lad knew nothing. he only wished to retain the good opinion this stranger seemed to have formed of him. "i have led but a hermit's life, as i have told you. i have been bred up in the faith of my forefathers, and that faith i believe. what perplexes me is that those who hold the established or reformed faith, as men term it, have the same creeds, the same doctrines as we ourselves. i have from time to time conformed to the law, and gone to the services, and i have not heard aught spoken within their walls that our good priest in old days used not to tell me was sound doctrine. there be things he taught me that these men say naught about; but no man may in one discourse touch upon every point of doctrine. i freely own that i have been sorely perplexed to know whence comes all this strife, all these heart burnings." "thou wilt know and understand full soon, when once thou hast seen the life of the great city and the strife of faction there," answered his companion, lapsing into the familiar "thou" as he spoke with increased earnestness. "in thy hermit's life thou hast had no knowledge of the robbery, the desecration, the pollution which our holy mother church has undergone from these pestilent heretics, who have thought to denude her of her beauty and her glory, whilst striving to retain such things as jump with their crabbed humours, and may be pared down to please their poisoned and vicious minds. ah! it makes the blood boil in the veins of the true sons of the church, as thou wilt find, my youthful friend, when thou gettest amongst them. but it will not always last. the day of reckoning will come--nay, is already coming when men shall find that the blessed and holy church may not be defiled and downtrodden with impunity for ever. ah yes! the day will come--it is even at the door--when god shall arise and his enemies be scattered. scattered--scattered! verily that is the word. and the sons of the true faith throughout the length and breadth of the land shall arise and rejoice, and the heretics shall stand amazed and confounded!" as he spoke these words his figure seemed to expand, and he raised his right hand to heaven with a peculiar gesture of mingled menace and appeal. cuthbert was silent and amazed. he did not understand in the least the tenor of these wild words, but he was awed and impressed, and felt at once that the strife and stress of the great world into which he was faring was something very different from anything he had conceived of before. by this time the travellers had reached the dreary waste called by the inhabitants hammerton heath. at some seasons of the year it was golden with gorse or purple with ling, but in this drear winter season it was bare and colourless, and utterly desolate. the outline of dark forests could be seen all around on the horizon; but the road led over the exposed ground, where not a tree broke the monotony of the way. cuthbert was glad enough to have a companion to ride by his side over the lonely waste, which looked its loneliest in the cold radiance of the moon. he did not reply to the strange words he had just heard, and his companion, after a brief pause, resumed his discourse in a different tone, telling the lad more about london and the life there than ever he had heard in his life before. but the moral of his discourse was always the sufferings, the wrongs, the troubles of the roman catholics, who had looked for better times under mary stuart's son; and gradually raising within the breast of the youth a feeling of warm sympathy with those of his own faith, and a distrust and abhorrence of the laws that made life well nigh impossible for the true sons of the church. "ruined in estate, too often injured in body, hated, despised, hunted to death like beasts of the earth, what is left for us but some great struggle after our lives and liberties?" concluded the speaker, in his half melancholy, half ardent way. "verily, when things be so bad that they cannot well be worse, then truly men begin to think that the hour of action is at hand. be the night never so long, the dawn comes at last. and so will our day dawn for us--though it may dawn in clouds of smoke and vapour, and with a terrible sound of destruction." but these last words were hardly heard by cuthbert, whose attention had been attracted by the regular beat of horse hoofs upon the road behind. although the track was but a sandy path full of ruts and holes, the sound travelled clearly through the still night air. whoever these new travellers were, they were coming along at a brisk pace, and cuthbert drew rein to look behind him. "there be horsemen coming this way!" he said. "ay, verily there be; and moreover i mislike their looks. honest folks do not gallop over these bad roads in yon headlong fashion. i doubt not they be robbers, eager to overtake and despoil us. we must make shift to press on at the top of our speed. this is an ill place to be overtaken. we have no chance against such numbers. luckily our steeds are not way worn; they have but jogged comfortably along these many miles. push your beast to a gallop, my lad; there is no time to lose." cuthbert essayed to do this; but honest old dobbin had no notion of a pace faster than a leisurely amble. most of his work had been done in the plough, and he had no liking for the rapid gallop demanded by his rider. the lad soon saw how it stood with him, and called out to his well-mounted companion not to tarry for him, but to leave him to chance and kind fortune. "i have so little to lose that they may not think me worth the robbing, belike. but you, sir, must not linger. your good steed is equal to theirs, i doubt not, and will carry you safe across the heath." "ay, verily he will. i purchased him for that same speed, and it has never failed me yet. i fear not pursuit. my only peril lies in the chance of meeting a second band watching the road farther on. i like not thus to leave you, boy; but i have no choice. i may not risk being robbed of my papers. there be more in them than must be suffered to be scanned by any eyes for which they were not meant. my gold might go, and welcome, but i must save my papers. and if thou hast any small valuables about thee, i will charge myself with the care of them, and thou canst call at my lodging in london when thou gettest there to claim thine own again. 'twill be the better chance than leaving yon gentlemen to rid thee of them." the smile with which the stranger uttered these words was so winning and frank, that cuthbert placed his purse in the outstretched hand without a qualm. "when thou wantest thine own again, go to the cat and fiddle in the thoroughfare of holborn, and ask news there of master robert catesby. it is an eating house and tavern where i am constantly to be met with. if i be not lodging there at that very time, thou wilt have news of me there. farewell; and keep up a brave heart. these fellows are less harsh with poor travellers than rich. let them see you have small fear, and it will be the better for all." these last words were faintly borne back to cuthbert on the wings of the wind, as his companion galloped with long easy strides across the heath. a little dip in the ground hid for a moment their pursuers from sight, and before they emerged upon the crest of the undulation, master robert catesby was practically out of sight; for a cloud had obscured the brightness of the moon, and only a short distance off objects became invisible. cuthbert rode slowly on his way, trying to compose himself to the state of coolness and courage that he would like to show in the hour of danger. he felt the beatings of his heart, but they were due as much to excitement as to fear. in truth he was more excited than afraid; for he had absolutely nothing to lose save a suit of old clothes and his horse, and both of these were in sorry enough plight to be little tempting to those hardy ruffians, who were accustomed to have travellers to rob of a far superior stamp. nearer and nearer came the galloping horse hoofs, and a loud, rough voice ordered him to stop. cuthbert obeyed, and wheeled round on his placid steed, who showed no sign of disquietude or excitement, but at once commenced to nibble the short grass that grew beside the sandy track. "and what do you want of me, gentlemen?" asked cuthbert, as he found himself confronted by half-a-dozen stalwart fellows, with swarthy faces and vigorous frames. they were all armed and well mounted, and would have been formidable enough to a wealthy traveller with his stuff or valuables about him. "your money--or your life!" was the concise reply and cuthbert was able to smile as he replied: "marry then, it must be my life, for money i have none. i have naught but an old suit of clothes and a breviary in yon bag. you are welcome to both an ye will condescend to wear such habiliments; but i trow ye would find them sorry garments after those ye now display." "tut, tut! we will see to that. there be many cunning fashions of hiding money, and we are used to such tales as yours. where is your companion, young man?" "nay, i have no companion," answered cuthbert, who was sufficiently imbued with the spirit of his father's creed not to hesitate for a moment to utter an untruth in a good cause, and think no shame of it; "i am journeying forth to london alone, to seek a relative there, who methinks will help me to earn an honest livelihood. i would i were the rich man you take me for. but even the dress i wear is mine through the charity of a kinsman, as is also the nag i ride. and i misdoubt me if you would find him of much use to you in your occupation." one or two of the men laughed. they looked at dobbin and then at his rider, and seemed to give credence to this tale. cuthbert's boyish face and fearless manner seemed to work in his favour, and one of the band remarked that he was a bold young blade, and if in search of a fortune, might do worse than cast in his lot with them. "yet i verily thought there had been two," grumbled another of the band; "i wonder if he speaks sooth." "i warrant me he does, else where should the other be? it was a trick of the moonlight; it often deceives us so. "come now, my young cockerel; you can crow lustily, it seems, and keep a bold face where others shrink and tremble and flee. how say you? will you follow us to our lodging place for the night? and if we find no money concealed about you, and if your story of your poverty be true, you can think well whether you will choose to cast in your lot with us. many a poor man has done so and become rich, and the life is a better one than many." all this was spoken in a careless, mocking way, and cuthbert did not know if the proposal were made in good faith or no. but it was plain that no harm was meant to his life or person, and as he was in no fear from any search of his clothes and bag, he was ready and willing to accept the invitation offered, and by no means sorry to think he should be relieved from spending the night in the saddle. "i will gladly go with you," he answered. "i have spoken naught but sooth, and i have no fear. my person and my goods are in your hands. do as you will with them; i have too little to lose to make a moan were you to rob me of all." "we rob not the poor; we only rob the rich--those arrogant, purse-proud rogues who batten and fatten on what they wring from the poor," answered, in quick, scornful accents, the man who appeared to be the leader of this little band. "on them we have scant pity. they have but stolen, in cunning though lawful fashion, what we wrest from them, lawlessly it may be, yet with as good a right in the sight of the free heavens as any they practise. but we filch not gold nor goods from the poor, the thrifty, the sons of toil; nay, there be times when we restore to these what has been drained from them by injustice and tyranny. we be not the common freebooters of the road, who set on all alike, and take human life for pure love of killing. we have our own laws, our own ways, our own code of right and wrong; and we recruit our ranks from bold lads like you, upon whom fortune has not smiled, and who come to us to see if we can help them to better things." cuthbert was greatly interested in this adventure. he looked into the dark, handsome face of the man who rode beside him, and wondered if some gipsy blood might not run in his veins. the gipsy people of whom kate had spoken were well known in all this region, and despite the roving life they led, appeared to be rooted to a certain extent to this wild and wooded tract. he had seen dark faces like this before in the woods; he had often heard stories of the doings of the gipsies around. before, he had not thought much of this; but now, his interest was keenly excited, and he was delighted to have this opportunity of studying them at close quarters. "where are we going, tyrrel?" asked one of the followers. "it is a bitter cold night, now the wind has shifted, and we are far enough away from dead man's hole." "i am not bound for dead man's hole. we will to the ruined mill, and ask miriam to give us shelter for the night. we have ridden far, and our steeds are weary. i trow she will give us a welcome." this proposition seemed to give general satisfaction. the men plodded on after their leader, who kept cuthbert close beside him, and they all moved across the heath in an irregular fashion, following some path known only to themselves, until they reached the wooded track to the left, and plunged into the brushwood again, picking their way carefully as they went, and all the while descending lower and lower into the hollow, till the rush of water became more and more distinctly audible, and cuthbert knew by the sound that they must be approaching a waterfall of some kind. one of the men had ridden forward to give notice of their approach, and soon in the flickering moonlight the gray walls of an ancient mill, now greatly fallen to decay, became visible to the travellers' eyes. from the open door streamed out a flood of ruddy light, cheering indeed to cold and weary men; whilst framed in this ruddy glow was a tall and picturesque figure--the figure of an old woman, a scarlet kerchief tied over her white hair, whilst her dress displayed that picturesque medley of colours that has always been the prevailing characteristic of the gipsy race. "you are welcome, son tyrrel," quoth the mistress of this lone dwelling, as the little cavalcade drew up at the door. "it is long since you favoured old miriam with a visit. yet you come at no ill time, since red ronald brought us in a fat buck but yesternight, and i have made oaten cakes today, and pies of the best. but who is that with you! i like not new faces in my dwelling place. it were well you should remember this ere you bring a stranger with you." the old woman's face suddenly darkened as she spoke these last words, and her wonderful eyes, so large and dark as to resemble rather those of a deer than a human being, flashed fiercely, whilst she seemed about to close the door in tyrrel's face. but he pushed in with a light laugh, leading cuthbert with him, and saying as he did so: "nay, nay, mother, be not so fierce. he is an honest lad enough, i trow; if not, 'twill be the worse for him anon. we have brought him hither to search him if he carries gold concealed. if not, and he proves to have spoken sooth, he may go his way or join with us, whichever likes him best. we could do with a few more bold lads, since death has been something busy of late; and he seems to have the grit in him one looks for in those who join with us. moreover, he has the dark eyes, and would soon have the swarth skin, that distinguish our merry men all. "how now, mother! thou hast eyes for none but the lad! why lookst thou at him so?" cuthbert, too, gazed wonderingly at the handsome old gipsy, who continued to keep her eyes fixed upon him, as if by a species of fascination. he could no more withdraw his gaze than can the bird whom the snake is luring to destruction. "boy, what is thy name?" she asked, in a quick, harsh whisper. "cuthbert trevlyn," he answered, without hesitation, and at the name a wild laugh rang out through the vaulted room, illumined by the glow of a huge fire of logs, whilst all present started and looked at one another. "i knew it--i knew it!" cried the old woman, with a wild gesture of her withered arms, which were bare to the elbow, as though she had been engaged in culinary tasks. "i knew it--i knew it! i knew it the moment the light fell upon his face. trevlyn--trevlyn! one of that accursed brood! heaven be praised, the hour of vengeance has come! we will do unto one of them even as they did unto us;" and she waved her arms again in the air, and glanced towards the glowing fire on the hearth with a look in her wild eyes that for a moment caused cuthbert's heart to stand still. for he remembered the story of the witch burned by his grand sire's mandate, and he felt he was not mistaken in the interpretation he had put upon the old woman's words. but tyrrel roughly interposed. "no more of that, mother," he said. "we have wiped out that old score long ago. the lad is a bold lad, trevlyn or no. let us to supper now, and forget those accursed beldam's tales. where is long robin, and what is he doing? and where is joanna tonight?" "here," answered a clear, full voice from the shadows of the inglenook, and forth there stepped a very queenly-looking woman, in the prime of life, when youth's bloom has not been altogether left behind, and yet all the grace of womanhood, with its dignity and ease, has come to give an added charm. one glance from the old woman's face to that of the young one showed them to be mother and daughter, and it did not take a sharp eye to see that tyrrel, as he was always called, was deeply enamoured of the beautiful joanna, though treated by her with scant notice, and as though he were yet a boy, scarce worthy of being looked at or spoken to. she stood in the glow of the fire, a tall, graceful presence, to the full as picturesque as her gipsy mother, and far more attractive. cuthbert's eyes turned upon her with an unconscious appeal in them; for it suddenly dawned upon him that for a trevlyn to adventure himself amongst these wild gipsy folks was like putting the head into a lion's mouth. it almost seemed as though joanna read this doubt and this fear; for a flashing smile crossed her dark face, and she held out a shapely hand to lead the guest to the table. "thou art welcome to our board, cuthbert trevlyn," she said, "as is any hapless stranger in these wilds, be he trevlyn or no. thou shalt eat our salt this night, and then woe betide the man who dares to lay hand on thee;" and such a glance was flashed around from her magnificent dark eyes as caused each one that met it to resolve to take good heed to his ways. "thou shalt come and go unmolested; joanna the gipsy queen has so decreed it!" every one present, the old woman included, bent the head at these words, and cuthbert felt by some instinct that his life was now safe. chapter : the house on the bridge. "keren happuch." "yes, aunt." the reply came only after a brief pause, as though the rosy-cheeked maiden at the casement would fain have declined to answer to that abhorred name had she dared--which was indeed pretty much the case; for though it was undeniably her own, and she could not gainsay the unpalatable fact, nobody in the world but aunt susan ever aggrieved her by using it. even her grave father had adopted the "cherry" that was universal alike with relatives and friends, and the girl never heard the clumsy and odious appellation without a natural longing to box the offender's ears. "what art doing, child?" questioned the voice from below. now cherry was undeniably idling away the morning hours by looking out of her window at the lively scene below; and perhaps it was scarce wonderful that the sights and sounds without attracted her. it was a sunny november morning, and the sun was shining quite hotly; for the soft wind from the south was blowing--it had suddenly veered round in the night--and all nature seemed to be rejoicing in the change. the river ran sparkling on its way to the sea; the barges and wherries, and larger craft that anchored in the stream or plied their way up and down, gave animation and brightness to the great water way; whilst the old bridge, with its quaint-timbered houses with their projecting upper stories, its shops with their swinging signs, and noisy apprentices crying their masters' wares or playing or quarrelling in the open street, and its throngs of passers by, from the blind beggar to the gay court gallant, provided a shifting and endless panorama of entertainment to the onlooker, which pretty mistress cherry certainly appreciated, if no one else in that grave puritan household did the like. but possibly she thought that her aunt's question must not be too literally answered, for she hastily skipped across the panelled chamber, seized her distaff, and answered meekly; "i am about to spin, aunt." "humph!" the answer sounded more like a grunt than anything else, and warned cherry that mistress susan, her father's sister, who had ruled his household for the past ten years, since the death of his wife, was in no very amiable temper. "i know what that means. thy spinning is a fine excuse for idling away thy time in the parlour, when thou mightest be learning housewifery below. much flax thou spinnest when i am not by to watch! it is a pity thou wert not a fine lady born!" cherry certainly was decidedly of this opinion herself, albeit she would not have dared to say as much. she liked soft raiment, bright colours, dainty ways, and pretty speeches. looking down from her window upon the passers by, it was her favourite pastime to fancy herself one of the hooped and powdered and gorgeously-apparelled ladies, with their monstrous farthingales, their stiff petticoats, their fans, their patches, and their saucy, coquettish ways to the gentlemen in their train. all this bedizenment, which had by no means died out with the death of a queen who had loved and encouraged it, was dear to the eyes of the little maiden, whose own sad-coloured garments and severe simplicity of attire was a constant source of annoyance to her. not that she wished to ape the fine dames in her small person. she knew her place better than that. she was a tradesman's daughter, and it would ill have beseemed her to attire herself in silk and velvet, even though the sumptuary laws had been repealed. but she did not see why she might not have a scarlet under-petticoat like rachel dyson, her own cousin, or a gay bird's wing to adorn her hat on holiday occasions. the utmost she had ever achieved for herself was a fine soft coverchief for her head, instead of the close unyielding coif which all her relatives wore, which quite concealed their hair, and gave a quaint severity to their square and homely faces. cherry's face was not square, but a little pointed, piquant countenance, from which a pair of long-lashed gray eyes looked forth with saucy, mischievous brightness. her skin was very fair, with a peach-like bloom upon it, and her pretty hair hung round it in a mass of red gold curls. cherry, it must be confessed, would have liked to leave her hair uncovered, but this was altogether against the traditions of her family. but she had contrived to assume the softly-flowing coverchief, more like a veil than a cap, which was infinitely becoming to the sweet childish face, and allowed the pretty curls to be seen flowing down on either side till they reached the shoulders. for the rest, her dress was severely plain in its simplicity: the snow-white kerchief, crossed in front and made fast behind; the under-petticoat of gray homespun, just showing the black hose and buckled shoes beneath; and the over-dress of sombre black or dark brown, puffed out a little over the hips in the pannier fashion, but without any pretence at following the extravagances of the day. the sleeves buttoned tightly to the lower arm, though wider at the cuff, and rose high upon the shoulder with something of a puff. it was a simple and by no means an unbecoming style of costume; but cherry secretly repined at the monotony of always dressing in precisely the same fashion. other friends of her own standing had plenty of pretty things suited to their station, and why not she? if she asked the question of any, the answer she always got was that her father followed the puritan fashions of dressing and thinking and speaking, and that he held fine clothes in abhorrence. cherry would pout a little, and think it a hard thing that she had been born a puritan's daughter; but on the whole she was happy and contented enough, only she did reckon the rule of aunt susan in her father's house as something of a hardship. but it did not do to offend that worthy dame, who was the very model of all housewives, and whose careful management and excellent cookery caused martin holt's house to be something of a proverb and a pattern to other folks' wives. so now the girl replied submissively: "i need not spin, an it please thee not, aunt. hast thou aught for me to do below?" "ay, plenty, child, if thou canst give thy mind to work. abraham dyson and anthony cole sup with us tonight, and i am making a herring pie." a herring pie was a serious undertaking in the domestic economy of the house on the bridge, and mistress susan prided herself on her skill in the concoction of this delicate dish above almost any other achievement. she had a mysterious receipt of her own for it, into the secret of which she would let no other living soul, not even the dutiful nieces who assisted at the manufacture of the component parts. cherry heaved a sigh when she heard what was in prospect, but laid aside her distaff and proceeded to don a great coarse apron, and to unbutton and turn back her sleeves, leaving her pretty round white arms bare for her culinary task. but there was a little pucker of perplexity and vexation on her forehead, which was not caused by any distaste of cookery. "if uncle abraham comes, sure he will bring jacob with him; he always does. if it were rachel i would not mind; but i cannot abear jacob, with his great hairy hands and fat cheeks. and if i be pert to him, my father chides; and if i be kind, he makes me past all patience with his rolling eyes and foolish ways and words. i know what they all think; but i'll none of him! he had better try for kezzie, who would jump down his throat as soon as look at him. she fair rails on me for not treating him well. let her take him herself, the loutish loon!" and tossing her head so that her coverchief required readjusting, cherry slipped down the narrow wooden staircase into the rooms that lay below. kitchen and dining parlour occupied the whole of this floor, which was not the ground floor of the house. that was taken up by the shop, in which martin holt's samples of wools and stuffs were exposed. he was more (to borrow a modern expression) in the wholesale than the retail line of business, and his shop was nothing very great to look at, and did not at all indicate the scope of his real trade and substance; but it was a convenient place for customers to come to, to examine samples and talk over their orders. martin holt sat all day long in a parlour behind the shop, pretty well filled with bales and sacks and other impedimenta of his trade, and received those who came to him in the way of business. he had warehouses, too, along the wharves of thames street, and visited them regularly; but he preferred to transact business in his own house, and this dull-looking shop was quite a small centre for wool merchants, wool manufacturers, and even for the farmers who grew the wool on the backs of the sheep they bred in the green pastures. no more upright and fair-dealing man than martin holt was to be found in all london town; and though he had not made haste to be rich, like some, nor had his father before him, having a wholesome horror of those tricks and shifts which have grown more and more common as the world has grown older, yet honest dealing and equitable trading had had its own substantial reward, and wealth was now steadily flowing into martin's coffers, albeit he remained just the same simple, unassuming man of business as he had ever been when the golden stream of prosperity had not reached his doors. but the ground floor of the bridge house being occupied in business purposes, the first floor had of necessity been given up to cookery and feeding. the front room was the eating parlour, and was only furnished by a long table and benches, with one high-backed armchair at either end. it overlooked the street and the river, like the living parlour above; and behind lay the kitchen, with a back kitchen or scullery beyond. from the windows of either of these back rooms the busy cooks could fling their refuse into the river, and exceedingly handy did they find this, as did likewise their neighbours. nor did the fact that the river water was drunk by themselves and a large number of the inhabitants of the city in any way interfere with their satisfaction at the convenience of these domestic arrangements. the beat, beat of the great water wheel was always in their ears to remind them; but no misgivings had yet assailed our forefathers as to the desirability of drinking water polluted by sewage and other abominations. true, the plague was constantly desolating the city, and had been raging so violently but a single year back that the king's coronation had well nigh had to be postponed, and he dared not adventure himself into london itself, nor summon his parliament to meet him there. but it was for another generation to put together cause and effect, and wonder how far tainted water was responsible for the spread of the fatal malady. as cherry entered the eating parlour, her two sisters looked up from their tasks, as if with a smile of welcome. jemima was busy with the almond paste, which was an important ingredient of the herring pie; keziah was stoning the dates, grating the manchet, and preparing the numerous other ingredients--currants, gooseberries, barberries--which, being preserved in bottles in the spring and summer, were always ready to hand in mistress susan's cookery. from the open door of the kitchen proceeded a villainous smell of herrings, which caused cherry to turn up her pretty nose in a grimace that set keziah laughing. both these elder damsels, who were neither blooming nor pretty nor graceful, like their youngest sister, though they bid fair to be excellent housewives and docile and tractable spouses, delighted in the beauty and wit and freshness of cherry. they had never envied her her pretty ways and charming face, but had taken the same pleasure in both that a mother or affectionate aunt might do. they spoke of her and thought of her as "the child," and if any hard or disagreeable piece of work had to be done, they both vied with each other in contriving that it should not fall to cherry's lot. cherry, although she dearly loved her homely sisters, as well she might, never could quite realize that they were her sisters, and not her aunts. although keziah was only six years her senior, it seemed more like ten, and jemima had three years' start of keziah. they treated her with an indulgence rare between sisters, and from the fact of their being so staid and grave for their years, cherry could scarcely be blamed for feeling as though she was the only young thing in the house. her father talked of grave matters with her aunt and sisters, whilst she sat gaping in weariness or got a book in which to lose herself. they understood those mysterious theological and political discussions which were a constant source of perplexity and irritation to cherry. "as if it mattered one way or another," she would say to herself. "i can't see that one way is a bit better than another! i wonder folks can care to make such a coil about it." "hast come to help us with the pie, cherry?" asked jemima kindly. "there, then, take my place with the paste; 'tis almost ready, but would do with a trifle more beating. and there be fowls to draw and get ready for the oven, and i know thou lovest not such a task." cherry shuddered at the thought, and gladly took jemima's place, tasting the almond with an air of relish, and going about her tasks with a dainty air that would have angered aunt susan, but which honest keziah regarded with admiration. "how many be coming to supper tonight?" asked cherry. "is it to be a gathering?" "nay, i scarce know. i have only heard what aunt said to thee. father spoke of guests without saying the number, and she said our uncle would be there, and master anthony cole and his son. whether there be any others i know not; belike rachel and jacob may come too." "now i am sore puzzled anent this anthony cole," said cherry, as she beat her paste and leaned towards keziah, so that her voice might not carry as far as the kitchen. "and wherefore art thou puzzled, child?" "marry, because it was but a short while ago that we were forbid even to speak with him or any in his house, neighbours though we be; and now he comes oft, and father gives him good welcome, and bids him to sup with us. it fairly perplexes me to know why." keziah also lowered her voice as she replied: "we were forbid his house because that he and his household be all papists." "ay, verily, that i know. but they be none the less papists now, and yet we give them good day when we meet, and sit at the same board with them in all amity. are they turning protestant then, or what?" keziah shook her head. "it is not that," she said. nay, then, what is it?" "marry, methinks it is that we are companions in distress, and that a common trouble draws us the closer together. thou must have heard--" "oh, i hear words, words, words! but i heed them not. it is like eating dust and ashes." "nay, thou art but a child, and these things are not for children," answered keziah, indulgently. "and, indeed, they are hard to be understood, save by the wise and learned. but this much i gather: when the king came to the throne, all men hoped for better days--liberty to think each according to his conscience, liberty each to follow his own priest or pastor, and join without fear in his own form of worship. the papists believed that the son of mary stuart would scarce show severity to them. the puritans were assured that one bred up by the presbyterians of scotland would surely incline to their ways of worship and thought. but the king has disappointed both, and has allied himself heart and soul with the episcopal faction and the church of the establishment; and, not content with that, is striving to enforce the penal statutes against all who do not conform as they were never enforced in the queen's time. wherefore, as thou mayest understand, the papists and the puritans alike suffer, and so suffering are something drawn together as friends, albeit in doctrine they are wide asunder--wider than we from the establishment or they from it. but trouble drives even foes to make common cause sometimes." cherry sighed impatiently. "i would that men would e'en forget all these vexed doctrines and dry dogmas, and learn to enjoy life as it might be enjoyed. why are we for ever lamenting evils which none may put right? what does it matter whether we pray to god in a fine church or a homely room? i would fain go to church with the fine folk, since the king will have it so, and strive to find god there as well as in the bare barn where master baker holds his meeting. they bid us read our bibles, but they will not let us obey the commands laid down--" "nay, hush, cherry! hush, hush! what and if aunt susan heard?" "let her hear!" cried the defiant cherry, though she lowered her voice instinctively at the warning; "i am saying naught to be ashamed of. i know naught about these matters of disputing; i only know that the bible bids folks submit themselves to the powers that be, whether they be kings, or rulers, or magistrates, because the powers that be are of god. so that i see not why we go not to church as the king bids us. and again i read that wherever two or three are gathered together in christ's name, there will he be in the midst of them. so why we cannot go peacefully to church, since he will be there with us, i for one cannot see. i trow even the boldest papist or puritan would not dare deny that he was as much in the midst of those congregations as in ours. if they do they be worse than pagans, for every one that goes to church goes to pray to god and to jesus christ." keziah looked flustered and scared. cherry's words, though spoken in some temper and despite, contained certain elements of shrewd insight and sound common sense, which she had doubtless inherited from her father. she had something of the boldness and independence of mind that a spoiled child not unfrequently acquires, and she was not accustomed to mince her words when speaking with her sisters. hush! oh hush, child! father would not list to hear such words from a daughter of his. it is for women to learn, and not to teach; to listen, but not to speak." "oh yes, well do i know that. have i not listened, and listened, and listened, till i have well nigh fallen asleep; and what sense is there in all the wranglings and disputations? why cannot men think as they like, and let other folks alone? what harm does it do any that another should have a different opinion of his own?" "i trow that is what father really thinks," said keziah, thoughtfully; "but all men declare that it is needful for there to be outward uniformity of worship. and i trow that father would be willing to conform if they would but let our preachers and teachers alone to hold private meetings in peace. but so long as they badger and persecute and imprison them, he will have naught to do with the bishops and clergy who set them on, nor will he attend their churches, be the law what it may. he says it is like turning back in the hour of peril: that is not his way." "i like that feeling," answered cherry, with kindling eyes. "if that be so, i mind it less. father is a good man, and full of courage; but i grow full weary of these never-ending talks. kezzie, thinkest thou that he will be put in prison for keeping from church with his whole house? some men have been sent to prison for less." "i know not how that may be," answered keziah, gravely. "he is a useful citizen, and a man of substance; and by what i hear, such as these are left alone so long as they abide quiet and peaceable. just now the papists are being worse treated than we. methinks that is why father is so sorry for them." "too much talk! too much talk!" cried aunt susan's voice from the adjoining kitchen. "hands lag when tongues wag; wherefore do your work in silence. is that almond paste ready, keren happuch? then bring it quickly hither; and your manchet and sugar, keziah, for the skins are ready to be stuffed." and as the girls obediently brought the required ingredients, they found themselves in a long, low room, at the end of which a huge fire burned in a somewhat primitive stove, whilst a tall, angular, and powerful-looking dame, with her long upper robe well tucked up, and her gray hair pushed tightly away beneath a severe-looking coif, was superintending a number of culinary tasks, jemima and a serving wench obeying the glance of her eye and the turn of her hand with the precision of long practice. certainly it was plain that martin holt's guests would not starve that night. the herring pie was only the crowning delicacy of the board, which was to groan beneath a variety of appetizing dishes. the puritans were a temperate race, and the baneful habit of sack drinking at all hours, of perpetual pledgings and toastings, and the large consumption of fiery liquors, was at a discount in their houses; but they nevertheless liked a good table as well as the rest of their kind, and saw no hurt in sitting down to a generously supplied board, whilst they made up for their abstemiousness in the matter of liquor by the healthy and voracious appetite which speedily caused the good cheer to melt away. mistress susan was so intent on her preparations that she scarcely let her nieces pause to eat their frugal midday dinner. martin himself was out on business, and would dine abroad that day, and nothing better pleased the careful housewife than to dispense with any formal dinner when there was a company supper to be cooked, and thus save the attendant labour of washing up as well as the time wasted in the consumption of the meal. jemima and keziah never dreamed of disputing their aunt's will; but cherry pouted and complained that it was hard to work all day without even the dinner hour as a relief. mistress susan gave her a sharp rebuke that silenced without subduing her; and she kept throwing wistful glances out of the window, watching the play of sunshine on the water, and longing to be out in the fresh air--for such a day as this was too good to be wasted indoors. tomorrow belike the sun would not shine, and the wind would be cold and nipping. jemima and keziah saw the wistful glances, and longed to interpose on behalf of their favourite; but mistress susan was not one it was well to interfere with, and cherry was not in favour that day. but an inspiration came over jemima at last, and she suddenly exclaimed: "sure, but how badly we need some fresh rushes for the parlour floor! there be not enough to cover it, and they all brown and old. there has been scarce any frost as yet. i trow the river rushes will be yet green, and at least they will be fresh. could not the child be spared to run out to try and get some? she is a better hand at that than at her cooking. i will finish her pastry if thou wilt spare her to get the reeds. i love not a floor like you, and methinks father will chide an he sees." mistress susan cast a quick glance at the rush-strewn floor, and could not but agree with her niece. she had all the true housewife's instinct of neatness and cleanliness in every detail. the filthy habit of letting rushes rot on the floor, and only piling fresh ones on the top as occasion demanded, found no favour in this house. it was part of cherry's work and delight to cut them fresh as often as there was need, but a spell of wet weather had hindered her from her river-side rambles of late, with the consequence that the supply was unwontedly low. "oh, any one can do keren happuch's work and feel nothing added to her toil," was the sharp response. "small use are her hands in any kitchen. we had better make up our minds to wed her to a fine gentleman, who wants naught of his wife but to dress up in grand gowns, and smirk and simper over her fan; for no useful work will he get out of her. if rushes are wanted, she had better go quickly and cut them-- "and mind, do not stray too far along the banks, child; and watch the sky, and be in before the sun is down. the evenings draw in so quick now; and i would not have you abroad after nightfall for all the gold of ophir." cherry had no desire for such a thing to happen either. london in the darkness of the night was a terrible place. out from all the dens of whitefriars and other like places swarmed the ruffian and criminal population that by day slunk away like evil beasts of night into hiding. the streets were made absolutely perilous by the bands of cutthroats and cutpurses who prowled about, setting upon belated pedestrians or unwary travellers, and robbing, insulting, and maltreating them--not unfrequently leaving the wretched victim dead or dying, to be found later by the cowardly watchman, who generally took good care not to be near the spot at the time of the affray. ladies of quality never went abroad unattended even by day; but cherry was no fine lady, and martin holt had no notion of encouraging the child's native vanity by making any difference betwixt her and her sisters. jemima and keziah had been always accustomed to go about in the neighbourhood of their home unmolested, and thought nothing of it; and though cherry's rosy cheeks, slim, graceful figure, and bright, laughing eyes might chance to take the fancy of some bold roisterer or dandy, and lead to an address which might frighten or annoy the maid, her father considered this the less danger than bringing her up to think herself too captivating to go about unguarded; and up till now she had met with no unwelcome admiration or annoyance of any kind in her limited rovings. so she set forth blithely this afternoon, her cloak and hood muffling well both face and figure, her clogs on her feet, since the river bank would be muddy and treacherous at this time of year, and a long, open basket on her arm, thinking of nothing but the delights of escaping from the weary monotony of pastry making and herb shredding, and from the overpowering odour of that mysterious herring pie. cherry liked well enough to eat of it when it was placed upon the board, but she always wished she had not known anything of the process; she thought she should enjoy it so much the more. crossing the bridge, and exchanging many greetings as she tripped along, for every neighbour was in some sort a friend, and bright-eyed cherry was a favourite with all--she turned to the right as she quitted the bridge, and walked in a westerly direction along the river bank, towards the great beds of reeds and rushes that stretched away in endless succession so soon as the few houses and gardens springing up on this side the river had been passed by. certainly there was no lack of green rushes. the autumn had been mild, and though the past few days had been chill and biting, it had not told to any great extent upon the rushes yet. cherry plunged eagerly amongst them, selecting and cutting with a precision and rapidity that told of long practice. she was resolved to take home as many as ever she could carry, and these all of the best, since the supply would soon cease, and she knew the difference in the lasting power of the full, thick rushes and the little flimsy ones. but it was later than she had known when she left home. the brightness of the sunshine had deceived her, and she had been detained a few minutes upon the bridge, first by one and then by another, all asking kindly questions of her. then her fastidious selection of her rushes caused her to wander further and further along the banks in search of prizes; and when at last her big basket was quite full, and correspondingly heavy, she looked round her with a start almost of dismay; for the gray twilight was already settling down over the dark river, and she was full a mile away from home, with a heavy load to carry. cherry's heart fluttered a little, but it was rather in fear of her aunt's displeasure than of any mischance likely to happen to herself. she had been often to these osier beds, and had never encountered a living soul there, and she would soon reach the region of walls and gardens that adjoined the southern end of the bridge. so taking her basket on her arm, she pushed her way upwards from the river to the path along which lay her road, and turning her face homeward, made all the haste she could to get back. but how dark it looked to the eastward! did ever evening close in so fast? and how black and cold the river looked! she never remembered to have seen it quite so cheerless and gloomy before. a thick white fog was rising from the marshy lands, and she could not see the friendly twinkling lights upon the bridge. despite her exertions, which were great, she felt chill and shivery; and when at last she heard the sound of a lusty shout behind her, her heart seemed to stand still with terror, and she stopped short and gazed wildly back, to see whence the noise came. what she saw by no means reassured her. some fifty yards behind, but mounted on fine horses, were two young gentlemen, plainly in a state of tipsy merriment, and by no means disposed to allow any prey, in the shape of a woman old or young, to escape them without some sort of pleasantry on their part. cherry heard their laughter and their coarse words without understanding what it all meant; but a great terror took hold of her, and leaving her basket in the middle of the path, in the vain hope of tripping up the tipsy riders, she fled wildly along in the direction of home. her hood falling back, disclosed her pretty floating curls beneath, and so gave greater zest to the pursuit. fleet of foot she might be, but what availed that against the speed of the two fine horses? she heard their galloping hoofs closer and closer behind her. she knew that they were almost up with her now. even the osier beds would afford her no protection from horsemen, and she feared to trust herself to the slippery ooze when the daylight had fled. with a short, sharp cry she sank upon the ground, exhausted and half dead with terror, and she heard the brutal shout of triumph with which the roisterers hailed this sight. in another moment they would be upon her. she heard them shouting to their horses as they pulled them up. but was there not another sound, too? what was the meaning of that fierce demand in a very different voice? she lifted her head to see a third rider spurring up at a hand gallop, and before she had time to make up her mind whether or not this was a third foe, or a defender suddenly arisen as it were from the very heart of the earth, she felt herself covered as by some protecting presence, and heard a firm voice above her saying: "the first man who dares attempt to touch her i shoot dead!" there was a great deal of blustering and swearing and hectoring. cherry, still crouched upon the ground, shivered at the hideous imprecations levelled at her protector, and feared every moment to see him struck to the ground. but he held his position unflinchingly, and the tipsy gallants contented themselves with vituperation and hard words. perhaps they thought the game not worth the candle. perhaps they deemed a simple city maid not worth the trouble of an encounter. perhaps they were too unsteady on their legs to desire to provoke the hostile overtures of this tall, dark-faced stripling, who appeared ready to do battle with the pair of them, and that without the least fear. at any rate, after much hard swearing, the estimable comrades mounted their horses again, and rode on in the gathering darkness; whilst cherry felt herself lifted up with all courtesy and reverence, and a pleasant voice asked in bashful accents, very unlike the firm, defiant tones addressed to her persecutors, whether she were hurt. "not hurt, only frightened, fair sir," answered cherry, beginning to recover her breath and her self possession, as she divined that her protector was now more embarrassed at the situation than she was herself. "how can i thank you for your timely help? i was well nigh dead with terror till i heard your voice holding them at bay. right bold it was of you to come to my assistance when you had two foes against you." "nay, fair lady, i were less than a man had i stayed for twenty." "i like you none the less for your brave words, sir, and i believe that you have courage to face an army. but i may not linger here even to speak my thanks. i shall be in sore disgrace at home for tarrying out thus long in the dark." "but you will grant to me to see you safe to your door, lady?" "ay, truly will i, an you will," answered cherry, as much from real nervous fear as from the coquetry which made such companionship pleasant. "but i would fain go back a few paces for my poor reeds, that i go not home empty handed. and you must catch your steed, sir knight; he seems disposed to wander away at his own will." "my steed will come at a call. he is a faithful beast, and not addicted to errant moods. let us fetch your basket, lady, and then to your home. "is this it? prithee, let me carry it; its weight is too much for you. see, i will place it so on dobbin's broad back, and then we can jog along easily together." cherry, her fears allayed, and her imaginative fancy pleased by the termination to this adventure, chatted gaily to her tall companion; and as they neared the bridge with its many twinkling lights, she pointed out one of the houses in the middle, and told her companion that she dwelt there. his face turned eagerly upon her at hearing that. "i am right glad to hear it, for perchance you can then direct me to the dwelling of master martin holt, the wool stapler, if he yet plies his trade there as his father did before him." "martin holt!" cried cherry, eagerly interrupting. "why, good sir, martin holt is my father." the young man stopped short in amaze, and then said slowly, "verily, this is a wondrous hap, for martin holt is mine own uncle. i am cuthbert trevlyn, the son of his sister bridget." chapter : martin holt's supper party. six o'clock was the almost universal hour for supper amongst the well-to-do classes, both gentle and simple, and martin holt's family sat down to the well-spread board punctually to the minute every day of their lives. but though there was no eating before that hour, the invited guests who were intimate at the house generally arrived about dusk, and were served with hot ginger wine with lumps of butter floating in it, or some similar concoction accounted a delicacy in those days of coarse feeding, and indulged in discussion and conversation which was the preliminary to the serious business of supper. at four o'clock, then, mistress susan's table was set, the homespun cloth of excellent texture and whiteness spread upon the board, which was further adorned by plates and tankards, knives and even forks, though these last-named articles were quite a novelty, and rather lightly esteemed by mistress susan, who was a rigid conservative in all domestic matters. all the cold provisions had been laid upon the table. the serving woman in the kitchen had received full instruction as to those that remained in or about the stove. the ladies had doffed their big aprons, and had donned their sunday coifs and kerchiefs and better gowns, and were now assembled in the upper parlour, where the spinning wheels stood, ready to receive the guests when they should come. cherry's absence had not yet excited any uneasiness, although her aunt had made one or two severe remarks as to her love for junketing abroad, and frivolity in general. her sisters had laid out her dress in readiness for her, and had taken her part with their accustomed warmth and goodwill. they were not at all afraid of her not turning up safe and sound. cherry had many friends, and it was just as likely as not that she would stop and gossip all along the bridge as she came home. she took something of the privilege of a spoiled child, despite her aunt's rigid training. she knew her sisters never looked askance at her; that her father found it hard to scold severely, however grave he might try to look to please aunt susan; and it was perfectly well known in the house that she had no liking for those grave debates that formed the prelude to the supper downstairs. it was like enough she would linger without as long as she dared, and then spend as much time as possible strewing her rushes and dressing herself, so that she should not have long to listen to the talk of the elders. jemima and keziah had long since trained themselves to that perfect stillness and decorous silence that was deemed fitting for women, and especially young women, in presence of their elders, they had even begun to take a certain interest in the questions discussed. but to cherry it was simple penance to have to sit for one hour or more, her tongue and her active limbs alike chained, and her sisters were quite prepared for the absence of the younger girl when the guests dropped in one by one. their uncle, abraham dyson, was the first arrival, and behind him followed his son and daughter, jacob and rachel. rachel was a buxom young woman of five-and-twenty, shortly to be advanced to the dignity of a wedded wife. she would have been married before but for the feeble health of her mother; but the ceremony was not to be postponed much longer on that account, for fear the bridegroom, a silk mercer in thriving way of business, should grow weary of delay, and seek another partner for his hand and home. but abraham dyson saw another way of getting his sick wife properly looked to, and had whispered his notion in the ear of his brother-in-law. the dysons and the holts had had intimate business dealing with each other for generations, and there had been many matrimonial connections between them in times past. martin himself had married abraham's sister, and he listened with equanimity and pleasure to the proposal to ally one of his daughters with the solid and stolid jacob. jacob was not much to look at, but he would be a man of considerable substance in time, and he had a shrewd head enough for business. as it had not pleased providence to bless martin holt with sons, the best he could do was to find suitable husbands for his daughters, and seek amongst his sons-in-law for one into whose hands his business might worthily be intrusted. daughters were still, and for many generations later, looked upon very much in the light of chattels to be disposed of at will by their parents and guardians, and it had not entered honest martin's head that his wilful little cherry would dare to set up her will in opposition to his. jacob, who had been taken into the confidence of his elders, had expressed his preference for the youngest of his three cousins; and though not a word had been spoken to the girl upon the subject as yet, martin looked upon the matter as settled. scarcely had the bustle of the first arrivals died down before the remaining two guests arrived--a tall, bent man with the face of a student and book lover, followed by his son, also a man of rather distinguished appearance for his station in life. the two coles, father and son, were amongst those many roman catholic sufferers who had been ruined on account of their religion during the last reign; and now they gained a somewhat scanty livelihood by keeping a second-hand book shop on the bridge, selling paper and parchment and such like goods, and acting as scriveners to any who should desire to avail themselves of their skill in penmanship. they were both reputed to be men of considerable learning, and as they had fallen from a different position, they were looked up to with a certain amount of respect. some were disposed to sneer at and flout them, but they were on the whole well liked amongst their neighbours. they were very quiet people, and never spoke one word of the matters which came to their knowledge through the letters they were from time to time called upon to write. almost every surrounding family had in some sort or another intrusted them with some family secret or testamentary deposition, and would on this account alone have been averse to quarrelling with them, for fear they might let out the secret. martin found his neighbour anthony by far the most interesting of his acquaintances, and the fact of this common disappointment in the new king, and the common persecution instituted against both romanists and puritans, had drawn them more together of late than ever before. both were men of considerable enlightenment of mind; both desired to see toleration extended to all (though each might have regarded with more complacency an act of uniformity that strove to bring all men to his own particular way of thinking and worship), and both agreed in a hearty contempt for the mean and paltry king, who had made such lavish promises in the days of his adversity, only to cancel them the moment he had the power, and fling himself blindly into the arms of the dominant faction of the episcopacy. all the guests were cordially welcomed by the family of martin holt. the three elder men sat round the fire, and plunged into animated discussion almost at once. jacob dyson got into a chair somehow beside keziah, and stared uneasily round the room; whilst walter cole took up his position beside jemima, and strove to entertain her by the account of some tilting and artillery practice (as archery was still called) that he had been witnessing in spital fields. he spoke of the courage and prowess of the young prince of wales, and how great a contrast he presented to his father. the contempt that was beginning to manifest itself towards the luckless james in his english subjects was no more plainly manifested than in the london citizens. elizabeth, with all her follies and her faults, had been the idol of london, as her father before her. now a reaction had set in, and no scorn could be too great for her undignified and presumptuous successor. this contempt was well shown by the dry reply of the lord mayor some few years later, when the king, in a rage at being refused a loan he desired of the citizens, threatened to remove his court and all records and jewels from the tower and westminster hall to another place, as a mark of his displeasure. the lord mayor listened calmly to this terrible threat, and then made submissive answer. "your majesty hath power to do what you please," he said, "and your city of london will obey accordingly; but she humbly desires that when your majesty shall remove your courts, you would graciously please to leave the thames behind you." but to return to the house on the bridge and the occupants of martin holt's parlour. whilst jemima and keziah listened eagerly to the stories of the student's son, with the delight natural to puritan maidens denied any participation in such scenes of merriment, jacob was looking rather dismally round the room, and presently broke in with the question: "but where, all this time, is cherry?" "strewing rushes in the eating parlour, i doubt not," answered keziah. "she went out a while back to cut them. she loveth not dry disputings and learned talk. belike she will linger below till nigh on the supper hour an aunt susan call her not." "i love not such disputings neither," said jacob, with unwonted energy. "good kezzie, let us twain slip below to help cherry over her task." keziah gave a quick glance at the face of her stern aunt, who loved not this sort of slipping away during times of ceremony; but she had her back to them and to the door, and was engrossed in the talk as well as in the stocking fabric upon her needles. jemima and walter were still talking unrebuked in a low key. perchance this flitting could be accomplished without drawing down either notice or remark. to please jacob, keziah would have done much, even to running the risk of a scolding from her aunt. she had none of saucy cherry's scorn of the big boorish fellow with the red face and hairy hands. she looked below the surface, and knew that a kindly heart beat beneath the ungainly habit; and being but plain herself, keziah would have taken shame to herself for thinking scorn of another for a like defect. putting her finger on her lip in token of caution, she effected a quiet retreat, and the next moment the two cousins stood flushed but elated in the eating parlour below. but though it was now past five o'clock, there was no sign of cherry or her rushes, and keziah looked both surprised and uneasy. "belike she came in with dirty clogs and skirt, and has gone up to her bed chamber to change them, for fear of aunt susan telling her she was cluttering up the parlour," said the sister, anxiously. "i will run and see. sure she can never have lingered so late beside the river! the sun has been long down, and the fog is rising." keziah tripped upstairs lightly enough, but speedily came down with a grave face. "she is not there," was her answer to jacob's glance of inquiry. "what must we do? if we make a coil about it, and she comes in, having only gossiped awhile with the neighbours along the bridge, aunt will surely chide her sharply, and send her to bed supperless. but if she should have met some mischance--" and keziah broke off, looking frightened enough, for it was no light matter to meet mischance alone and unprotected in the dark. "i will go forth to seek her," cried jacob, with unwonted animation. "it boots not for a man to be abroad after dark, but for a maid it is an ill tiding indeed. which way went she? to the osier beds! sure i must find her ere long. were it not well for me to go, good kezzie?" "i would that some would go, but i trow thou hadst better not adventure thyself alone. belike master walter would be thy companion. if there be peril abroad, it is better there should be twain than one. and you will want lanterns and stout staffs, too." "run thou and light the lanterns, good coz, and i will to walter and ask his company. it grows thicker and darker every moment. if cherry be not within, it behoves us to make search for her." keziah's face was pale with terror as she flew to do jacob's bidding. she had a terrible fear of london streets, at night, as well she might, and the open country beyond was even worse to her excited imagination. and cherry was so pretty, so simple, so credulous, and withal so utterly defenceless should there be any sort of attack made upon her. keziah's hands shook as she lighted the lantern; and as minutes were fast slipping away and still there was no sign of the truant, she was rather relieved than terrified to hear the sharp accents of her aunt's voice mingling with her father's deeper tones as the whole party came tramping down the stairs. it was plain that jacob had let the secret ooze out, and that all the company had become alarmed. cherry's name was on all lips, and martin was asking his sister somewhat sternly why she had overlooked the non-return of the girl at dusk. miss susan was sharply defending herself on the score of her manifold duties and cherry's well-known gadding propensities. she never looked to see her home before dusk, as she was certain to stay out as long as she dared, and since then she had taken it for granted that the little hussy had come in, and was doing over the floor with her rushes. martin paid small heed to this shrill torrent of words, but with anxious face was pulling on his long outer hoots, and selecting the stoutest oaken staff of the number stacked in the corner, inviting his guests to arm themselves in like fashion. jemima and keziah, feeling as though some blame attached to them, looked on with pale faces, whilst rachel chattered volubly of the horrors she had often heard of as being perpetrated in the streets. her brother turned upon her roughly at last, and bid her cease her ill-omened croaking; whereat she tossed her head and muttered a good many scornful interjections, and "could not see why she need be called to task like that." the whole party descended to the door when the preparations for the start were complete. it was striking half after five on many of the city clocks as martin threw open his door. but he had scarcely stepped across the threshold before he heard a familiar little shriek; there was a rush of steps from somewhere in the darkness without, and cherry, with an abandon very foreign to the times and her training, and indicative of much agitation and emotion, flung herself upon his breast, and threw her arms about his neck. "here i am, father; there has no hurt befallen me!" she cried in broken gasps. "but i know not what fearful thing was like to have happened had it not been for the help of this gallant gentleman, who came in the very nick of time to drive off my assailants and bring me safe home. and oh, my father, such a wonderful thing! i can scarce believe it myself! this gentleman is no stranger; leastways he may not so be treated, for he is our very own flesh and blood--my cousin, thy nephew. he is cuthbert trevlyn, son to that sister bridget of thine of whom we have sometimes heard thee speak!" a strange dead silence fell on the group clustered in the doorway with lanterns and staffs. all looked out into the darkness in a mist of perplexity and doubt, to see, as their eyes grew used to the obscurity, the tall figure of a slim, dark-faced youth standing beside a tired-looking horse, and steadying upon the saddle a large basket of rushes. martin holt, after one minute of utter silence, released the clinging arms from about his neck, pushed cherry not ungently towards her sisters, and stepped forward towards her preserver. "this is a strange thing my daughter tells me, young sir," he said, as he scanned the horseman's face narrowly by the light of his lantern. "i find it hard to credit my senses. art sure that she has understood thee aright? is cuthbert trevlyn truly thy name?" "ay, truly it is; and my mother's was bridget holt, and she left her home long years ago as waiting maid to my lady adelaide de grey, and led a happy life till some evil hap threw her across the path of nicholas trevlyn, who made her his wife. i trow she many a time rued the day when she was thus persuaded; but repentance came too late, and death soon relieved her of her load of misery. that she bequeathed to her children; and here am i this day a wanderer from my father's house, constrained to seek shelter from her kindred, since flesh and blood can no longer endure the misery of dwelling beneath his roof." "jacob," said martin holt, "take yon steed to the stables of master miller, and ask him for fodder and tendance for the beast for this night. "young sir, thou hast a strange story to tell, and i would hear it anon. if thou hadst not succoured my daughter in her hour of need, i must have bid thee welcome to my house and my table. since thou hast done this also, i do it the more readily. i scarce knew that my misguided sister had borne a son. whether he lived or died i had no means of knowing. but if thou art he, come in, and be welcome. i will hear thy tale anon. meantime stand no longer without in the cold." if this welcome were something coldly given, cuthbert was not aware of it. used as he was to his father's fierce sullenness and taciturnity, any other manner seemed warm and pleasant. he followed this new uncle up the dark staircase without any misgiving, and found himself quickly in the well-warmed and well-lighted eating parlour, where mistress susan was already bustling about in a very noisy fashion, getting the viands ready for serving. a dark frown was on her face, and her whole aspect was thundery. the sisters and rachel had all vanished upstairs to hear cherry's story as they got her ready for the supper table, excitement in this new arrival of an unknown kinsman having saved the girl from any chiding or questioning from father or aunt. the coles, father and son, had returned to the upper parlour with the discretion and refinement of feeling natural to them; so that only abraham dyson witnessed the next scene in the little domestic drama, for jacob had obediently gone off with the horse. martin holt pushed his nephew before him into the lighted room, and looked him well over from head to foot. "there is little of thy mother about thee, boy," he said, with some stern bitterness of tone. "i fear me thou art all thy father's son." "my father says not so," answered cuthbert, facing his uncle fearlessly. "he has flung it again and yet again in my teeth that i am the heretic son of my heretic mother." martin holt uttered an inarticulate exclamation and came a step nearer. "say that again, boy--say that again! can it be true that thy unhappy and deluded mother repented of her popish errors ere she died, and turned back to the pure faith of her childhood? if that be so, it is like a mill stone rolled from off my heart. i have wept for her all these years as for one of the lost." "i was too young when she died to remember aught of her teaching, but i have seen those who tell me she was fearfully unhappy with my father, and abjured his faith ere she died. i know that he reviles her memory, and he forbids even her children to speak of her. he would scarce have branded her with the hateful name of heretic had she adhered to his faith till her death." "susan, dost hear that?" cried martin holt, turning exultantly to his sister. "it was as our mother fondly said. she was not lost for ever; she returned to her former faith. nay, i doubt not that in some sort she died for it--died through the harshness and sternness of her husband. susan, dost hear--dost understand?" but susan only turned a sour face towards her brother. "i hear," she answered ungraciously. "but the boy has doubtless been bred a papist. who can believe a word he says? doubtless he has been sent here to corrupt your daughters, as bridget was corrupted by his father. i would liefer put my hand in the maw of a mad dog than my faith in the word of a papist." cuthbert did not wince beneath this harsh speech, he was too well inured to such; he only looked at his aunt with grave curiosity as he answered thoughtfully: "methinks it is something hard to believe them, always. yet i have known them speak sooth as well as other men. but i myself would sooner put confidence in the word of one of the other faith. they hold not with falsehood in a good cause as our father confessors do. wherefore, if it were for that alone, i would sooner be a heretic, albeit there be many things about my father's faith that i love and cling to." this answer caused martin to look more closely at his nephew, discerning in him something of the fearless puritan spirit, as well as that instinctive desire to weigh and judge for himself that was one of his own characteristics. papist the lad might be by training and inheritance, but it was plain that at present he was no bigot. he would not strive to corrupt his cousins; rather were they likely to influence and draw him. susan flounced back to the kitchen without another word, only muttering to herself prognostications of evil if such a popinjay were admitted into the household. not that cuthbert's sober riding suit merited such a criticism, for there was nothing fine about it at all; yet it had been fashionably cut in its day, and still had the nameless air that always clings to a thoroughly well-made garment, even when it has seen its best days; and the puritans were already beginning to show, by their plain and severe dress, their contempt for frivolity and extravagance, though the difference between their clothes and those of other men was not so marked as it became in the next reign. however, there was not much more time for conversation on private themes. jacob returned from stabling the horse; the girls from above descended, full of curiosity about this new cousin. the coles, father and son, joined the party assembled round the table, and were introduced to cuthbert, whom, as a trevlyn, they regarded with considerable interest, and then the guests and the family were all placed--mistress susan and the two elder nieces only seating themselves at the last, when they had finished putting all the savoury dishes on the table. cuthbert's eyes grew round with amaze at the sight of all the good cheer before him. even at trevlyn chase he had never seen quite such an array of dishes and meats; and as he was the greatest stranger and a traveller to boot, he was helped with the greatest liberality, and pressed to partake of every dish. cherry was called upon for an account of her adventures, and was chidden sharply by her aunt for her folly and carelessness after being warned not to be overtaken by the darkness. but her father was too thankful to have her safe home to say much; and rachel, who sat on cuthbert's other side, plied him with questions about his own share in the adventure, and praised him in warm terms for his heroism, till the lad grew shamefaced and abashed, and was glad when the talk drifted away from private to public matters, and he could listen without being called upon to speak. moreover, he was all eagerness to hear what he could of such topics. he knew so little what was stirring in the country, and was eager to learn more. he kept hearing the words "bye" and "main" bandied about amongst the speakers, and at last he asked his neighbour in a whisper what was meant by the terms. "marry, two villainous popish plots," answered rachel, who was glib enough with her tongue. "and many heads have fallen already, and perhaps more will yet fall; for sir walter raleigh is still in the tower, and my lord grey, too. confusion to all traitors and plotters, say i! why cannot men live pleasantly and easily? they might well do so, an they would cease from their evil practices, and from making such a coil about what hurts none. if they would but go to church like sensible christians, nobody would have a word against them; but they are like mules and pigs, and they can neither be led nor driven straight. i go to church every sunday of my life, and what there is to fall foul of i never can guess. but men be such blind, obstinate fools, they must always be putting a rope round their necks. they say london is seething now with plots, and no man can feel safe for a day nor an hour." cuthbert gave one swift backward thought to his companion of the road and the strange words he had uttered; and he asked with increasing interest of his lively neighbour: "but what do men think to gain by such plots? what is the object of them?" "beshrew me if i know or care! my father says they be all mad together, the moonstruck knaves! they say that the 'bye' was an attempt to make prisoner of the king's majesty, and to keep him in captivity till he had sworn to change his laws and his ministers--as they say was done once in scotland, when he was trying to rule his turbulent subjects there. as for the 'main,' that was worse; nothing better than the murder of the king and royal family, so that the lady arabella might be queen in his stead. but neither came to good; it seemeth to me that these villainous plots never do, and all that results from them is that the laws are made harsher and harsher, and men groan and writhe under them, and curse the king and his ministers, when they had better be cursing their own folly and wickedness in trying to overthrow the government of their lawful rulers." "that is one side of the question, mistress rachel," said walter cole, in his quiet voice; "but if none had ever revolted against tyranny, we had all been slaves this day instead of a free nation of subjects, imposing our just will upon a sovereign in return for the privileges he grants us. there be limits to endurance. there be times when those limits are over past, and to submit becomes weakness and coward folly. thou speakest as one swimming easily with the stream. thou knowest little of the perils of the shoals and quicksands." rachel tossed her head, but was too wary to be drawn into an argument with the man of books. she could air her father's opinions second hand with an assumption of great assurance, but she was no hand at argument or fence, and had no desire for an encounter of wits. but cuthbert stepped eagerly into the breach, and the two men became engrossed in talk. cuthbert heard of acts of tyranny and oppression, cruel punishments and ruinous fines imposed upon hapless romanists, guiltless of any other offence than of growing up in the faith of their forefathers. he heard, on the other hand, of puritan preachers deprived of their cures and hunted about like criminals, though nothing save the crime of unlicensed preaching could be adduced against them. cuthbert's blood was young and hot, and easily stirred within him. he began to understand how it was that the nation and this great city were never at rest. it seemed to him as though he had stepped down out of a region of snow and ice into the very crater of some smouldering volcano which might at any moment burst out into flames. the sensation was strange and a little intoxicating. he marvelled how he had been content so long to know so little of the great world in which he lived. the party broke up all too soon for him; but after the guests had gone he had yet another interview to go through with his uncle, after the womenkind had been dismissed to bed. firstly, martin questioned the boy closely as to the circumstances of his past life--his relations with his father, his training, intellectual and religious, and his final resolve to escape, carried out by the help of sir richard and his family. next, he went on to ask the youth of his wishes concerning his future; and finding these as vague as might be expected from his vast inexperience, he smiled, and said that question could stand over for the present. there was no difficulty about employing talent and energy in this city of london; and if his nephew developed capacity in any direction, it could doubtless be turned to good account. meantime he had better dwell beneath this roof, and accustom himself to new ways and new sights, after which they would talk of his future again. nothing could be more to cuthbert's mind than such a decision; but when he tried to express his gratitude, he was speedily silenced. "not a word, boy; not a word! thou art a near kinsman. thou hast had a hard life with thy father, and having claimed the protection of thy mother's brother, shalt have it, and welcome. but now to another matter. how art thou off for money? i trow by what thou sayest of thy father that he had little to give or spend." "he never gave me aught in his life save the poor clothes and food that were needful. my uncle gave me a few gold pieces ere i left--i mean my good cousin, sir richard." "ay, boy, ay. but i trow that thine own uncle can do better by thee than that. didst ever know that thy mother once looked to have a fortune of her own, albeit a modest one?" cuthbert shook his head, and martin rose from his seat and disappeared from the room for a few minutes. when he came back he had a coffer in his hands that seemed to be heavy. he placed it on the table, and went on with his speech as though he had not been interrupted. "yes. our father was a man of substance, and he had but three children--myself, susan, and bridget. to me he willed his house, his business, and all the money locked up in that. to susan and bridget he divided the savings of his lifetime that had not been used in enlarging the business. there was two thousand pounds apiece for them when he died." cuthbert's eyes dilated with astonishment, but he said nothing, and his uncle continued speaking. "you doubtless marvel why you have received none of this before. i will tell you why. when bridget married a papist, our father was in a great rage, and vowed she should never have a penny of his money. he scratched her name out of his will, and bid us never speak her name again. but as he lay a-dying, other thoughts came into his mind, and he was unhappy in this thing. he bid me get together the two thousand pounds that had once been bridget's portion, and when i did so--with some trouble at a short notice--he counted it all over, and with his own hands locked it away in this chest "--laying his hand on the weighty iron-bound box. "then he turned to me and said, 'martin, i verily believe that thy sister is dead. something tells me that i shall see her before i see any of you. the dead are ever forgiven. take this coffer and keep it for thy sister's children, if she have had the misfortune to bring children into this world of sorrow. keep it for them till they be grown. let not their evil father know aught of it. and even then be cautious. prove and see if they be worthy of wealth--if they will make good use of it. it is thine in trust for them. keep or withhold as thou thinkest right; but be honest and be true, so shall my blessing follow thee even after death.' those were amongst the last words he spoke. i took the chest, and i have kept it until now. i have thought often of it; but no word reached me of my sister, and time has failed me to seek her abroad. i knew her children, if any lived, could but just have reached man or woman's estate, and i have waited to see what would chance. "cuthbert trevlyn, this chest and all it contains may one day be thine. i give it not yet into thy keeping, for i must prove thee first; but i tell thee what is within it and what was thy grand sire's charge, that thou mayest know i have no desire save to do what is right by thee and thy sister, and that i trust and hope the day may come when i may deliver the chest to thee, to divide with her the portion bequeathed to your hapless mother." cuthbert's astonishment was so great he hardly knew what to say. for himself he cared but little. he was a man, and could fight his own way in the world. but those golden coins would make a dowry for his sister that many a high-born dame might envy. a flush came into his cheek as he thought of philip's eager words overheard by him. if petronella was the mistress of a fair fortune, why should any forbid them to be wed? martin liked the lad none the less that his first thought was for his sister. but for the present petronella was beneath her father's roof, and could not be benefited thereby. still, it would be something for cuthbert to know, and to look forward to in the future, and therein he rejoiced. the chest was carefully restored to its hiding place and securely locked away, and then the kindly uncle took from his own pocket a small purse and put it into the reluctant hands of the lad. "nay, nay, thou must not be proud, boy; though i like thee none the less for thy pride and thine independence of spirit. but thou must not be penniless as thou goest about this city; and if one uncle gave thee gold, why not another? so no more words about it. take it, and begone to thy chamber; for we are simple folks that keep early hours, and i am generally abed an hour ere this." so cuthbert went to his queer little attic chamber beneath the high-pitched gable, with a mind confused yet happy, and limbs very weary with travel. yet sleep fell upon him almost before his head touched the pillow, for he had slept but brokenly since leaving his father's house, and nature, in spite of all obstacles, was claiming her due at last. chapter : the life of a great city. and so a new life began for cuthbert beneath the roof of his uncle. he found favour in the sight of martin holt because of his unpretending ways, his willingness, nay, his eagerness to learn, his ready submission to the authority exercised by the master of the house upon all beneath his roof, and the absence of anything like presumption or superciliousness on his nephew's part on the score of his patrician birth on his father's side. trevlyn though he was, the lad conformed to all the ways and usages of the humbler holts; and even mistress susan soon ceased to look sourly at him, for she found him as amenable to her authority as to that of martin, and handy and helpful in a thousand little nameless ways. he was immensely interested in everything about him. he would as willingly sit and baste a capon on the spit as ramble abroad in the streets, if she would but answer his host of inquiries about london, its ways and its sights. mistress susan was not above being open to the insidious flattery of being questioned and listened to; and to find herself regarded as an oracle of wisdom and a mine of information could not but be soothing to her vanity, little as she knew that she possessed her share of that common feminine failing. then cuthbert was a warm appreciator of her culinary talents. the poor boy, who had lived at the gate house on the scantiest of commons, and had been kept to oaten bread and water sometimes for a week together for a trifling offence, felt indeed that he had come to a land of plenty when he sat down day after day to his uncle's well-spread table, and was urged to partake of all manner of dishes, the very name of which was unknown to him. his keen relish of her dainties, combined with what seemed to her a very modest consumption of them, pleased mistress susan not a little; whilst for his own part cuthbert began to look heartier and stronger than he had ever done before. the slimness of attenuation was merged in that of wiry strength and muscle. his dark eyes no longer looked out from hollow caverns, and the colour which gradually stole into his brown cheek bespoke increase of health and well being. martin and susan looked on well pleased by the change. they liked the lad, and found his popery of such a mild kind that they felt no misgiving as to its influence upon the girls. cuthbert was as willing to go to a privately conducted puritan service as to mass, and liked the appointed service of the establishment rather better than either. martin did not hinder his attending the parish church, though he but rarely put in an appearance himself. he was not one of the bitter opponents of the establishment, but he was a bitter opponent of persecution for conscience' sake, and he was naturally embittered by the new rigour with which the old laws of conformity were enforced. however, he was true to his principles in that he let cuthbert go his own way freely, and did not forbid cherry to accompany him sometimes to church, where she found much entertainment and pleasure in watching the fashionable people come and go; and perhaps her father divined that she would give more attention to the mode of the ladies' headgears and hair dressing and the cut of their farthingales than to any matters of doctrine that might be aired in the pulpit. as for cuthbert, he drank in voraciously all that he heard and all that he saw in this strange place, which seemed to him like the babylon of old that the puritan pastors raved over in their pulpits. he was to be allowed his full liberty for some weeks, to see the sights of the city and learn his way about it. perhaps after christmastide his uncle would employ him in his shop or warehouse, but martin wished to take the measure of the lad before he put him to any task. so cuthbert roamed the london streets wondering and amazed. he saw many a street fight waged between the templars and 'prentices, and got a broken head himself from being swept along the tide of mimic battle. he saw the rude and rabble mob indulging in their favourite pastime of upsetting coaches (hell carts as they chose to dub them), and roaring with laughter as the frightened occupants strove to free themselves from the clumsy vehicles. cuthbert got several hard knocks as a reward for striving to assist these unlucky wights when they chanced to be ladies; but he was too well used to blows to heed them over much, and could generally give as good as he got. the fighting instinct often got him into tight places, as when he suddenly found himself surrounded by a hooting mob of ruffians in one of the slums of "alsatia," as whitefriars was called, where he had imprudently adventured himself. and this adventure might have well had a fatal termination for him, as this was a veritable den of murderers and villains of the deepest dye, and even the authorities dared not venture within its purlieus to hunt out a missing criminal without a guard of soldiers with them. the abuse of "sanctuary" was well exemplified by the existing state of things here; and though cuthbert was doing no ill to any soul, but merely gratifying his curiosity by prowling about the narrow dens and alleys, the cry of "a spy! a spy!" soon brought a mob about him, whilst his readiness to engage in battle caused the tumult to redouble itself in an instant. the lad had just realized his danger, and faced the fact that the chances of escaping alive were greatly against him, when a window in a neighbouring house was thrown open, and a stern, musical voice exclaimed: "for shame, my children, for shame! is it to be one against a hundred? is that alsatia's honour? what has the lad done?" cuthbert raised his eyes and beheld the tonsured head of a priest clad in a rusty black cassock, who was standing at the only window to be seen in a blank wall somewhat higher than that of the other houses surrounding it. the effect of those words on the angry multitude was wonderful. the hands raised to strike were lowered, and voices on all sides exclaimed: "it is father urban; we may not withstand him." still the anger of the mob was not calmed in a moment, and fierce voices exclaimed in threatening accents: "a spy! he is a spy!" "then bring him hither to me; i will judge him," said the priest, in the same tones of calm assurance. "if i find him worthy of death, i will give him over to your hands again." "that will do; father urban shall judge him!" cried a brawny fellow who seemed to be something of a leader with his fellows. "the father never lied to us yet. he will give him back if he finds him a spy." cuthbert was now jostled and hustled, but not in the same angry fashion, to a small narrow door in a deep embrasure, and when this door presently swung back on its hinges, the crowd surged quickly backwards as though in some sort afraid. within the narrow doorway stood the priest, a small, slim man in rusty black, with a crucifix suspended from his rosary, which he held up before the crowd, who most of them crossed themselves with apparent devotion. "peace be with you, my children!" was his somewhat incongruous salutation to the blood-thirsty mob; and then turning his bright but benignant eyes upon cuthbert, he said: "this is a leper house, my son. yet methinks thou wilt be safer here a while than in the street. dost thou fear to enter? if thou dost, we must e'en talk where we are." "i have no fear," answered cuthbert, who indeed only experienced a lively curiosity. the priest seemed pleased with the answer, and drew him within the sheltering door; and cuthbert followed his guide into a long, low room, where a table was spread with trenchers and pitchers, whilst an appetizing odour arose from a saucepan simmering on the fire and stirred by one of the patients, upon whom cuthbert gazed with fascinated interest. "he is well nigh cured," answered the priest. "our sick abide on the floor above; but there be not many here now. the plague carried off above half our number last year. "but now of thine own matters, boy: how comest thou hither? thou art a bold lad to venture a stranger into these haunts, unless thou be fleeing a worse peril from the arm of the law; and neither thy face nor thy dress looks like that. hast thou not heard of whitefriars and its perils? or art thou a rustic knave, unversed in the ways of the town?" cuthbert told his story frankly enough. he had lost himself in the streets, and was in the forbidden region before he well knew. a few kindly and dexterous questions from father urban led him to tell all that there was to know about himself, his parentage and his past; and the priest listened with great attention, scanning the face of the youth narrowly the while. "trevlyn--the name is known to us. it was a good old name once, and may be still again. i have seen thy father, nicholas trevlyn. it may be i shall see him again one day. be true to thy father's faith, boy; be not led away by hireling shepherds. the day is coming on england when the true faith shall spread from end to end of the land, and all heretics shall be confounded! see that thou art in thy place in that day! see that thou art found by thy father's side in the hour of victory!" cuthbert hung his head a little, and a flush crept into his cheek; but the priest did not appear to heed these slight indications of embarrassment, as he moved slowly up the stairs to the window above to tell the expectant crowd to disperse, as their victim was no spy, but an honest country lad, whose father was known to the priest, and who had lost his way in london, and strayed inadvertently into their midst. then the crowd having dispersed to seek fresh amusement, the priest, at cuthbert's desire, showed him all over this leper house, and told him much respecting the condition of the miserable inmates before they had been admitted to this place of refuge; and cuthbert gazed with awe-stricken eyes at the scarred and emaciated sufferers, filled with compassion and not loathing, and at last drew forth one of his golden pieces from his purse and asked the priest to expend it for the benefit of the poor lepers. "that will i gladly do, my son. but i must not let thee linger longer here; for although i myself hold that the whole and sound are not affected by the taint, there be leeches of repute who swear 'tis death to abide long beside the leper." "thou hast not found it so, father. dost thou live here?" "nay, i have no home. i go hither and thither as duty calls me. but i am often here with these sick folks of mine, whom so few men will dare approach unto. but i myself have never been the worse for my ministrations here, and i have no fears for thee, though i would not have thee linger. we will be going now, and i will be thy guide out of these dens of the earth, else might some more untoward thing befall thee when none might be nigh to succour thee." the priest and the youth passed out together. the early dusk was beginning to fall, and cuthbert was glad enough of the protection of father urban's companionship. all saluted the priest as he passed by, and few even looked askance at his comrade. the influence of these roman catholics over the hearts and feelings of the masses has always been very great--something of an enigma and a grievance to those who would fain see naught but evil within the fold of rome. but facts are stubborn things, and the facts have been in this matter in their favour. england as a nation was slowly but surely throwing off the papal yoke, and emerging from a region of darkness and superstition. nevertheless, the influence of the priest was a living and often a beneficent influence amongst the most degraded of the people, and he could and did obtain a reverent hearing when no man else coming in the name of christ would have been listened to for a single moment. as the pair moved along the dark, noisome streets, father urban spoke again in his quick, imperious way. "thou spakest awhile ago of one master robert catesby; hast thou seen aught of him since thy arrival in london?" "no," answered cuthbert; "i have had much else to do and to think of. but i must to him one day, and demand my purse again, else may he think i have been left for dead on the highway." "he is a good man and a true," said the priest. "thou wilt do well to keep his friendship an thou mayest. catesby and trevlyn come of a good stock; it were well they should consort together." cuthbert recalled some of the strange words spoken by master robert on the road, and wondered if he recalled them aright. they seemed to partake of the character of fierce threats. he was not certain that he altogether relished the thought of such friendship. "mine uncle might not wish me to consort with him," said the lad, with a little hesitation. "he is but a wool stapler, as i have told thee, and his friends are simple folks like himself. he meddles not in matters that gentlefolks love. he has no fine company to his house. since it be my lot to abide beneath his roof--" "thou must needs conform to his ways; is that so, boy?" asked the father, interrupting the rather lame and confused speech, and smiling as he did so. "ay, conform, conform! conformity is the way of the world today! i would not bid thee do otherwise. yet one bit of counsel will i give thee ere we part. think not that thou canst not conform and yet do thy duty by the true faith, too. be a careful, watchful inmate of thine uncle's house; yet fear not to consort with good men, too, when thy chance comes. thou needst not tell thine uncle all. thou hast reached man's estate, and it is ordained of god that men should shake off the fetters that bind them in youth, and act and judge for themselves. my counsel is this: be wary, be prudent, be watchful, and lose no opportunity of gaining the trust of all men. so wilt thou one day live to do service to many; and thou wilt better understand my words the longer thou livest in this great city, and learnest more of what is seething below the surface of men's lives." and with a few words of dismissal and blessing the father sent cuthbert on his way, standing still and looking after him till the slight figure was lost to sight in the darkness. "there goes a man who by his face might have a great future before him," mused the priest. "it is with such faces as that that men have gone to prison and to death." cuthbert bent his steps towards the bridge, interested and excited by his recent adventure, his thoughts directed into a new channel, his memory recalling the first companion of his lonely journey, and the charm of that companion's personality and address. so many other things had passed since, impressions had jostled so quickly one upon the other, that he had scarce thought again of master robert catesby or the purse he had to claim from him. his new uncle's liberality had made him rich, and a certain natural reserve had held him silent in his puritan relative's house about any person not likely to find favour in martin holt's estimation. he had been equally reticent about his strange adventure with the gipsies, though he scarce knew why he should not speak of that. but, as a matter of fact, every day brought with it such a crowd of new impressions that the earlier ones had already partially faded from his mind. but the words of the priest had awakened a new train of thought. cuthbert resolved not to delay longer the reclamation of his own property. he spoke to cherry that same evening about his lost purse, giving her a brief account of his ride across hammerton heath, and she was eager for him to ask his own, lest he should lose it altogether. "for gay gallants are not always to be trusted, for all that they look so fine and speak so fair," she said, nodding her pretty curly head, an arch smile in her big gray eyes. "i have heard my father say so a hundred times. i would go quickly and claim mine own again. but tell me the rest of the adventure. what didst thou, left thus alone upon the lone heath? i trow it was an unmanly and unmannerly act to leave thee thus. what befell thee then?" cuthbert looked round cautiously; but there was no one listening to the chatter of this pair of idlers in the window. mistress susan's voice was heard below scolding the serving wench, and martin holt was poring over some big ledger whilst jemima called over the figures of a heap of bills. keziah was at her spinning wheel, which hummed merrily in the red firelight; and cherry was seizing advantage of her aunt's absence to chatter instead of work. cherry had from the first been cuthbert's confidante and friend. it was taken for granted by this time that this should be so. nobody was surprised to see them often together, and cherry had never found the house on the bridge so little dull as when cuthbert came in night by night to give her the most charming and exciting accounts of his doings and adventures. once, too, she had gone with him to see some sights. they had paraded paul's walk together, and cuthbert had been half scandalized and wholly astonished to see a fine church desecrated to a mere fashionable promenade and lounging place and mart. they had watched some gallants at their tennis playing another day, and had even been present at the baiting of a bear, when they had come unawares upon the spectacle in their wanderings. but cuthbert's ire had been excited through his humanity and love for dumb animals, and cherry had been frightened and sickened by the brutality of the spectacle. and when martin holt had inveighed against the practice with all a puritan's vehemence, cuthbert had cordially agreed, and had thus drawn as it were one step nearer the side of the great coming controversy which his uncle had embraced. these expeditions together had naturally drawn the cousins into closer bonds of intimacy. cherry felt privileged to ask questions of cuthbert almost at will, and he had no wish to hide anything from her. "i will tell thee that adventure some day when we are alone," he answered. "i have often longed to share the tale with thee, but we have had so much else to speak of. i was taken prisoner by the robbers, and conveyed to a ruined mill, where some of their comrades and some wild gipsies dwell, as i take it, for the greater part of the inclement winter. i thought my end had surely come when first i saw the fierce faces round me; but there was one who called herself their queen, and who made them quit their evil purpose. she put me to sit beside her at the board, and when the morning came she fed me again and bid me ride forth without fear. she told me certain things to boot, which i must not forget: but those i will not speak of till you know the whole strange story. i may not tell it here. i would not that any should know it but thee, cherry. but some day when we can get into some lonely place together i will tell thee all, and we will think together how the thing on which my mind is set may be accomplished." cherry's eyes were dilated with wonder and curiosity. her cousin all at once took rank as a hero and knight of romance. he had already experienced a wonderful adventure, and there was plainly some mystery behind which was to be made known to her later. what a proud thing it was to have such a cousin! how she despised honest jacob now, with his large hands and heavy ways! she had laughed at him ever since she could remember, and had ordered him about much as though he were a faithful dog always ready to do her bidding; but she had never quite realized what a clumsy boor he was till their handsome, dark-faced trevlyn cousin had come amongst them, with his earnest eyes, his graceful movements, and his slim, attractive person. cuthbert's manners, that in fine society would have been called rustic and unformed, were a great advance on anything cherry had seen in her own home, save in the person of anthony cole and his son. she admired him immensely, and he was rapidly becoming the sun and centre of her life; whilst cuthbert, who had always been used to the companionship of a sister, and who found several fanciful resemblances as well as so many points of contrast between the lively cherry and the pensive petronella, was glad enough of her sisterly friendship and counsel, and did not lose in favour with his uncle that he succeeded in pleasing and brightening the life of his youngest born, who was in truth the idol of his heart, though he would sooner have cut off his right hand than have let her know as much too plainly. as cherry also was of opinion that cuthbert ought to reclaim his money, he resolved to do so upon the morrow without any further loss of time. cherry advised him not to speak openly of his visit to the tavern, for her father held all such places in abhorrence, and would likely speak in slighting terms of any person who could frequent them. he had better prosecute his errand secretly, and tell her the result at the end. cherry dearly loved a little bit of mystery, and was very anxious that cuthbert should continue to occupy his present position in her father's good graces. the cat and fiddle was none too well looking a place when cuthbert succeeded at last in finding it. it had one door in the thoroughfare of holborn, but it ran back some way, and its other doors opened into a narrow alley turning off from the main street under a low archway. as cuthbert pushed open the door of the public room, he saw several men with faces of decidedly unprepossessing type sitting together at a table engrossed in talk, and these all looked quickly up as he entered, and gazed at him with undisguised suspicion. a burly man, who had the look of a host, came forward, and asked his business rather roughly. strangers did not appear to meet any warmth of welcome at this place. cuthbert answered that he sought news of master robert catesby, who had bidden him inquire at that place for him. as that name passed his lips he saw a change pass over the face of his questioner, and the answer was given with a decided access of friendliness. "he is not here now, but he will be here anon. he comes to dine shortly after noon, and will spend some hours here today on business. if it please you, you can wait for him." "i thank you, but i will come again later," answered cuthbert, who was by no means enamoured of the place or the company. he was surprised that his travelling companion, who appeared a man of refined speech and habits, should frequent such an evil-looking place as this. but the habits of the dwellers in cities were as yet strange to him, and it might be his ignorance, he thought, which made it appear suspicious to him. "and if he asks who has inquired for him, what shall i say?" asked the host, whilst the men at the table continued to stare and listen with every appearance of interest. "my name is trevlyn," answered cuthbert shortly, disliking, he hardly knew why, the aspect and ways of the place. he fancied that a slight sensation followed this announcement. certainly the landlord bowed lower than there was occasion for as he held open the door for his visitor to pass out. cuthbert was puzzled, and a little annoyed. he was half inclined not to go there again; but curiosity got the better of his resolve as the afternoon hours drew on. after all, what did it matter what manner of man this was, since he need never see him again after today? it would be foolish not to reclaim his money, and might lead master robert catesby to inquire for him at his uncle's house, and that he did not wish. the thing had better be done, and be done quickly. how foolish it would be to go back to cherry and say he had not accomplished his errand because some odd-looking men had stared at him, and because the tavern was ill smelling and dirty! it was three o'clock, however, before the youth again entered the unsavoury abode. as december had already come, the days were approaching their shortest limit; and as heavy clouds hung in the sky, the streets already began to look dark. within the ill-lighted tavern the obscurity was still greater. cuthbert pushed his way through the door, and found himself amongst the afternoon drinkers, who were making the room ring with ribald songs and loud laughter. but the host quickly singled him out, and approached with an air of deference. "the gentleman you asked for is upstairs. he directed that you should be sent to him on your arrival. i am too busy to go up the stairs with you, but you cannot miss the way. he is in the room upon the first floor; the first door to the right hand will lead you to him. he has one or two gentlemen with him, but he will be glad to see you, too." cuthbert was glad to get out of the noisy room below, and, shutting the door behind him, mounted the dark stairs. he opened the first door to the right, after knocking once or twice in vain, and found himself in a very small apartment, very ill lighted by a tiny window, and altogether empty. he looked round in surprise. dim as was the twilight, he could not be mistaken in the emptiness of the room. he wondered if the man had misled him purposely, and a little vague uneasiness stole over him. the noises from below had hitherto drowned any other sound; but as for some cause unknown to himself these suddenly and entirely ceased for the space of some half minute, he became aware of voices close at hand; and almost before he realized his position, he had caught several quickly and eagerly spoken sentences. "they show no mercy; let no mercy be shown to them!" said one voice, in low, menacing accents. "six saintly priests have died in cruel agonies by the bloody hangman's hands but a few weeks past; and look ye, what has been the fate of that godly, courageous old man of lancashire who has dared to raise his voice in reprobation of these barbarities? fined, imprisoned, despoiled of all; and all but condemned to be nailed to the pillory, that his ears might be sliced off! even that fate was all but inflicted by yon infamous star chamber, who respect neither virtue nor gray hairs, so they may fill the king's coffers and destroy all godliness in the land! it was but by two votes he escaped that last anguish and degradation. how say ye, friends? can any scheme be too desperate if it rids us of such tyrants and rulers at one blow?" an eager murmur arose at that--assent, indignation, wrath--and again the same voice spoke in the same low, eager tones: "and the way is open; the house is ours. but a few feet of masonry to tunnel through, and the thing is done. shall we shrink? shall we hesitate? i trow not. strong arms, silent tongues, a high courage--that is all we want." "and a few more strong arms to help us at the work, for it will be a labour of hercules to get it done." at that moment the noise from below burst out anew, and cuthbert heard no more of this mysterious colloquy. he had not time to think over the meaning of the words he had heard, or indeed to attach any particular significance to them. he was always hearing fierce threats bandied about between ardent partisans of romanist and puritan, and was beginning to pay small heed to such matters. he did not realize now that he had surprised any conspirators at their work. he knocked boldly at the door of the room, to which the place where he stood was plainly the antechamber, and a loud voice bid him enter. there was no light in the apartment, save that which filtered in through the dirty window, and it was plain that the meeting, whatever its nature, was breaking up. several men were standing about in their cloaks and hats, the latter slouched down upon their brows, so that their faces could not be distinguished in the gloom. two or three passed cuthbert hastily as he entered, before he had time even to see if one of them was the companion of his journey; but though he found some trouble in distinguishing features, his own were visible enough as he stood facing the window, and out of the shadows stepped a tall man, who greeted him with extended hand. "good e'en to you, cuthbert trevlyn, and a fair welcome to london town! i trust you have not been in dangers and difficulties, and that you but now come to claim your own again? how fared it with you on the heath that night? were you in any wise maltreated or rough handled by the gentlemen of the road?" "nay; i was rather treated to a good supper and a night's lodging, and not so much as deprived of my steed. i trow had he shown something more of mettle i might not have so preserved him; but one or two of them who mounted him pronounced him of no use even as a pack horse." catesby laughed pleasantly, and putting his hand into his doublet drew forth the purse intrusted to him, and placed it in cuthbert's hands. "they would not have been so obliging, i fear, had you chanced to have this upon your person. take it, boy, and look within and see that all is safe. i have not parted with it since the night of our journey. i trow you will find your treasure as it left your hand." "i am sure of it," answered cuthbert gratefully; "and i return you many thanks for your goodwill and sound counsel in the matter. but for your good offices i should have lost all. i trust you yourself escaped without misadventure?" cuthbert was now anxious to be gone. his errand was accomplished. the atmosphere of this place was offensive to him, and he was uneasy without well knowing why. his companion seemed to divine this; and the room being now cleared of all other guests, he put his hat on his head and said, "we will go out into the fresh air. the cat and fiddle is better as a resort by day than by night. i would fain know something of your whereabouts and fortunes, boy. i have taken a liking for you, and the name of trevlyn sounds pleasantly in mine ears." the old sense of fascination began to fall upon cuthbert, as catesby, taking him familiarly by the arm, led him out into the street, and walked along with him in the direction of his home, drawing him out by questions, and throwing in bits of anecdote, jest, and apt remark, that made his conversation a pleasure and an education. cuthbert forgot his anxieties and vague suspicions in his enjoyment of the conversation of an accomplished man of the world; and there was a subtle flattery in the sense that this man, scholar and gentleman as he was, had condescended to a liking for and an interest in his insignificant self, and was of his own accord inviting confidence and friendship. "i once had a young brother; thou something favourest him," was the only explanation he gave of the sudden fancy formed when cuthbert spoke gratefully of his kindness. "i am growing out of youth myself, but i like the companionship of youth when i can get it. i would fain see more of thee, boy, an thou art thine own master, and can come and visit me at the place i may appoint." cuthbert was pleased and flattered, and said he should be proud to come, but hoped it would not be at the tavern, as his uncle misliked such places of entertainment. "it is an ill-smelling spot; i mislike it myself," answered catesby. "nay, we can do better than that now. there is a house at lambeth where i often frequent with my friends. it is something lonely; but thou art a brave lad, and wilt not fear that." he turned and looked cuthbert keenly over as he spoke, and heaved a short sigh. "thou art marvellous like the brother i lost," he said. "i would that i might have thee for my servant; but thou art too gently born for that, i trow." cuthbert had well-nigh promised lifelong service on the spot, so peculiar was the influence and fascination exercised upon him by this man; but he remembered his uncle and his duty to him, and pulled himself up as he replied soberly: "i am poor enow--poorer than many a servant--having naught but what is given me by others. but i have mine uncle's will to do. i may take no step without asking counsel of him." "ay, verily; and this secret of our friendship thou must hide from him. thou knowest that i am of the forbidden faith, and my presence in london must be hid. i may trust thee thus far with my secret? thou wilt not reveal my name to others?" "never, since thou hast told me not." "good lad; i knew thou mightest be trusted. and thou wilt come to see me as i shall ask?" "if i can make shift to do so i will very willingly." "i shall remind thee of thy promise. and now, farewell. i have business in another quarter. we shall meet again anon." chapter : cuthbert and cherry go visiting. all this while kate's letter to her cousin lord culverhouse had lain stowed away in the safe leathern pocket of cuthbert's riding dress, into which her deft white hands had sewed it for safety, and he had made no attempt to deliver it to its owner, nor to see whether the young viscount would have will or power to further his own success in life. the reason for this delay was no lack of goodwill on the part of the youth, but was simply due to the fact that lord andover and his family were not in london at this season, but were in their family place in hampshire, and not expected to reach london much before the christmas season. this much cuthbert had discovered early on in his stay in town; for kate had described to him the situation of her uncle's house in the strand, and he had made inquiry at the porter's lodge the very first time he had passed by. but hearing this, and not wishing to entrust the letter into any hands but those of lord culverhouse himself, he had gone away again, and the excitements of the new life had speedily driven the thought of kate's commission out of his mind. but now the merry christmas season was close at hand. mistress susan was thrice as busy and as sharp tongued as usual, getting forward her preparations for that time of jollity and good cheer, and making the bridge house fairly reek with the mixed flavours of her numerous concoctions and savoury dishes. martin holt's puritanism, which would prevent his countenancing anything like drunkenness, revelling, or the gross sports and amusements which still held full sway over the people at festive seasons, did not withhold him from keeping a well-spread table at which to ask his friends to sit, still less from sending out to his poorer neighbours portions of the good cheer which has always seemed appropriate to the christmas season. so he raised no protest against the lavish expenditure in meats and spices, rose water, ambergris, sugar and herbs, nor complained that his sister and daughters seemed transformed for the nonce into scullions, and had scarce time to sit down to take a meal in peace, for fear that some mishap occurred to one of the many stew pans crowding each other upon the stove. he was used to it, and it appeared the inevitable preliminary to yuletide; though cuthbert looked on in amaze, and marvelled how any household could consume the quantities of victuals under preparation, be their hospitality and generosity what it might. as he walked abroad in the streets he saw much the same sort of thing everywhere going on. cooks and scullions were scouring the streets and markets for all manner of dainties. farmers were driving through the streets flocks of young porkers, squealing lustily and jostling the passers by; and cooks and housewives would come rushing out from the houses to secure a pig and carry it off in triumph; whilst here and there a servant in livery might be seen with a basket from which a peacock's tail floated, carrying off this costly prize to adorn the table of some nobleman or wealthy merchant. passing by lord andover's house in the strand on the day before the eve of christmas, cuthbert saw, by the stir and bustle and liveliness of the courtyard, that the family had plainly returned. on making inquiry he discovered that his surmise was correct, and he walked home resolving to lose no more time in delivering his letter, and wondering if he could contrive to take cherry with him when he paid the visit, to secure for her a sight of the gay streets and a peep into lord andover's big house. the poor child had been regularly mewed up at home the whole of the past week helping her sharp-tongued aunt. it was nothing but fair that she should taste a little enjoyment now; and he determined to try to get his uncle's consent before speaking a word to cherry herself. susan holt never opposed her brother, though she often disapproved of his lenience towards his youngest child, whose love of pleasure she looked upon as a peril and a snare. when cuthbert made his modest request to take cherry out on the morrow to see the sights of the streets, and the houses all decked with holly, the father smiled an indulgent smile and gave a ready assent. if cuthbert would be careful where he took her, and not let her be witness of any of the vile pastimes of cock fighting, bull or bear baiting, or the hearer of scurrilous or blasphemous language, he might have her companionship and welcome; and it would doubtless amuse her to go into lord andover's kitchen, where messengers generally waited who had brought notes or messages for members of the family, being treated to cups of sack and other hospitality; and as he was a good man, his household would be well ordered, and the maid would be treated with due civility and respect. "the child is kept something strait by her good aunt," said martin, a smile hovering round the corner of his lips. "we are not all cut to the same pattern, and cherry takes not as kindly to the gravity of life as did her sisters. a little change will do her no harm. it boots not too far to resist the promptings of nature." how cherry's eyes laughed and sparkled, and how her pretty face flushed and dimpled when cuthbert whispered to her of the pleasure in store for her. she had been looking a little harassed and weary after her long seclusion from the fresh air, striving to please aunt susan, who never would be pleased; but this made amends for all. worthy susan sniffed and snorted when martin told her to give the child a holiday on the morrow; but as all her preparations were well-nigh complete, she did not really want the girl, and contented herself with hoping that her indulgent father would not live to rue the day when he thought fit to indulge her wanton love for unhallowed sights and amusements. martin did not reply. perhaps he felt that his sister was more consistent and stanch to the puritan principles than he was himself in this matter; but he did not rescind his decision. and after a surreptitious meal behind the pantry door together on the morrow, whilst mistress susan was engaged upstairs over the weighty matter of the linen to adorn the festal board that evening and on christmas day itself, the pair stole quietly off about eleven o'clock, leaving word with martin in passing out that they would be back before dark. cherry danced along as though she had wings to her feet, as they quitted the bridge and plunged into the narrow but bustling and busy streets. she had always been kept rigorously at home on all occasions of public rejoicing and merriment, and it was a perfect delight to her to see the holiday look about the passers by, and exchange friendly good wishes with such acquaintances as she met by the way. she had put on her best gown, and a little ruff round her neck: her aunt would not let her wear such "gewgaws" in a general way, but the girl loved to fabricate them out of odds and ends, in imitation of the ladies she saw passing in the street. she wore the gray cloak and hood she had had on when first cuthbert had come to her assistance by the river, and her rosy laughing face peeped roguishly out from the warm and becoming head gear. but suddenly, as they were passing a house in east cheape, she paused and glanced up at cuthbert with a bewitching little look of pleading. "wait but here for me a little five minutes," she said; "i have an errand to my cousin rachel." she was gone in a moment, slipping through the open door and leaving cuthbert outside in the street. he knew the house for her uncle dyson's, and was in no way alarmed about her. nor was she long in rejoining him again. but when she came out, laughing, blushing, and dimpling, he scarce knew her for the moment, so transformed was she; and he stood perfectly mute before the radiant young vision his eyes encountered. the sober black under-petticoat had been replaced by one of vivid scarlet taffeta, quilted with elaboration, and further adorned with embroidery in white silk. the gray upper robe was the same as before, the soft stuff and quiet tone harmonizing and contrasting well with the bright hue of the petticoat. the little feet were encased in the daintiest of strong buckled shoes, and in scarlet hose to match the quilted skirt; whilst the cloak and hood were now of soft white lamb's-wool cloth, such as abraham dyson made a specialty of in his business; and the vivid delicate colour upon the girl's laughing face as it peeped out of the snowy hood was set off to the greatest possible advantage by the pure white frame, so suited to the child's infantile style of beauty. "why, cherry, i scarce know thee!" cried cuthbert, amazed. "i scarce know myself," answered the laughing girl, blushing and dimpling with mischievous pleasure; "and i trust none else will know me neither if we meet more friends by the way. i will pull my hood well over my face, for i would not have this frolic reach aunt susan's ears. she would make a mighty coil anent it. but oh, i have so longed for pretty things such as rachel wears why is it wrong to love bright colours and soft fabrics? i will not believe it is. when i am grown to woman's estate, and have a home of my own to regulate, i will wear what i choose and what becomes me best. it is folly to think god loves not beauty and brightness. has he not made the sky blue, the trees green, the flowers of every hue of the rainbow? does he not paint the sky with brilliant hues? why is man alone of his creatures to be dull and sad?" "nay, i know not; i am unlearned in these questions. but how got you these fine clothes? did mistress rachel lend them?" "rachel has always longed to give this petticoat to me. she is weary of it, and it is something too short for her; but i knew i might never wear it, and that aunt susan would chide me roundly for bringing such a thing home. so rachel said she would lay it by for me when her new robe came home at christmastide. then she whispered to me last week that her father had a present for me--a cloak and hood that he thought my father would let me wear, albeit aunt susan might ill like it. so passing the house today, methought i might slip in and ask rachel if i might wear the new cloak and hood to lord andover's; and forthwith she had me up to her room and into this scarlet petticoat in a twinkling, and mine uncle brought the white cloak and hood himself and fastened it on me, and jacob came with the shoes and said he had had them made strong for the muddy streets, but smart with the buckles on the top. and here i be the happiest girl in all london town! nay, cuthbert, but i feel as if my feet could dance of themselves all the way!" her happiness was infectious. cuthbert felt more like a light-hearted boy than ever he had done in his life before. his lively little companion, clinging to his arm and chattering like a magpie, effectually drove away all grave thoughts. the sun shone brightly in the steely-blue sky; the frost had made the streets absolutely clean and dry. walking, even in the most trodden places, was easy and pleasant, and everybody seemed in excellent good humour. many admiring glances were levelled at the pair as they passed along--the charming blushing damsel in the white hood, and the distinguished-looking youth with the grave dark face. cuthbert gratified the little girl's curiosity by taking her up and down paul's walk as they passed through st. paul's churchyard, and by the time they gained fleet street and temple bar she had reached the limit of her farthest walk westward. they spent several minutes before the clock of st. dunstan's in the west, and watched the bronze figures striking on their bells as the hour of midday sounded forth from many steeples. then cherry must needs go down to the river banks between the gentlemen's gardens and see how the river looked from here. she was a little awed by the grandeur of the houses all along the strand, and wondered mightily what it could feel like to be one of the fine court dames who drove in and out of the great gates in gilded coaches, or ambled forth upon snow-white palfreys, attended by lackeys afoot and on horseback. another hour had passed in delighted watching of the street sights and the fine folks who dwelt in these parts, before cuthbert led her under the archway of the great courtyard, and told her that this was lord andover's house. it was one of the finest in the strand, and it was plain that some gay festivity was in foot or in preparation; for there was such a to-ing and fro-ing of serving men, lackeys and scullions, such a clatter of voices, such an air of hurry and jollity on every face, that cherry could have looked and listened for ever, but that cuthbert hurried her through the crowd towards a big door opening into the courtyard, and whispered in her ear: "they all be too busy to heed me here. come to the house, and see what hap we have there. i may deliver this letter to none other save lord culverhouse himself." the great door which stood wide open proved to be that of the kitchen--a vast hall in itself, along the farther side of which were no less than six huge fireplaces. cooks and scullions stood at each of these, shouting out orders and moving to and fro; while a perfect crowd of menials and servants, messengers and idlers, stood or sat about, chatting, laughing, and even gaming in corners. huge tankards of ale, hot and strongly spiced, stood upon the table, and every one who passed by appeared permitted to help himself at will. busy and noisy as this place was, an air of good fellowship and good humour pervaded it which was reassuring and pleasant; and before the cousins had stood many minutes in their corner, a serving man came up and asked them civilly enough of their business. cuthbert replied that he had a letter which he had been charged to give into lord culverhouse's own hands; and hearing that, the servant gave a keen look at the pair, and apparently satisfied with his inspection, bid them follow him. he took them up a wide staircase, and brought them out into another large hall, where servants of a different class were gathered together--the liveried footmen and pages and lackeys, and some waiting women, very grandly attired, who speedily beckoned cherry amongst them, and began making much of her, rather as though she were a little child, feeding her with comfits and cakes and spiced wine, examining her soft white cloak, and asking a host of questions as to where she got it, who was the maker, and if her uncle sold his wares to the public. cherry had pretty, dainty little ways of her own, and was not in the least shy where she felt herself liked. she did not even miss cuthbert when he was summoned away, so happy was she to be talked to by these fine waiting women, who were kind and comfortable souls enough. she learned on her side that there was to be a play given in half-an-hour's time within the house itself, and that all the serving men and women were permitted to witness it. she was pressed to stay and see it herself, and her eyes beamed with delight at the bare thought. to see a play had always been the very height of her youthful ambition, and had not father said that she could get no hurt at lord andover's house? presently cuthbert came back, his face aglow with pleasure. "cherry," said he, "i have seen lord culverhouse, and methinks kate's letter was like a talisman; for after reading it he bid me welcome as though i were in some sort a kinsman, and said that i must stay and see the mask that is to be played here in a short while, and remain as a guest at the feast which will follow, where the boar's head is to be brought in, and all sorts of revelry are to be held. i told him i could not stay till dark, for that we had promised to be home ere that; but that i would gladly see the play acting an i might. and then i told him of thee, and he bid me go fetch thee. my cousin, said he, must i' faith be in some sort his cousin, since kate, who was his cousin, also spoke of me as one. i told him nay, but that thou wert cousin only on my mother's side; but he laughed, and would not listen, and bid me fetch thee, that he might place thee well to see the mummery. so come with me, fair cousin, for we must not keep him waiting." cherry's cheeks were dyed with bewitching blushes, and her big gray eyes were shining like stars, as she followed her cousin, accompanied by a little murmur of congratulation from the waiting women, who had all fallen in love with the charming child. she looked a perfect picture as she stood before lord culverhouse in her scarlet petticoat and snow-white hood, making her pretty quaint reverence to him, hardly daring to raise her eyes, but quite lost in the glamour of the honour done to her in being thus noticed by a real lord and good humouredly dubbed a cousin. and then her hand was actually taken by this handsome and elegant young gallant, and she felt herself being conducted through rooms the magnificence of which she could not take in in her timid, hasty glances. she had almost begun to think it all a dream from which she must soon awaken, when she heard her companion say in his sweet voice: "mother mine, have you room beneath your ample wing for a little city guest--a cousin of cuthbert trevlyn, who has brought me a most welcome missive from my dear cousin kate?" and then cherry looked up with a pretty, frightened, trusting glance, to find herself being examined and smiled at by quite a bevy of wonderfully-dressed ladies, who after one good look began to laugh in a very reassuring and kindly way, and made room in their midst for the little city maiden with that ease of true good breeding which has ever been the truest test of the blue blood of the english aristocracy. she looked such a child, in her pretty confusion and bashfulness, that not one of them resented her presence amongst them. courtesy and kindliness had always been lady andover's salient characteristics, and there was a native refinement and quaint simplicity about cherry that would have gone far to disarm severer critics than the present company round lady andover. "come, my pretty child," she said; "thou shalt sit beside me, and tell me all about thyself. the name of trevlyn is well known and well loved in this house. thou comest under good auspices." and so cherry again found herself the plaything and pet of a group of good-humoured people, though this time they were fine ladies in dresses that fairly took away her breath, as she ventured to study them with eager, furtive glances. she answered all their questions with pretty, candid frankness; told of her adventure in the osier beds, and of cuthbert's timely rescue; told of her life under her father's roof, and her simple daily duties and pleasures. and the grand ladies listened and laughed, and made much of her; and her soft white hood was removed and admired, and passed round almost as it had been amongst the waiting women. cherry felt quite bashful at sitting amongst those fine ladies with no cover for her head but her own curls; but she noted that the younger ladies present had no adornment beside that, unless it were a bow of ribbon or a few sparkling pins: so she took courage, and her hot cheeks burned less brightly, though she could not help her eyes sparkling and dancing beneath their long lashes as she wondered what in the world her aunt susan would say could she see her for a moment in her present surroundings. and then the play began, and cherry sat entranced from the moment the curtain rose till it fell again. she had never seen anything of the sort before, and was perfectly captivated and carried away, living in the glamour of absolute enchantment, and amusing her fashionable companions almost as much by her artless admiration and enthusiasm as the players did by their mummery and stage tricks. but time was flying all too fast, and almost as soon as the curtain fell for the last time, cuthbert came up and carried her away, lord culverhouse walking with them once more through the long rooms, and insisting on their partaking of some spiced wine and game pasty before going out into the cold air again. what with the fumes of the wine, the extraordinary grandeur of the house, and the wonderful nature of the adventure altogether, cherry hardly knew whether or not she any longer trod on solid ground as she pursued her way along the streets clinging tight to cuthbert's arm. it was growing dusk now, and cuthbert was anxious to get his charge home before the early darkness should have fallen upon the city. they hardly spoke as they wended their way. cherry gave a little gasp from time to time indicative of her unbounded delight, whilst cuthbert was thinking pleasantly of the kind and cordial reception he had met with from lord culverhouse. both felt more or less in dreamland till they reached abraham dyson's house, where cherry ran indoors again to rid herself of her finery. when she emerged once more into the familiar streets of the city, her cheeks had lost a little of their bloom, her eyes some of their star-like brightness; and heaving a great sigh as she took cuthbert's arm, she said: "ah me! it is a hard fate to be a city maid and a puritan's daughter. i shall never see such lovely sights again! and oh, how happy i should be if only i could be a lady, and live where everything is soft and beautiful and gentle! oh how i shall dream of it all now! but it will never be anything but a dream!" and a great tear like a diamond sparkled on the thick lashes and rolled down the girl's soft cheek. cuthbert had been thinking hard as he stood there in the gathering darkness. he was rather taken out of himself, which was perhaps the reason he forgot all prudence and reserve. bending suddenly over cherry, he kissed away the tears on her cheeks, and said in low, passionate tones: "nay, sweet cherry, weep not for that. i will make thee yet a lady, whom none shall dare flout. i have loved thee, sweet cousin, from the day i found thee by the river in hapless plight. and when i have found the lost treasure of trevlyn, and have brought luck and fortune to each one that bears the old name, then will i come and wed thee, sweet coz; and thou wilt be a trevlyn then, and none shall dare to scorn thee for thy good father's honest name. my father did wed a holt, and his son shall do the same. tell me, cherry, dost thou love me well enough to be my little wife one day? for by the mass i will have none other; and if thou lovest me not i will go unwed all the days of my life!" cherry turned hot and cold, flushed scarlet, and then grew pale as this speech proceeded, till at the last words the red came back in a flood, and hiding her face on cuthbert's shoulder, she sobbed out: "oh, how could i love anybody else? o cuthbert, how happy thou hast made me! art sure thou speakest sooth?" "sooth! ay, that i do. thou art the sweetest maid the sun e'er looked on. thou wert the fairest of all that gay company at my lord andover's, and many beside myself said as much. cherry, thou shalt one day be my own true wife; and if kind fortune do but favour me, thou shalt have gold and jewels and fine robes enow, and shalt hold up thy head with the best of them: see if it be not so!" a boy and girl wooing certainly, but none the less hearty for that. the love had been growing silently for many weeks, the young folks scarcely knowing what they were learning to be to each other. and now these sudden burning words had revealed all, and cherry felt more than ever that she trod on air and moved in a dream; only this time there was the pleasant sense that the dream would not vanish away in smoke, but would become more and more a living reality. but there was something cuthbert had said which yet required explanation, and presently she looked up and asked: "what didst thou mean when thou spokest of a lost treasure? what is it, and who has lost it?" and then cuthbert forthwith plunged into the story of the lost treasure of trevlyn, as he had heard it from his cousin kate; and cherry listened with parted lips, thinking that it was almost like living in some play to be hearing this strange tale. when she heard of the gipsies and their vengeful words, she stopped suddenly short and gazed intently at cuthbert. "this is the second time thou hast spoken of gipsies," she said, in a whisper. "thou hast yet to tell me the tale of how thou didst spend a night in the gipsies' cave. cuthbert, were those gipsies thou didst light upon that night of thy flight the same as have stolen the treasure from trevlyn?" "cherry, i trow that they are," he answered, in a very low voice, bending his head closer over her as he spoke. "listen, and i will tell thee all. there was an old fierce woman, with hair as white as driven snow, among them, who, when she heard the name of trevlyn, launched at me a glance of hatred that i never can forget; and i knew well by her looks and her words that, had she had her will, i should have suffered the same fate that her mother had done from the hands of my grandfather. i knew not then that it was her mother who had been burnt by him as a witch; but i saw the evil purposed me, and knew she was my foe. but a stately woman--the old gipsy's daughter, as i later learned--interposed on my behalf, and her all obeyed as queen, even her mother bowing down before her. she protected me, and bid me sit at table with them, saw me served with the best, and at night showed me herself to a ruinous bed chamber where, however, a weary man might comfortably lodge. there she left me, but bid me not to undress; and presently after i had slept, i know not how many hours, i was awakened by her entrance with a dim light, and she bid me rise but speak low, as she had somewhat of moment to say to me. she asked me then of myself and my kindred; and i asked her many things, and to my questions she gave ready response. last of all, i dared to name the lost treasure, and i saw a new look come upon her face. i said that i had heard enough to make me think it had been stolen and hidden in the forest, and i asked her if in her wanderings there she had heard aught of it. i saw that the question moved her. i saw her flashing glance rest on me again and again, and her lips tremble as though she fain would speak, and yet was half afraid to do so. every moment i suspected more and more that she knew somewhat; but whether or no she would reveal this i dared not guess. at the last the eager light died out of her eyes. she answered that she had heard somewhat of the story, but that she herself knew naught. the treasure had been lost many years before she had first seen the light, and men had long ceased to look for it, albeit there were many traditions that it would one day be found. as to that she knew naught; but she promised me this thing, that she would ask and strive to learn if any in the forest knew more than she. and she bid me meet her at a certain cave in the heart of the forest upon may day next, when she said she would speak with me again anent this same matter." cherry's lips were parted, her eyes were full of wonder and curiosity. she shivered with excitement and surprise. "thinkest thou that she knows the place?" "that i know not, but i trow well that she knows more than she said then, and that i shall learn more when i seek her again, and we are not in a walled place where eavesdroppers may lurk with itching ears." "then thou wilt keep the tryst?" "assuredly i will." "and thou art not afraid that harm will befall thee? oh beware, cuthbert, of that wicked, fierce old woman!" "oh, i fear her not. their queen has bidden me. they dare not defy her. i shall go to the forest and keep the tryst. i trow there be much yet for me to know." cherry hesitated and trembled, and hesitated again, and finally said in a low whisper: "cuthbert, it may be that there is a speedier and a safer way of discovering what thou wouldst know." "and what way is that, sweet coz?" again came the little pause of hesitation, and then cherry said: "we might consult the wise woman. "the wise woman! and who is she?" "there be many of them," answered cherry, still speaking in a very low and rapid whisper. "but breathe not a word at home, for father says they be surely in league with the devil, if they be not impostors who deserve whipping at the cart's tail. but rachel went to one three years back, and the dame told her a husband would come wooing within three short months, and told the colour of his hair and his eyes. and sure enough it all came true, and now she is quickly to be wed. and others have done the like, and the things have all come true. and she is not a wicked woman neither, for she cures agues and fevers, and the leeches themselves ask her simples of her. there may be wicked women plying this trade too; i know not how that may be. but this dame is not wicked; rachel goes to her still, and she has never deceived her yet. but she liveth very secretly now, as a wise woman must needs to in these times; for the king, they say, is very wroth against all such, and in the country men are going about from him and burning all who practise such arts, and otherwise cruelly maltreating them. so no man speaks openly of them now, though they still ply their trade in secret." "hast thou ever been to one thyself, cherry?" her face was all in a glow. she clung closer to cuthbert's arm. "chide me not, and tell not my father; but i went with rachel once, when she went to have a wart charmed that was causing her much vexation. i asked nothing of the dame myself; but she took my hand and looked into my eyes, and she nodded her head and chuckled and made strange marks upon a bit of paper, which she said was casting my horoscope. and then she told me that i had an ugly lover that i loved not, but that another more gently born should come in time, and that we should love each other well and be faithful through all, and that i should end by being a lady with all i wanted at command." and there cherry stopped, blushing and palpitating with happiness and shy joy; whilst cuthbert, struck by this very remarkable and original specimen of fortune telling, began to think he might do worse than consult this same wise woman who had gauged his sweetheart's case so fairly. he himself had no scruples. he had a strong belief in necromancy, and had never heard that there was sin in its practice. he was still romanist enough at heart to look upon the confessional as an easy and pleasant way of getting rid of the burden of an uneasy conscience. his mind was very open to conviction and impression in religious matters. he was no bigot, but he had a constitutionally inherited tendency towards the old faith that was possibly stronger than he knew. had he seen his father's party in power, persecuting and coercing, he would have had scant sympathy or love for them and their ways; but as the contrary was now the case, and he saw them downtrodden and abused, he felt considerable drawings towards them, and these drawings were not the less strong from the intercourse he was enjoying almost daily with anthony cole and his son walter. cuthbert's love of learning and eager wish to improve his scholarship drew him almost daily to the dark little shop in the bridge, wedged in, as it were, between two larger and more imposing structures, where the father and son plied a modest trade and lived somewhat hazardously; for they did not hesitate to circulate pamphlets and leaflets the sale of which had been forbidden, and which might at any time get them into serious trouble with the authorities, and lead to imprisonment, if not to death. but to return to the pair now closely approaching their home, and lagging somewhat in their walk to prolong the talk for a few minutes. cherry was in a fever of curiosity and impatience, and longed to hear her lover speak the word. "it is so long to wait till may day; and i trow that she could tell us all. say, cuthbert, shall we go to her?" it was sweet to cuthbert to hear the little word "we" dropping so naturally from cherry's lips. he pressed the hand that lay upon his arm, and looked down into the upraised eager face. "wilt thou go with me an i go?" "to be sure i will. i should love to be thy companion." "and brave thy father's wrath should he find out?" cherry clung yet closer to his arm. "i fear nothing when thou art beside me, cuthbert. i would go with thee to death." he stooped and kissed her eagerly, passionately. "then thy sweet will shall be law," he answered, "and i will go as soon as thou canst make shift to take me." cherry uttered a little cry of delight. "ah, how pleased i am--how pleased i am! we will go this very week, so soon as the yuletide stir be past. o cuthbert, cuthbert, what a wondrous day this has been! methinks it must surely be a dream. but thou art no dream; thou art real and true. so long as thou art near me and with me, i shall know that it is all true." chapter : the wise woman. "cuthbert! alas, cuthbert!" "why, how now? what ails thee, cherry?" "cuthbert, my father hath been speaking with me." "well, and wherefore not? thy father is no stern tyrant like mine, sweet coz." cherry was panting with excitement and what appeared like terror. she clung fast to cuthbert's arm, and her eyes were dilated with fear. she was an excitable little mortal, so he did not feel any great alarm at her looks, but strove to reassure her in a friendly, brotherly fashion. the christmas festivities and excitements, which had lasted above a week, had doubtless done something to upset the balance of her mind. she had been so extravagantly and overwhelmingly happy with the remembrance of her adventure at lord andover's house, and her knowledge of the secret between herself and cuthbert, that the young man had felt half afraid lest she should contrive to betray it to others by her blushes, her bright, fitful glances, and her newborn softness in his presence, which gave a sweeter quality to her childish charms. he himself did not wish martin holt to be aware that anything had passed between him and cherry till he could come boldly forward and ask her at her father's hands, having the wherewithal to support her. he had been surprised into an admission of youthful devotion, and he by no means wished the words unsaid; for the secret understanding now existing betwixt himself and cherry was the sweetest element in his daily life, and he was more and more in love every day with his charming cousin. but he knew that until he could come with his share of the trevlyn treasure in his hands, he could scarce hope or look for a patient hearing from the shrewd man of business. and though he himself was increasingly confident that the treasure had been hidden out of spite, and not really made away with, and that some day it would be found, he knew that this opinion would be regarded by the world at large as a chimera of ardent youth, and that martin holt for one would bid him lay aside all such vain and idle dreams, and strive by steady perseverance in business to win for himself a modest independence. only to the young, the ardent, the lovers of imaginative romance, had the notion of hidden treasure any charm. and here was cherry crying, palpitating, trembling in his arms as though some great trouble menaced them. "what ails thee, sweetheart?" he asked, with playful tenderness; and cherry choked back her sobs to answer: "cuthbert, he has spoken to me of marriage--my father. he has told me plainly what he purposes for me. he and my uncle dyson have talked of it together. i am to wed my cousin jacob. o cuthbert, cuthbert! what must i do? what must i say?" cuthbert heard the news in silence. it was not altogether unexpected, but he had scarce looked to have heard the subject openly broached so soon. cherry had been regarded in her home as such a child, and her father, sisters, and aunt had so combined to speak and think of her as such, that although her eighteenth birthday was hard at hand, and she was certainly of marriageable age, he had not looked to have to face this complication in the situation quite so quickly. but as he stood holding cherry in his arms (for she had come to him in the upper parlour at an hour when all the household were elsewhere engaged, and there was no fear of interruption), a look of stern purpose and resolution passed across the young man's face--an expression which those who knew the trevlyn family would have recognized as a true trevlyn look. his face seemed to take added years and manliness as that expression crossed it; and looking tenderly down at the quivering cherry, he asked: "thinkest thou that he has seen or suspected aught?" "i know not. he said no word of that, only looked hard at me as be spoke of jacob." "and what saidst thou?" "alack! what could i say? i did but tell him i had no thoughts of such a thing. i prayed he would not send me from him. i told him i was over young to think of marriage, and besought him to speak of it no more. and as my tears began to flow i could say no more." "and he?" "he reminded me that many another girl was a wedded wife and mother at my age; and then i turned and said that since jemima and kezzie were yet unwed--ay, and rachel too, for all her rosy cheeks and her dowry--it was hard that i should have to be the one to be turned first out of the nest. and at that i cried the more; and he put his arm about me, and said he had no thought to grieve me, and did not think that jacob would wish me vexed in the matter. and i begged for a year's grace; and, after thinking and pondering awhile, he answered that he had no wish to hurry things on--that i was full young to leave my girlhood behind and be saddled with the cares of a household. and then it came out that the haste was all uncle dyson's doing. rachel is to be wed at easter, and he wants his son to bring home a wife to nurse aunt rebecca and mind his house. and when i heard that i was in a pretty rage; for i cannot abide aunt rebecca, who is as cross as a bear with a sore head, and she cannot abear the sight of me. i know not wherefore i have offended her, but so it is. and i know naught of managing a house, and so aunt susan will tell them an they ask her. so i dared to stamp my foot, and to tell father i would not wed jacob to be made his mother's slave; that i would rather live and die a maid like the good queen who has been taken from us. and father, he scarce seemed to know what to say. i know he muttered something about its being a sore pity it was not jemima or kezzie that had been chosen. and then he bethought him that it was not right to let a daughter see too much of his mind, or speak too much of her own; and he bid me begone something sternly, declaring he would think the matter over, but that he looked for dutiful obedience from any child of his, and that i was not to think i might set up mine own will against his whatever his decision might be in the end." cherry's tempest of tears was by this time ended, and she spoke collectedly enough, raising her eyes now and then to the grave face of her lover to mark the effect of her words upon him. cuthbert's face was grave but not unhopeful, and taking cherry's hand firmly in his as she ended her tale, he said: "if he will but put the matter off for a year, all will be well. if the treasure is to be found at all, i shall have found it by then. let these dark winter days but change to the long soft ones of spring, and i go forth into the forest upon my quest. when i return laden with my share of the spoil, i trow i shall be able to win and wed my cherry, be there never so many jacobs in the field before me!" cherry laughed a soft little laugh, and her fears and tremblings ceased for the time being. looking fondly up into cuthbert's face, she said: "and why wait till the spring to begin? hast forgotten what we spoke of not long since? the wise woman--let us go to her! thou hast money, and i trow she will be able to tell thee somewhat of the treasure. men say that she hath a marvellous gift." waiting was slow work, and cuthbert was by no means averse to testing the skill of the old sorceress. he had a certain amount of faith in the divinations of magic, and at least it could do no harm to see what the beldam would say. he would but have to risk a gold or silver piece, and it would satisfy cherry that he was not loitering and half hearted. "i will go gladly an thou canst come with me. but when shall it be? i have heard that these witches and diviners only exercise their skill at night, and how couldst thou be abroad with me then? there would be a pretty coil if it were discovered that we were not within doors." but cherry was full of invention, and had all a woman's wit and readiness of resource. she was a true daughter of eve, this little rosy-cheeked maiden; and when her heart was set on a thing, she, could generally find the means to carry it out. "listen!" she said, after pausing a few moments to think the thing out. "any time after dark will do for the wise woman. it matters not for it to be late in the night, so long as the sun be down and the world wrapped in gloom. that happens early enow in these winter days. now do thou listen and heed me, cuthbert. thou hast heard of good master harlow, hast thou not?" "ay, verily! i have heard of little else these many days!" answered cuthbert, with a touch of impatience in his voice. "i am well nigh weary of the sound of his name. he is a notable puritan preacher, is he not?" "ay, verily, most notable and most wearisome!" answered cherry, with a delightful little grimace. "thou speakest of being weary of the sound of his name. thou wouldst be tenfold more weary of the sound of his voice didst thou but attend one of his preachings. i have known him discourse for four hours at a time--all men hanging on his words as if they were those of god himself, and only poor little me well nigh dead from weariness and hunger" "i marvel not at that," answered cuthbert. "four hours would tax the patience of the most ardent disciple." "nay, but thou little knowest. there be those amongst my father's sect who call it all too short, who would listen, i verily believe, till they dropped from their benches with starvation. but however that may be, this master harlow is one of the hunted martyrs of the cause, and he is not allowed to exercise his gifts save by stealth; and the preaching, of which thou hast heard these many whispers, is to be held by night, and in some obscure cellar underground, where they who go will be safe from all molestation from spies and foes." "ah!" said cuthbert, looking quickly at her, "and thou thinkest that this will be our chance?" "let them but once start forth without us and all will be well," answered cherry quickly. "the only trouble will be that aunt susan loves to drag me whither she knows i love not to go, and father thinks that these wearisome discourses are for the saving of souls. he will wish to take the twain of us. it must be ours to escape him and abide at home." "and how can we compass that?" "for thee it will be easy," answered cherry. "thou must promise walter cole to assist him with some task of printing or binding that same evening, and tell my father that thou art not seasoned to long discourses, and hast no desire to fill the room of another who would fain hear the words of life from the notable man. there will be more crowding to hear him than the room will hold, so that it will be no idle plea on thy part. once thou art gone i can yawn and feign some sort of ache or colic that will make me plead to go to bed rather than attend the preaching. aunt susan will scold and protest it is but mine idleness and sinfulness in striving to avoid the godly discourse; but father will not compel me to go. and when all have started thou canst return, and we will together to the wise woman; and be she never so long with her divinations, we shall have returned long ere they have done, and none will know of the visit." cuthbert agreed willingly to this plan. a bit of mischief and frolic was as palatable to young folks in the seventeenth century as it is in the nineteenth, and as a frolic those two regarded the whole business. they were both full of curiosity about the wise woman and her divinations, and it seemed to cherry that to fail in taking advantage of her skill when they had the chance of doing so would be simple folly and absurdity. if she could read the secrets of the future, surely she must be able to tell them somewhat of the lost treasure. cherry's plan was carried out to the letter without the least real difficulty, and without raising any suspicion. martin holt was not particularly anxious that the exact locality of the underground meeting place should be known to his nephew, who had not professed himself by any means on the puritan side as yet, though listening with dutiful and heedful attention whenever his uncle spoke to him on the matter of his tenets. as for cherry, her dislike to sermons had long been openly declared, and it was scarcely expected that she would patiently endure another of the discourses that had caused her such distaste before. and so it came about that upon a chill, frosty january night, cuthbert and cherry stood before a small, narrow house in budge row--a house that seemed to be jammed in between its two neighbours, and almost crushed by their overhanging gables and heavy beams; and cherry, with a trembling hand, gave a peculiar knock, thrice repeated, upon the stout panels of the narrow door, that at the third summons opened slowly and noiselessly, as if without any human agency. the dark passage thus revealed to view was black as pitch, and cuthbert involuntarily recoiled. but cherry had been here before, and knew the place, and laid her hand upon his arm. "courage!" she said, in a voice that quivered with excitement and not with fear; "it is always so here. walk boldly in; there is naught to hurt us. when the door has closed we shall see a light." stepping across the threshold, and keeping fast hold of cherry's arm, his quick glance roving from side to side in search of any possible foe lurking in the shadows, cuthbert entered this strange abode, and felt rather than saw that the door closed noiselessly behind them, whilst he heard the shooting of a heavy bolt, and turned with a start, for it seemed impossible that this could have been done without some human hand to accomplish the deed. but his sense of touch assured him that he and cherry were the only persons at this end of the narrow passage, and with a light shiver at the uncanny occurrence, he made up his mind to follow this adventure to the end. "see, there is the light!" whispered cherry, who was quivering with excitement. "that is the sign that the wise woman is ready. we have to follow it. it will lead us to her." the light was dim enough, but it showed plainly in the pitchy darkness of the passage, and seemed to be considerably above them. "we must mount the stairs," whispered cherry, feeling her way cautiously to the foot of the rickety flight; and the cousins mounted carefully, the dun light, which they did not see--only the reflections it cast brightening the dimness--going on before, until they reached an upper chamber, the door of which stood wide open, a soft radiance shining out, whilst a strange monotonous chanting was heard within. upon the threshold of the room stood a huge black cat with bristling tail and fiery eyes. it seemed as though he would dispute the entrance of the strangers, and cuthbert said to himself that he had never seen an uglier-looking brute of the kind since the monster wildcat he had killed in the forest about his home. he drew cherry a pace backwards, for the creature looked crouching for a spring. "it is the wise woman's cat, her familiar spirit!" whispered the girl, in a very low voice. "show him a piece of money; then he will let us pass. he takes toll of those who come to the wise woman. show him the gold, and then place it within that shell. after that he will let us go in." cuthbert took a small piece of gold from his purse. he held it up before the formidable-looking creature, and then let it drop into a shell fixed in the outer wall of the room. he heard it fall as if through a slot, and fancied that some person within the room had taken it out and examined it. there was a slight peculiar call, and the cat, whose tail had begun to grow less, and whose snarlings had ceased at sight of the coin, now sprang suddenly backwards and vanished within the room, whilst a cracked voice was heard bidding them enter. "that is the voice of the wise woman," said cherry. "come, cuthbert, and fear nothing." together the pair stepped over the threshold, and again the door closed noiselessly behind them, and the bolt flew as it seemed of itself into its socket. cuthbert did not altogether relish this locking of doors behind them as they went; but cherry, who had been here before, did not seem to mind, and doubtless it was but prudence that had taught the old woman to carry on her arts secretly if she wished to escape imprisonment or death. glancing curiously round him, cuthbert saw himself in a long, low, narrow room that was all in deep shadow save at the upper end, where a soft bright light was burning, carefully shaded at one side, and so arranged that whilst it illuminated the features of those who stood beside the table behind which the oracle sat, it left the features of the wise woman herself in the deepest shadow, a pair of small black beady eyes being at first glance the only feature cuthbert could distinguish. the lamp stood upon a table, and the old woman, clad from head to foot in a long black mantle, sat on the farther side. there were a few implements of her profession about her--one or two big books, a crystal bowl containing some black fluid very clear and sparkling, an ebony wand, and a dusky mirror in a silver frame. she fixed her bright bead-like eyes upon her guests as they advanced, and asked in her cracked, harsh tones: "who comes here?" "two persons desirous of testing your skill," answered cuthbert boldly. "it is told me that you can read the future; i would ask if you can also look back into the past?" he felt the snake-like glance bent fixedly upon him. there was a subtle fascination in those eyes, and he looked into them fixedly whether he would or no. as his eyes became used to the dimness in which the old woman sat, he saw that her face was brown and wrinkled like a fragment of ancient parchment, that her features were very sharp and wasted, and that there was something weird and witch-like in her whole aspect. he felt as though he had seen before some face that that withered one faintly resembled, but in the confusion of the moment he could put no name to it. he wanted to keep his head, and to retain his firmness and acuteness, but he was conscious of a strange whirling in his brain as the old woman continued to gaze and gaze upon him as though she would never be satisfied with her inspection. at last she spoke again. "and who art thou that comest so boldly to pry into the dead secrets of the past?" "i am one cuthbert trevlyn, son of a house that has suffered sore vicissitudes. i come to ask the skill of the wise woman in discovering a secret long hidden from our family." he stopped suddenly, for the woman held up her hand as if to stop him, and her voice took a strange hissing tone. "silence! enough--thou hast spoken enough. let me now tell thee the rest. i will tell thee what thou hast come to seek for. silence! i will consult the spirits; they will tell me all." drawing nearer to her the crystal bowl, the old woman bent her head over it, and whispered incantations, as it seemed, over its contents. for a while there was deep silence in the room, and cherry felt chill with excitement and wonder. this was very different from the reception she and her cousin rachel had met. they had but been bidden to show their hands, and had then seen some cabalistic characters formed by the wise woman, from which she had told them all they wished to know. but there had been nothing half so mysterious as this, and the girl felt certain that the wise woman regarded cuthbert and his questions with far greater interest than any she had bestowed upon the fortunes or the ailments of rachel. presently there arose, as if in the far, far distance, a sound of voices faint and confused. cherry clung to cuthbert's arm, and looked about her with a pale, scared face, half expecting to see the room filled with disembodied spirits; but his glance never shifted from the down-bent face of the wise woman, and he half suspected that the sounds proceeded in some way from her, albeit they seemed to float about in the air round them, and to approach and die away at will. suddenly the old woman raised her head and spoke. "thy mission to me this day is to ask news of the lost treasure of trevlyn." cherry started, and so did cuthbert. there could be no doubting the old woman's power now. if she could see so much in her bowl, could she not likewise see where that lost treasure lay buried? "thou speakest sooth, mother," he said boldly. "it is of the lost treasure i would speak. canst tell me if it still remains as it was when it was lost? canst tell me the spot where it lies hid, that i may draw it thence? if thou canst lead me to it, thou shalt not lose thy reward; thou shalt be rich for life." the youth spoke eagerly; but a curious smile crept over the old woman's face at his words. "foolish boy!" she said. "seest thou not that if gold were my desire i have but to discover the place where the treasure lies to some stalwart knave sworn to do my bidding, and all would be mine? could i not sell this golden secret to the highest bidder, an wealth was all i craved? foolish, foolish boy--impetuous like all thy race! what hast thou to offer me that i may not obtain by one wave of this wand?" cuthbert was silent, wondering alike at the old woman and her words. if she was not disposed to sell her golden secret (and what she said was but too true--that the treasure would be more to her than any reward), what hope was there of her revealing it to him? he stood silent and perplexed, waiting for the old woman to speak again. "cuthbert trevlyn," she said, after a long pause, "methought that the hope of finding the treasure had long since been abandoned by thy race." "that may well be, but it has not been so abandoned by me. whilst i have youth and health and strength, i will not give up that hope. i, the grandson of isabel wyvern, will not cease to strive till i have won back the lost luck that was to return to that house through the daughters' sons." it was almost at random that cuthbert had spoken these words, but some recollection had come over him of the story he had heard of the devotion of certain gipsy people to the family of the wyverns, and their prognostications concerning them. this woman, with the brown and crumpled skin and the beady black eyes, was very like some of those wild gipsy folk he had seen from time to time in the forest. was it not just possible that she might be one of their tribe, who for some reason or some physical infirmity had abandoned the wandering life, and had set up for a wise woman in the heart of the great city? was there not some strange community of knowledge and interest amongst all these wandering people? and might she not in any case know something about the families of foe and friend, and the loss of the vast treasure one day to be restored? as his grandmother's name passed his lips, cuthbert was certain that he saw a flicker pass across the wise woman's face; but she bent her head again over her bowl, and for some minutes remained in deep silence. then she looked up and scanned his face again. "let me see thy hand," she said. he held it out fearlessly, and she bent over it for some time. "it is a good hand," she said at length, "and its owner may look for prosperity in life, but he must heed one thing, and that is his own over-bold rashness. he must beware of trusting all men. he must beware of fatal fascination. he must beware of a darkly-flowing river, and the dark cellar beyond. he must have the courage to say 'nay'--the courage to fly as well as to fight. young man, thou hast over-much curiosity. in these times of peril men must walk warily. choose the safe path, and keep therein. think not to play with edge tools and yet keep thy fingers unscarred." cuthbert felt the colour rising in his face. he felt the home thrust embodied in these words. he knew that they were a warning addressed to that side of his character which urged him to make friends on all sides, and strive to see good in all men, and to avoid joining himself to any one party in church or state whilst in measure belonging to all. for a man of quality he knew such a course would be impossible and foolishly perilous, but he had felt secure in his own insignificance. he, however, well understood the warning, and so he marked the words about the flowing river and dark cellar, and though by no means understanding them now, he resolved that he would not forget. but cherry was shivering with excitement, and at last she could keep silence no longer. the wise woman had been kind to her before; surely she would not resent it if she spoke now. "but the treasure, mother, the treasure," she urged. "canst not thou help us there?" the old woman shifted her bright eyes to the flushed face of the girl, and a flicker passed over her face as she repeated: "us--us? and what part or lot has martin holt's daughter in the lost treasure of trevlyn? what, my pretty child, has thy handsome lover come so soon? and art thou looking already to be made a lady of by him?" the girl hid her blushing face on cuthbert's shoulder, whilst he answered with boyish straightforwardness: "i will wed my cousin cherry or none else. we have plighted our troth secretly, and she shall one day be my bride. if thou canst help me in this matter, it will make our lot easier; but, poor or rich, she shall be mine!" the old woman nodded her head several times, and cuthbert fancied that a greater benignity of expression crossed her wrinkled face. "brave words! brave words!" she muttered, "and a brave heart behind. grandson to isabel wyvern! ay, so it is; and there is wyvern in that face as well as trevlyn. for her sake--for her sake! ay, i would do much for that. "boy," she said suddenly, raising her voice and speaking in her witch-like accents again, "thou hast spoken a name which is as a talisman, and though thou hast asked a hard thing, i will help thee an i can. yet i myself know naught. it is the familiar spirits that know, and they will not always come even at my call; they will not always speak sooth at my bidding. i can but use my arts; the rest lies with them; and this is a secret that has been long-time hid." "ay, and the time has now come when it should be revealed," answered cuthbert boldly. "use what arts thou wilt! i ask the answer to my question. i would know where the lost treasure lies." as he spoke these words the room became suddenly darkened. around them again as they stood there seemed to float voices and whispers, though not one articulate word could either hear. in the gloom they saw nothing save the fiery eyes of the great cat, which appeared to be crouched upon the table beside its mistress. the whisperings and voices, sometimes accompanied by soft or mocking laughter, continued for the space of several moments, and appeared to be interrupted at last by the tap of the wise woman's wand upon the table, which three times repeated enforced a sudden silence. the silence was for a moment more awe inspiring than what had gone first; but before cherry had more time than sufficed to nip cuthbert hard by the hand, they heard the old woman's voice, in an accent of stern command, uttering one single word: "speak!" there was a brief pause, and then a sweet low voice rose in the room and seemed to float round them, whilst the words with their rhythmic cadence fell distinctly on the ears of the listening pair: "three times three--on a moonlight night, the oak behind, the beech to right; three times three--over ling and moss, robin's gain is trevlyn's loss. "three times three--the war is long, yet vengeance hums, and the back is strong; three times three--the dell is deep, it knows its secret well to keep. "three times three--the bones gleam white, none dare pass by day or night; three times three--the riddle tell! the answer lies in the pixies' well." the voice ceased as suddenly as it had begun. "is that all?" asked the harsh accents of the wise woman. "that is all the spirits choose to tell," answered the soft voice, already, as it seemed, far away; and in another moment the lamp shone forth again. the cat leaped down from the table with a hissing sound, and the old woman was revealed in her former position, resting her two elbows on the table, her withered face supported in the palm of her hand. "thou hast heard?" "ay, but i have not understood. canst thou read the riddle to me?" but the old woman shook her head. "that may not be; that thou must do for thyself. i will write down the words for thee, that thou mayest not forget; but thou, and thou alone, must find the clue." with swift fingers she transcribed some characters on a fragment of parchment, and cuthbert marvelled at the skill in penmanship the old woman displayed when she gave the paper into his hands. it was with a beating heart that he scanned the mysterious characters; but the old woman had risen to her feet, and motioned them away. "begone!" she cried, "begone! i have no more to say. heed my warning. beware of menaced perils. the perils of the forest are less than the perils of the city; and an open foe is better than a false friend--a friend who lures those that trust him to a common destruction, even though he himself be ready to share it. harden thine heart--beware of thine own merciful spirit. turn a deaf ear to the cry of the pursued. swim with the current, and strive not to stem it. and now go! i have said my say. thou hast fortune within thy grasp an thou hast wits to find it and hold it." there was no disobeying the imperious gesture of the old woman. cuthbert would fain have lingered to ask more questions, but he dared not do so. with a few brief words of thanks and farewell, he took cherry's hand and turned away. the bolt of the door flew back; the door opened of itself again. the cat stalked on before down the dark staircase, and a faint gleam from above showed them the way down. the outer door sprang open before and closed behind them, and the next minute cuthbert was hurrying his companion along the dark street, pulling her into the shadow of a doorway if any sounds announced the approach of any of the tavern roisterers, and so protecting her from any danger or peril till they stood at last in safety beneath martin holt's roof, and looked wonderingly into each other's eyes, as if questioning whether it had not all been part and parcel of a dream. they had not been long gone; a bare hour had elapsed since they had stolen out into the darkness together. there was no fear that any other member of martin holt's household would be back for a considerable time. the two conspirators bent over the scrap of parchment they placed between them on the table, and pored earnestly over it together. "what does it mean, cuthbert? what can it mean? canst read the words aright?" "ay, it is well writ. i can read it, but i know not what it means." "read it again to me." he obeyed, and she forthwith began to ask a hundred questions. "'three times three'--that comes so many times. what can that mean, cuthbert? it must mean something." "yes, doubtless, but i know not what." "and again, 'robin's gain is trevlyn's loss.' cuthbert, who may robin be?" "i know not: yet stop--hold! yes, i have it now. not that it may be aught of import. robin is a name a score of men may bear even in one village. but when the robbers of the road found themselves at the ruined mill where the gipsies were, i heard the leader ask, 'where is long robin?'" "and was he there?" asked cherry eagerly. "i know not: none answered the question, and i heeded it no more. most like he was but some serving man they wanted to take the horses." "cuthbert, it seems plain that some robin has stolen this treasure, and carried it off and hidden it. the verses must mean that!" "ay, i doubt it not, cherry," answered cuthbert, smiling; "but see you not, fair cousin, that almost any person knowing of this lost treasure and the legend of the gipsies' hate could have strung together words like these? all men hold that it may still be hidden in the forest around the chase; but there be deep dells by the dozen, and the pixies, men say, have all fled away. and there be wells that run dry, and men find fresh ones bursting out where never water was before. these lines scarce show me more than i have known or thought before." "but they do, they do!" cried cherry excitedly. "they tell that it was robin who has stolen it. cuthbert, when thou goest to the forest next thou must find this long robin and see if it can be he." the young man smiled at her credulity and enthusiasm. he was not so entirely sceptical as to some possible clue being given by these verses as he would have her believe, but he could not see any daylight yet, and wished to save her from disappointment. "that is scarce like to be. the treasure was stolen nigh on fifty years agone, and he must have been a lusty robber who stole it then--scarce like to be living now. but we will think of this more. the wise woman must have dealings with a familiar, else how could she have known our errand? we must heed her words well; they may be words of wisdom. she knew strange things from my hand. i marvel how she could read it all there." cuthbert looked upon his palm and shook his head. it was all a mystery to him. but he had greater faith in the wise woman than he altogether felt prepared to admit, and as he sought his couch that night he kept saying over and over to himself the magic words he had heard. "'three times three--three times three!' what can that signify? in the forest perchance i shall read the riddle aright. or perchance the gipsy queen, the dark-eyed joanna, will aid me in the search. if i could but trust her, she might see things that i cannot in these lines. would that the winter were past; would that the summer were about to come! the perils of the forest are to be less to me than the perils of the city. i wonder what perils menace me here. beneath my father's roof i oft went in peril of my life; but here--why, here i feel safer than ever in my life before!" chapter : the hunted priest. the two friends that cuthbert had made of his own sex during the first weeks spent beneath his uncle's roof were the same two guests he had seen at the supper table on the evening of his arrival--walter cole and jacob dyson. both these men were several years older than himself, but in a short time he became exceedingly intimate with the pair, and thus obtained insight into the home life of persons belonging to the three leading parties in the realm. the puritan element was strongly represented in martin holt's house, the romanist in that of the coles, whilst the dysons, although springing from a puritan stock, had been amongst those willing to conform to the laws as laid down in the late queen's time. both rachel and jacob preferred the episcopal form of worship to any other, and openly marvelled at the taste of those who still frequented the private conventicles, where unlicensed preachers, at the risk of liberty and even life, held forth by the hour together upon their favourite doctrines and arguments. but honest jacob was no theologian. he did not hesitate to assert openly his ignorance of all controversy, and his opinion that it mattered uncommonly little what a man believed, so long as he led an upright life and did his duty in the world. he was "fair sick" of long-drawn arguments, the splitting of hairs, and those questions which the theologians of all parties took such keen joy in discussing--though, as nobody ever moved his opponent one whit, the disputes could only be held for the love the disputants felt for hearing themselves talk. jacob had long since claimed for himself the right to leave the room when politics and religion came under discussion. as an only son, he had some privileges accorded him, and this was one he used without stint. honest jacob had taken an immediate and great liking for cuthbert trevlyn from the first appearance of that youth at his uncle's house. though himself rough and uncouth of aspect, clumsy of gait and slow of speech, he was quick to see and admire beauty and wit in others. he had picked out cherry from amongst her sisters for those qualities of brightness and vivacity in which he felt himself so deficient, and it seemed as though he took to cuthbert for very much the same reason. cuthbert was ready enough to accept the advances of this good-natured youth. he was a stranger in this great city, whilst jacob knew it well. he was eager to hear and see and learn all he could; and though jacob's ideas were few and his powers of observation limited, he was still able to answer a great many of the eager questions that came crowding to the lips of the stranger as they walked the streets together. and when cuthbert accompanied jacob to his home, abraham dyson could fill up all the blank in his son's story, and was secretly not a little pleased with cuthbert's keen intelligence and ready interest. the dysons were merchants in a small way of business, but were thriving and thrifty folks. they and the holts had been in close relations one with the other for more than one generation, and any relative of martin holt's would have been welcome at their house. cuthbert was liked on his own account; and soon he became greatly fascinated by the river-side traffic, took the greatest interest in the vessels that came to the wharves to be unladed, and delighted in going aboard and making friends with the sailors. he quickly came to learn the name of every part of the ship, and to pick up a few ideas on the subject of navigation. whenever a vessel came in from the new world but recently discovered, he would try to get on board and question the sailors about the wonders they had seen. afterwards he would discourse to jacob or to cherry of the things he had learned, and would win more and more admiration from both by his brilliant powers of imagination and description. so the river became, as it were, a second home to him. abraham dyson had more than one wherry of his own in which cuthbert was welcome to skim about upon the broad bosom of the great river. he soon became so skillful with the rude oars or the sail, that he was a match for the hardiest waterman on the river, and more than once cherry had been permitted to accompany cuthbert and jacob upon some excursion up or down stream. and now, after many weeks of pleasant comradeship, cuthbert found himself in the unenviable position of standing rival to his friend in the affections of cherry, and the more he thought about it the less he liked the situation. he could not give cherry up--that was out of the question; besides, had he renounced her twenty times over, that would not improve jacob's case one whit. cherry was her father's own daughter, and, with all her kittenish softness, had a very decided will of her own. she was not the sort of daughter to be bought and sold, or calmly made over like a bale of wool. she would certainly insist on having a voice in the matter, and her choice was not likely at any time to fall upon the worthy but unprepossessing jacob. all this cuthbert understood with the quick apprehension of a lover; but it was very doubtful if jacob would so see things, and cuthbert felt as though there was something of treachery in accepting and returning his many advances of friendship whilst all the time he was secretly affianced to the girl for whose hand jacob had made formal application, and had been formally accepted, though for the present, on account of the maiden's tender years, the matter was allowed to stand over. with walter cole there was no such hindrance to friendship, and just at this juncture cuthbert prosecuted and confirmed his intimacy at that house by constant visits there. he was greedy of information and book learning, and in this narrow dim dwelling, literally stacked with books, papers, and pamphlets of all kinds, and partially given over to the mysteries of the printing press, seldom worked save at dead of night, cuthbert's expanding mind could revel to its full content. he devoured every book upon which he could lay hands--history, theology, philosophy; nothing came amiss to him. he would sit by the hour watching anthony cole at work setting type, asking him innumerable questions about what he had been last reading, and finding the white-headed bookseller a perfect mine of information. controversy and the vexed topics of the day were generally avoided by common consent. the coles had learned through bitter experience the necessity for silence and reticence. everybody knew them for ardent and devoted sons of rome, and they were under suspicion of issuing many of the pamphlets against the policy of the king that raised ire in the hearts of the great ones of the land. but none of these "seditious" writings had so far been traced to them, and they still lived in comparative peace, although the tranquillity somewhat resembled that of the peaceful dwellers upon the sides of a volcanic mountain, within whose crater grumblings and mutterings are heard from time to time. cuthbert's frequent visits, and the manifest pleasure he took in their society, were a source of pleasure to both father and son; and though they never showed this pleasure too openly, or asked him to continue his visits or help them in their night work, they did not refuse his help when offered, and sometimes would look at each other and say: "he is drawing nearer; he is drawing nearer. old traditions, race instincts, are telling upon him. he is too true a trevlyn not to become a member of the true fold. his vagrant fancy is straying here and there. he is tasting the bitter-sweet fruit of knowledge and restless search after the wisdom of this world. but already he begins to turn with loathing from the cold, lifeless puritan code. anon he will find that the established church has naught to give him save the husk, from which the precious grain has been carefully extracted." "father urban thinks well of him," walter once remarked, as they discussed the youth after his departure one evening. "he has met him, i know not where, and believes that there may be work for him to do yet. we want those with us who have the single mind and honest heart, the devotion that counts not the cost. all that is written on the lad's face. if he breaks not away from us, he may become a tool in a practised hand to do a mighty work." cuthbert, however, went on his way all unconscious of the notice he was arousing in certain quarters. his mind was filled just now with other matters than those of religious controversy. he had become rather weary of the strife of tongues, and was glad to busy himself with the practical concerns of life that did not always land him in a dilemma or a difficulty. abraham dyson was having a new sloop built for trading purposes, and both jacob and cuthbert took the keenest interest in the progress of the work. the sloop was to be called the cherry blossom when complete, and it was abraham dyson's plan that the christening of the vessel by cherry herself should be the occasion of her formal betrothal to his son. this ceremony, however, would not take place for some while yet, as at present the little vessel was only in the earlier stages of construction. neither jacob nor cuthbert had heard anything about this secondary plan, but both took the greater interest in the sloop from the fact that she was to be named after cherry. cuthbert visited her daily, and jacob as often as his duties at his father's warehouse allowed him. on this particular bright february afternoon the pair had been a great part of their time on the river, skimming about in the wherry, and examining every part of the little vessel under the auspices of the master builder. dusk had fallen upon the river before they landed, and a heavy fog beginning to rise from the water made them glad to leave it behind. they secured the wherry to the landing stage, leaving the oars in her, as they not unfrequently did when returning late, and were pursuing their way up the dark and unsavoury streets, when the sound of a distant tumult smote upon their ears, and they arrested their steps that they might listen the better. cuthbert's quick ears were the first to gather any sort of meaning from the discordant shouts and cries which arose. "they are chasing some wretched fugitive!" he said in a low voice. "that is the sound of pursuit. hark! they are coming this way. who and what are they thus hounding on?" nearer and nearer came the surging sound of many voices and the hurried trampling of feet. "stop him--catch him--hold him!" shouted a score of hoarse voices, rolling along through the fog-laden air long before anything could be seen. "stop him, good folks, stop him! stop the runaway priest--stop the treacherous jesuit! he is an enemy to peace--a stirrer up of sedition and conspiracy! down with him--to prison with him! it is not fit for such a fellow to live. down with him--stop him!" "a priest!" exclaimed cuthbert between his shut teeth, a sudden gleam corning into his eyes. "jacob, heard you that? a priest--a man of god! one man against a hundred! canst thou stand by and see such a one hunted to death? that cannot i." jacob cared little for priests--indeed, he had no very good opinion of the race, and none of cuthbert's traditional reverence; but he had all an englishman's love of fair play, and hated the cruelty and cowardice of an angry mob as he hated anything mean and vile, and he doubled back his wrist bands and clinched his horny fists as he answered: "i am with thee, good cuthbert. we will stand for the weaker side. priest or no, he shall not be hounded to death in the streets without one blow struck in his defence. but how to find him in this fog?" "we need not fight; that were mere madness," answered cuthbert in rapid tones. "ours is to hurry the fugitive into the wherry, loose from shore, and out into the river; and then they may seek as they will, they can never find us. mist! hark! the cries come nigher. if the quarry is indeed before them, it must be very nigh. mark! i hear a gliding footfall beside the wall. keep close to me; i go to the rescue." cuthbert sprang swiftly through the darkness, and in a moment he felt the gown of a priest in his hand, and heard the sound of the distressed breathing of one hunted well nigh to the verge of exhaustion. as the hunted man felt the clasp upon his robe he uttered a little short, sharp cry, and made as if he would have stopped short; but cuthbert had him fast by the arm, and hurried him along the narrow alley towards the river, upholding him over the rough ground, and saying in short phrases: "fear nothing from us, holy father; we are friends. we have come to save you. trust only to us and, believe me, in three more minutes we shall be beyond the reach of these savage pursuers. the river is before us, though we see it not, and our boat awaits us there. once aboard, they may weary themselves in their vain efforts to catch us; they will never find us in this fog. "here is the water side. have a care how you step--jacob, hold fast the craft whilst the father steps in. so. all is well; cast off and i will follow." there was the sound of a light spring; the boat gave a slight lurch, and then, gliding off into the mysterious darkness of the great river, was lost to sight of shore in the wreaths of foggy vapour. "where is the hound? where is the caitiff miscreant? has he thrown himself into the river? drowning is too good for such a dog as he!" shouted angry voices on the river's bank, and through the still air the sound of trampling footsteps could be heard up and down the little wharf which formed the landing stage. "i hear the sound of oars!" shouted one. "he has escaped us--curse the cunning of that papist brood!" yelled another. "let us get a boat and follow," counselled a third; but this was more easily said than done, as there was no other boat tied up at that landing stage, and the fog rendered navigation too difficult and dangerous to be lightly attempted. with sullen growls and many curses the mob seemed to break up and disperse; but the leaders appeared to stand in discussion for some moments after the rest had gone, and several sentences were distinctly heard by those in the boat, who thought it safer to drift with the tide awhile close to the shore than to use their oars and betray their close proximity to their foes. "we shall know him again; and if he dares to show his face in the city, we will have him at last, even if we have to search for him in alsatia with a band of soldiers. he has too long escaped the doom he merits, the plotter and schemer, the vile dog of a seminary priest! once let us get him into our hands and he shall be hanged, drawn, and quartered, like those six of his fellows. no mercy for the jesuits; it is not fit that such fellows should camber the earth. there will be no peace for this realm till we have destroyed them root and branch." the boat had now drifted too far for the conversation to be any longer audible. jacob gave a long, low whistle, and took to the oars. cuthbert, who sat beside the priest in the stern, had his hand upon the tiller; and as the fog cloud lifted just a little, so that the darkness about them became hardly more than that of twilight, he looked at the silent, motionless figure beside him, and exclaimed in surprise: "father urban!" a slight smile hovered for a moment over the wan face of the priest. he lifted his thin hand and said solemnly: "peace be with thee, my son." cuthbert bent his head in reverence, and then turned again towards the father. "what hast thou done that they should rail at thee thus--thou the friend of the poor, the friend even of the leper? what has come to them that they turn thus against thee? sure, but a few short weeks ago and thou didst hold back an angry crowd by the glance of thine eye." "my son, trust not in the temper of the crowd, in the goodwill of the multitude. was it not the same crowd who on the sabbath shouted, 'hosanna to the son of david!' that on the friday yelled, 'crucify him! crucify him!' never put faith in man, still less in the multitude that is ever swayed like a reed, and may be driven like a wave of the sea hither and thither as the wind listeth. "and then i was not amongst mine own flock. i had--rashly, perchance--adventured myself further than i ought, for i had a message of consequence to execute, and i have not been wont to hide myself from my fellow men. but there is no knowing in these fearful times of lawlessness and savage hate what will be the temper either of rulers or people. it seems that i am known--that there is some warrant out against me. so be it. if i must flee from this city to another, holier men have done the like ere now. i would mine errand had been completed. i would i had accomplished my task. but--" the priest's voice had been growing fainter for some moments. cuthbert supposed it to be a natural caution on his part, lest even jacob should hear him as he plied his oars; but as he came to this sudden stop, he felt that the slight frame collapsed in some way, and leaned heavily against him as he sat. turning his eyes from the dim, rippling water, so little of which could be seen in the darkness and the fog, to the face of the priest, he saw that it had turned ghastly pale, and that the eyes were glazing over as if with the approach of death. plainly the fugitive had received some bodily hurt of which he had not spoken, and the question what to do with their helpless burden became a difficult one to answer. "my father will not receive him," said jacob, shaking his head, as he leaned upon his oars and let the boat drift along with the tide that was carrying them towards the bridge. "he hates the priests worse than your good uncle and mine, who has something of a fellow feeling for them in these days of common persecution; and you know well what sort of a welcome we should receive from him did we arrive with a seminary priest in our arms." "and i trow the mob would be upon us ere we had got him safe housed, and for aught we could do to stop it might tear him limb from limb in our very sight." "ay, there is always some rumour afoot of a new papist plot; and whether it be true or no, the people set on to harry the priests as dogs harry the hunted hare. i know not what to do. to land with him will do neither good to him nor to us. a fine coil there would be at home if my father heard of me mixing myself up with jesuit traitors; and martin holt would not be much better pleased neither." "martin holt is not my father," answered cuthbert, with a touch of haughtiness; "and let him say what he will, i must save this man's life, even if it cost me mine own. thou knowest how he saved me that day in the dens of whitefriars. to leave him to the mercy of the howling mob would be an act of blackest treachery; it would disgrace my manhood for ever." "tush, man, who asked that of thee?" answered jacob, with something of a smile at the lad's impetuosity. "i love not a black cassock nor a tonsured head so passing well; but a man is a man, even though he be a priest, and i call shame upon those who would thus maltreat a brother man, and the more so when he is one who has visited the sick and tended the leper, and been the friend of those who have no friends in this great city. i would no sooner than thou give him up to the will of the mob; but we must bethink ourselves where he may be in safety stowed, else the mob will have him whether we will or no. all i was meaning by my words was that neither my home nor thine could be the place for him." "i ask thy pardon, good jacob, for my heat," answered cuthbert humbly. "i should have known better thy good heart than to have thought such a thing of thee." "nay, nay; i am no hero." "thou art a kindly hearted and an honest man, which i misdoubt me if all the world's heroes are," answered cuthbert quickly. "and now, jacob, it behoves us to think. yes, i have it. we must ask counsel of master anthony cole. he would be the one to hide father urban if it could be done. let me land nigh to the bridge, and go to them and tell them all; and do thou push out once more and anchor the craft beneath the pier on which their house rests. methinks when i have taken counsel with them i can make shift to slip down the wooden shaft of that pier, and so hold parley with thee. walter has done the like before now, and i am more agile in such feats than he; moreover, i can swim like a duck if i should chance to miss my hold, and so reach the water unawares. that will be the best, for the boat may not linger at the wharf side. we know not what news may be afoot in the city, nor that there may not be searchers bent on finding father urban, let him land where he may." whether or not jacob relished this adventure, he was too stanch and too honest hearted to turn back now. the priest lay insensible at the bottom of the boat, his head pillowed upon the cloaks the youths had sacrificed for his better comfort. it was plainly a matter of consequence that he should soon be housed in some friendly shelter. his gray face looked ghastly in the dim moonlight which began to struggle through the fog wreaths. when cuthbert leaped lightly ashore hard by the bridge, and jacob sheered off again in the darkness, he felt as though he were out alone on the black river, with only a corpse for company. "if it were but for cherry's sake, i would do ten-fold more," he murmured, as he glanced up in the direction of the wool stapler's shop, and pictured pretty cherry stepping backwards and forwards at her spinning wheel. "but i trow she will hear naught of it; or if she does, she will think only of cuthbert's share. alack! i fear me she will never think of me now. why should she, when so proper a youth is nigh? if he should go away and leave her, perchance her heart might turn to me for comfort; but i fear me he looks every day more tenderly into her bright eyes. how could he live beneath the roof and not learn to love her? he would be scarce human, scarce flesh and blood, were he to fail in loving her; and what is my chance beside his? i might, almost as well yield her at once, and take good kezzie instead. kezzie would make a better housewife--my mother has told me so a hundred times; and i am fond of her, and methinks she--" but there jacob stopped short, blushing even in the darkness at the thought of what he had nearly said. anchoring against the wooden piles of the bridge, and letting his fancy run riot as it would, he indulged in a shifting daydream, in which pain and a vague sense of consolation were oddly blended. he sighed a good many times, but he smiled once or twice likewise, and at last he gave himself a shake and spoke out aloud. "at least it shall make no cloud and no bitterness betwixt us twain. he is a fine lad and a noble one, and he deserves more at dame fortune's hands than such a clown as i. shall i grudge him his luck if he gets her? never a whit! there may not be more than one cherry in the world, but there are plenty of good wives and honest maidens who will brighten a man's home for him." musing thus, jacob kept his watch, and was not long in hearing strange and cautious sounds above his head. looking up, he beheld a lithe form slipping, in something of a snake fashion, down the woodwork of the bridge, and the next moment cuthbert sprang softly down, so deftly that the wherry only rolled a little at the shock. "hast thought me long? hast been frozen with cold? i have made all the haste i could. all is planned. this is not strange work to them. see, i have brought with me this cradle of cord. we can place father urban within, and they will draw him up from above, that no man shall see him enter their house. all the windows be shuttered and barred by now. none will see or hear. they have harboured many a fugitive before, i take it. they had all the ropes and needful gear ready beneath their hand at a moment's notice." whilst he was speaking, cuthbert was wrapping the inanimate figure in the cloaks, and placing it gently in the hammock, as we should call it, that, suspended by strong cords from above, had assisted him in his descent to the boat. then at a given signal this hammock, with its human load, was slowly and steadily drawn upwards, with a cautious, silent skill that betokened use and experience; and as the eager watchers pushed out their boat a little further into the river, they saw the bulky object vanish at last within the dimly-lighted window of the tall, narrow house. a light was flashed for a moment from the window, and then all was wrapped in darkness. "all is well," exclaimed cuthbert, with an accent of relief; "and i trow that not a living soul but our two selves knows whither the priest has fled. he is safe from that savage, howling mob. methinks i hear their cries still! it was just so they yelled and hooted round me when father urban came so timely to my rescue." mistress susan chid cuthbert somewhat roundly for being late for supper that night. but when he said he had been belated by the fog on the river with jacob, the excuse was allowed to stand. cherry was eager to know the progress making with her namesake, and no inconvenient questions were asked of cuthbert when once her chattering tongue had been unloosed. cuthbert's dreams were a little troubled and uneasy that night; but he woke in good spirits, and was anxious to know the state of father urban. he made an early excuse for visiting the coles' abode, and found the elder man busy over his type. he looked up with a smile as cuthbert appeared, but laid his fingers on his lips. "be cautious; he has but just sunk to sleep after a night of wakeful pain. he is anxious to see thee. he asked for thee a score of times in the night; but he must not be wakened now. thou hast done a good deed, boy. had father urban fallen a victim to yon hooting mob last eve, a deadly blow would have been dealt to the faith of this land." "and is his sickness very sore? has he any grievous hurt?" "he was sore knocked about and bruised ere he first wrenched himself from the officer of the law who sprang upon him with an order of arrest. two of his ribs be broke; and that long and fearful race for his life did cause him sore pain and greater injury, so that a fever has been set up, and he has had to lose much blood to allay it. but he is quiet and at rest just now. thou hadst better come again at sundown; he will doubtless be awake then. he has somewhat to say to thee, i know. i believe that he has some mission to entrust to thee. thou hast a kindly heart and a strong arm. i trow thou wilt not fail him now." anthony cole looked fixedly into the boy's face, and cuthbert returned the glance unflinchingly. he was possessed by the generous feeling all young and ardent natures know of keen desire to assist further any person already indebted to them for past grace. the fact that already he had run some risk on account of father urban only made cuthbert the more anxious to help him in whatever manner might best conduce to his well being and comfort. he looked full at his interlocutor, and said: "whatever i may with honour and right do for father urban shall not be lacking. i owe him my life. i can never grudge any service for him, be it great or small." "well spoken, my boy," answered the bookseller, with his calm, penetrating smile. "may the blessed saints long preserve untainted that true nobility of soul." cuthbert spent a restless day, wondering what mission the priest had for him, and whether his uncle would be angry at him for meddling in any such matters. but martin holt was friendly with several of the papist families about him, notably with the coles themselves; and cuthbert had a growing sense of his own independence and the right to choose his own associates and his own path in life. it was growing dusk when he stood beside the narrow bed on which father urban lay. the light filtered in scantily through the narrow window pane, and illumined a face lined by pain and white with exhaustion. upon the bed lay a packet which looked like papers, and one of the priest's wasted hands lay upon it as if to guard it. as cuthbert bent over him and spoke his name, father urban looked up, and a dim light crept into his eyes. "is it thou, my son, come at last?" "yes, father. what may i do for thee?" "wilt thou do one small service more for me, my son?" "willingly, father, if it lies within my power." "it is well within thy power, boy. it is not the power i question, but the will. we live in dangerous days. art willing to partake of the peril which compasses the steps of those who tread in the old ways wherein the fathers trod?" "try me and see," was the quiet reply. perhaps none could better have suited the astute reader of character. the hollow eyes lighted, and the old man bent upon cuthbert a searching glance whilst he seemed to pause to gather strength. "i would have thee take this packet," he said, speaking slowly and with some pain and difficulty. "there is no superscription; and sooner than let them be found by others on thy person, fling them into the river, or cut them to fragments with thy dagger; and plunge thy dagger into thine own heart sooner than be taken with them upon thee. but with caution and courage and strength (and i know that thou hast all of these) thou canst avoid this peril. what thy part is, is but this: deliver this packet into the hand of master robert catesby himself. thou knowest him. thou wilt make no error. seek him not at any tavern or public place. go to a lone house at lambeth, with moss-grown steps down to the water's edge. go by thine own wherry thither, and go alone. thou canst not mistake the house. there is none like it besides. it stands upon the water, and none other building is nigh at hand; but a giant elm overshadows it, and there is a door scarce above high water level and steps that lead from it. knock three times, thus, upon that door"--and the priest gave a curious tap, which cuthbert repeated by imitation; "and when thou art admitted, ask for robert catesby, and give him the packet. that is all. thy mission will then be done. wilt thou do as much for me?" cuthbert answered, without the least hesitation: "i will." chapter : the lone house on the river. "cuthbert, do not go--ah, do not go!" "and wherefore not, my cherry?" "i am afraid. i had such dreams last night. and, cuthbert, didst thou not heed? notedst thou not how in handing the salt at supper thy hand shook, and it was spilled? i like not such auguries; they fill my heart with fear. do not go--ah, do not!" cuthbert smiled as he caressed his little love, not averse to feeling her soft arms clinging round his neck, yet quite disposed to laugh at her youthful terrors. "but what dost thou fear, sweetheart?" "i fear everything," she replied, with inconsequent vehemence. "i remember the stories i have heard of the wiles of the priests, and how they tempt unwary men to their destruction. what is this father urban to thee, that thou shouldst risk aught for him? i will not let thee go--i will not!" "father urban saved my life." "and thou hast saved his. that debt is paid in full," was the prompt response. "he saved thee at no peril to himself; thou hast saved him when it might have cost thee thy life. thou owest him nothing--nothing! why should he ask this further service of thee?" cuthbert smiled. cherry's petulance and vehemence amused him. her little spoiled-child tempers and exactions were beginning to have a great charm. he scarcely knew how much of the deeper fears of dawning womanhood were beginning to intermingle with the "child's" eager love of her own way. love was gradually transforming cherry, but the transformation was as yet scarcely seen, and the added charm of her new softness and timidity had hardly begun to be observed by those about her. "he is sorely sick, sweetheart, and he has asked this thing of me. i have passed my word. thou wouldst not have me go back therefrom?" "he should not have asked thee; he had no right," flashed out cherry, in some despite. "why did he not ask walter cole? he was a fitter person than thou." "and wherefore so?" "why, everybody knows him for a pestilent papist!" answered cherry, with a flash of her big eyes. "nothing he did would surprise anybody. he is suspected already; whilst thou--nay, cuthbert, wherefore dost thou laugh?" "marry, at the logic of thy words, sweetheart! father urban desires a safe and secret messenger, and thou wouldst have him employ one already suspected and watched! that were a strange way of setting to work, why, i may come and go unquestioned. no man has suspected me of aught, and i am one of those who willingly conform to the laws. with walter things be far different: he might be stopped and searched by any suspicious knave who saw him pushing forth into the river." "and a good riddance, too!" cried cherry, who was in no humour to be tolerant of the romanists, who were, as she thought, putting her lover in peril. "i hate those plotting, secret, cunning papists! they are like men who are always mining in the dark, working and striving in deadly secret, no man knowing what will next be heard or seen. i like not such ways. i like not that thou shouldst meddle with them. those be treasonable papers, i doubt not. cuthbert, it is not meet that thou shouldst have dealings with traitors!" cuthbert smiled, but the earnestness with which cherry spake impressed him in spite of himself. it had been one thing to make this promise to the sick priest who trusted him, but it was a different matter to be told that he was meddling in treason. still, what did cherry know about it? she was but a child. "i know that there be treasons and treacherous plots enow in the world," answered cherry, as he put the question to her. "i hear more than men think; and since thou hast been here, cuthbert, i have listened and heeded as i was not wont to do. all men whisper of the treachery and malice of the papists. all men know that had they their will the king would be sent to death or imprisonment, and some other person placed upon the throne." "i know not how that may be," answered cuthbert slowly, "and i have no concern in such matters. all i have to do is to give these papers to one whom i know, and who has befriended me; and that must i do at all cost, for my word is pledged, and thou wouldst not have me go back from that, wouldst thou, cherry?" "i would not have thee run into danger," answered cherry, sticking persistently to her point with true feminine insistence, "and i know better than thou canst do what evil haps befall them who meddle in matters too hard for them, and that they reek not of. "cuthbert," drawing a little nearer and speaking in a breathless whisper, "dost call to mind what the wise woman said: how thou wast to beware of the dark river--the flowing river? and yet thou wilt venture forth upon it this eve! i like it not; i like it not! i would that i could make a prisoner of thee, that thou mightest not go." "it were sweet imprisonment to be held in such thrall," answered cuthbert, smiling, as he loosed the clasp of the warm arms from about his neck; "but this time, sweetheart, i must needs go. i will be cautious and careful. i are too much upon the river in the wherry for any to question my coming or going. none knew aught of our rescue of the hunted priest; none but thyself knows of him nor where he lies. it is impossible that any can suspect me yet; and for the future, for thy sweet sake, i will be cautious how i adventure myself into any like peril, if peril there be." with that cherry had to be content, for cuthbert was immovable where his word was pledged, and she had perforce to let him go, since he would not be stayed. "tell thy father that i sup tonight with abraham dyson," said cuthbert, as he kissed her for the last time before he left. "it may be i shall not be home in time for the supper, and i would not be too close questioned on my return. i will go thither when i have landed once more. good jacob will wish for news of father urban." cuthbert was gone, cherry looking wistfully after him. she had already begun to know something of the pain as well as of the joy of love. she felt that there was in cuthbert's nature a strain of self devotion and heroism which frightened her whilst it enthralled her fancy. she had an instinct that he would never turn back in any quest he had undertaken for the peril he might have to face. she felt that in him she was realizing her vague ideals of knightly prowess and dauntless courage; but all the same, unless she might be at his side to share the peril, she would almost have felt happier had this fearless bravery been somewhat less. cuthbert meantime pursued his way with a light heart, his packet of papers securely buttoned in the breast of his doublet. the keen air of the february afternoon fanned his face. his heart was full of tender thoughts of cherry and her sweet affection for him. how soon would it be possible, he wondered, to claim her as his own; and what would martin holt say to the frustration of one of his favourite schemes? of his present mission, and of any peril likely to accrue to him therefrom, cuthbert thought little or nothing. he did not see how he could possibly come under suspicion simply from fulfilling the priest's request. it would have been brutal to refuse; and what harm could he do to himself or others by simply delivering a packet of papers? he had almost promised master robert catesby before this to visit him in his river-side house. doubtless this was the very place for which he was now bound. anything like an adventure was agreeable to one of cuthbert's imaginative nature, and a spice of possible danger did not detract from the sense of fascination, even though he might not see wherein the danger lay. the wherry he was wont to use lay moored near to the three cranes, and no one heeded or questioned him as he stepped in and pushed off into the river. a couple of soldiers were lounging upon the little wharf and watching the small craft as they came and went. they appeared to take some note of cuthbert, as of others who passed by, but they did not speak to him, and he wondered what their business was there. a fragment of talk between two watermen reached him as he began rowing out in the direction of the cherry blossom; for he did not wish to take the upstream direction till twilight should have fallen and his movements would escape unheeded, and the voices of these men as they passed him reached him clearly over the water. "on the lookout for the runaway priest, i take it. thou surely didst hear how he gave them the slip in the fog, just when they thought they had him safe. he had been well bruised and battered. it was a marvel how he got free. but he knew the narrow lanes well, and doubled like a hare. doubtless he had his friends in waiting, for he slipped into some craft and eluded pursuit. but for the fog they would have made sure of him that time. they say he--" but the rest of the sentence was lost in the distance, and cuthbert laughed silently as he plied his oars. "beshrew me, but they make a mighty coil anent this good father urban. one would have thought they could have made shift to lay hands on him before were he so notable a miscreant. he was not in hiding when i saw him first; he appeared to go about the city fearlessly. doubtless it is but some new panic on the part of the king. god help us all now that we be ruled over by such a poor poltroon!" cuthbert had caught the prevailing contempt for the foolish and feeble james that was shared by the nation in general, and london in particular. they put up with him to avoid the horrors and confusion of a disputed succession and a possible repetition of the bloody strife of the roses; but there was not one section of the community with whom he was popular: even the ecclesiastics of the episcopal party despised whilst they flattered and upheld him. cuthbert felt an access of zeal in his present mission in the thought that it would be displeasing to the unkingly mind of the king. he had seen the ungainly monarch riding through westminster one day not long since, and the sight of his slovenly and undignified figure, trapped out in all the extravagance of an extravagant age, his clumsy seat on horseback (of which, nevertheless, he was not a little proud), and his goggle eyes and protruding tongue, filled the young man with disgust and dislike. but for the noble bearing and boyish beauty of the prince of wales, who rode beside his father, his disgust would have been greater; and all men were somewhat more patient with the defects of the father in prognosticating better and happier times when young henry should succeed to the throne. nevertheless treasonable plottings at this juncture did not appear as fearful and horrible as they had done in the days of "good queen bess," who, with all her faults and follies, contrived to keep her people's affection in a marvellous fashion, as her sire had done before her. men who would have recoiled with horror at a whisper against the queen's majesty, shrugged their shoulders with comparative indifference when they heard vague whispers of popish or puritan plots directed more or less against the person of king james. any warm personal love and loyalty was altogether lacking to the nation, and with it was lacking the element which has always been the strongest bulwark of the sovereign's safety. james appears to have been dimly conscious of this, always insisting on wearing heavy and cumbersome garments, quilted so strongly as to defy the thrust of a dagger. a monarch who goes about in habitual fear of assassination betrays his knowledge that he has failed to win the love or veneration of his subjects. cuthbert mused idly of these things as he pushed out into the middle of the river, and then eased up and looked about him to see if his movements were observed. it was beginning to grow dusk now. the sun had dipped behind the trees and buildings. the two sentries on the wharf had turned their backs upon the river, and were entering a tavern. the other wherries were all making for the shore, and the tide was running in strongly and carrying cuthbert's boat upstream for him in the direction whither he would go. letting himself drift with the tide, and contenting himself with keeping the prow in the right direction, cuthbert drifted on his way quite as fast as he cared to. he had not often been as far up the stream as this, since business always took him down towards the shipping in the mouth of the river. he had never before gone higher up than the temple stairs, and now as he drifted past these and saw the fine pile of westminster rising before his eyes, he felt a thrill of admiration and awe, and turned in his seat the better to observe and admire. westminster was almost like another town in those days, divided from the busy walled city of london by fields and gardens and fine mansions standing in their own grounds. on the south side of the river the houses were few and far between, and save at southwark, hardly any attempt at regular building had been made. past the great palace of whitehall and westminster, with its parliament houses rising majestic against the darkening sky, drifted the lonely little boat. and then cuthbert took his oars and pulled for the southern bank; for he knew that lambeth was not very much farther away, and he recalled to mind the directions of the priest, how to find it and know it. trees fringed the southern bank here, leafless at this season, but still imparting a certain dark dreariness to the scene. the hoot of an owl occasionally broke the silence, and sent light shivers through cuthbert's frame. he was not free from superstition, and the evil-omened bird was no friend of his. he would rather not have heard its harsh note just at this time; and he could have wished that the river did not look so inky black, or that the trees did not cast such weird shadows. but the tide ran strong beneath the overhanging bank, and cuthbert was carried onwards without any effort of his own. there was something just a little uncanny in this swift force. it reminded cuthbert of relentless destiny sweeping him onward whether or not he would go. but it was too late to consider or turn back even if such had been his desire. already he began to see white gleams as of stone work along the water's edge. the willow trees came to an end; a wall bounded the river for fifty yards or more, and then there arose before his eyes the structure of the lonely old house, guarded by its giant elms--a house seeming to be actually built upon the water itself, one door, as cuthbert had been told, opening upon the flight of steps which at high water were almost covered. it was well nigh high water now, and cuthbert could bring the prow of his boat to within a foot of the door. there were rings all along the topmost step for the mooring of small craft, and he quickly made fast his wherry and stood at the iron-clamped portal. how dark and silent and lonely the house looked, rising gaunt and dim in the uncertain light! who would choose such a spot for a home? surely only those whose deeds would not bear the light of day. and why that deadly silence and torpor in a house inhabited by human beings? it seemed unnatural and uncanny, and as a great white owl swept by on silent wing with a hollow note of challenge, cuthbert felt a chill sense of coming ill creep through his veins and run down his spine; and fearful lest his resolution should desert him at the last, he raised his hand and gave the thrice-repeated knock he had been taught by father urban. he doubted if the signal would be heard. he could scarcely believe that the house boasted any inhabitants, but soon he heard a heavy yet cautious tread approach the door from the other side. some heavy bolts were drawn back, and the door was opened a little way. "who is there?" asked a muffled voice. "one wishful to see master robert catesby." "why come to this back door, then? why not approach the house by the front way, like an honest man?" cuthbert was rather taken aback by this question. he answered with a touch of sharpness: "i came the way i was bidden to come. if i am in fault, the blame lies with him who sent me." "and who is that?" "father urban." at the sound of that name the door was cautiously opened a little further, and cuthbert felt himself confronted by a man whose face still remained in deep shadow. "you come from father urban, and with a message to robert catesby?" "not a message; a packet which methinks contains papers. i was bidden to deliver them into no hand but his, and to destroy both them and myself sooner than let them fall into alien hands." at that the door opened wider yet, and cuthbert could look along a dark stone passage, at the end of which glowed a light. his companion's first suspicions now appeared laid to rest. "come in, come in. speak not thus aloud without, even at this dead hour of dim loneliness. men like ourselves stand in sore need of every caution. come in, and let me lock the door behind us. there may be spies lurking even round these walls." "spies!" echoed cuthbert, as he strode along the passage towards the light. "i fear no spies; i have naught to conceal!" but the other man was drawing the heavy bolts, and did not hear this remark. he followed cuthbert into the great vaulted kitchen, which was illumined by a noble fire, the warmth of which was very welcome to the youth after his chilly voyage on the river. there was some cooking going on at the stove, and an appetizing odour filled the air. cuthbert turned his curious glance upon the custodian of this strange place, and saw a man who was evidently a gentleman, though very plainly and simply dressed, and employed at this moment in menial toil. he had a thin, worn face, and his eyes gleamed brightly under their heavy brows. he looked like one who had seen both trouble and suffering, and had grown somewhat reckless under successive miseries, he on his side was attentively regarding cuthbert. "thy name, good youth?" he asked abruptly. "cuthbert trevlyn," was the unhesitating rejoinder. the lad had not yet learned the prudence of reticence in dealing with strangers. he was neither ashamed of his errand nor of his name. "trevlyn--trevlyn. it is a good name, and i have heard it before. i have heard catesby speak of thee. so thou hast come with papers for him? art thou indeed to be one of us?" the question was asked almost in a whisper, accompanied by a very keen and searching glance. cuthbert did not exactly know what to make of it. he shook his head as he replied: "nay, i know naught of that. i am but a messenger from father urban, who was in sore straits but two days back, and well-nigh fell into the hands of his foes with these papers upon him. i had the good hap to help him to escape the peril; and as he was sore hurt, he begged of me to carry them to master catesby and deliver them with mine own hand. this have i come to do. he bid me seek this house, for that i should likely find him here. if he be not so, i pray you direct me where he may be found; for i have no mind to return with my task unfulfilled, nor yet to carry about with me these same papers an hour longer than need be." "heaven forfend!" ejaculated the custodian of the place with unfeigned anxiety. "father urban in peril! father urban sore hurt! we must know more of this business, and that without delay. art sure he is safe for the present? art sure he hath not fallen into the hands of the king's hirelings?" "he is safe enow for the nonce." "and where--where is he hidden?" cuthbert gave the man a keen look as he answered: "that will i tell to none save master robert catesby himself, whom i know. you, good sir, are a stranger to me, albeit, i doubt not, a very worthy gentleman." the man's thin face lighted up with a gleam of approval. "you are i' the right, young sir; you are i' the right of it," he said. "in these days of peril and trouble men cannot walk too warily. my name is robert kay, and the fate which has been your father's has been mine, too. i have been ruined and beggared for my devotion to my faith; and but for master robert catesby and others who have given me assistance and employment, i might well have starved in some garret ere now. yet i was gently born and nurtured, and mine only cause of offence was the religion which but a generation back all men in this realm honoured and loved. well-a-day! alack-a-day! we have fallen on evil times. yet there is still a god in the heavens above us, and our turn may come--yea, our turn may come!" the fierce wild gesture that accompanied these words recalled to cuthbert's mind the same sort of prediction and menace uttered by catesby on the night of their journey together over hammerton heath. he felt at once a lively curiosity and a sense of awe and repulsion; but he made no remark, and kay quickly recovered himself. "it boots not to linger. we must to catesby without delay. he must hear your news, young man, and must learn of you the fate of father urban. you will come with me to find him?" "very gladly, an you know where he is to be found." a curious expression flitted across the man's face. "ay, that do i know well; nor is he far from here. we shall soon reach him in that wherry of yours. he is but across the river at westminster, in the house of thomas percy, who has a lodging there in right of his office and stewardship to my lord of northumberland." kay glanced rather keenly into cuthbert's face as he spoke these words, but they evoked no answering spark of intelligence, and again the mask fell, leaving the face expressionless and weary as before. "i can take you across in my boat right well," answered cuthbert; "and the sooner we start the better i shall be pleased, for i have a dark journey back tonight, and there be sentries on the watch along the banks who may perchance ask somewhat too curiously of my movements an i be detained late." "nay, then let us hurry," said kay restlessly; "for catesby will not be back for many hours, and we must needs find him. i will but tarry to get my cloak, and then we will to the boat." he vanished as he spoke through an open door, and cuthbert stood looking inquisitively about him. there were several deep recesses in this vault-like place, and in one of these were piled a large number of small barrels, the contents of which cuthbert guessed to be wine or spirits. he was rather amused at the store thus got together, and thought that master kay and his companions knew how to enjoy themselves, even though they did lead lonely and troubled lives. his eyes were still fixed upon the barrels when kay returned, and a smile hovered round the corners of his lips. the man seemed to note the glance, and looked sharply at him. "thou knowest the meaning of those?" he said suddenly; and cuthbert smiled again as he answered readily: "ay, verily that do i." that was all which then passed. kay took up a lantern and led the way. cuthbert followed, and soon the door was unbarred and barred again behind them, the wherry was pushed out into deep water, and cuthbert's strong arms were soon propelling it across the river, kay steering carefully, and with the air of a man well used to the transit. he cautioned quietness as they neared the shore, but in the little creek where the boat was pushed up not a living thing was seen. another boat somewhat larger in build was already in the creek, and there was a post to which craft could he made fast whilst the owners landed. kay dexterously performed this office, and taking cuthbert by the arm, bid him muffle his face in the collar of his cloak, and walk cautiously and with circumspection. they quickly reached the great block of buildings of which the houses of parliament formed the most conspicuous feature; and diving down a narrow entry, kay paused suddenly before a low-browed door, and gave the peculiar knock cuthbert had learned from the priest. the door was quickly opened, and a rough head thrust forth. "who goes there?" "it is i, good bates--i and a gentleman--one of us--come on business that brooks no delay with master robert catesby. go summon thy master, good knave, without delay. it is needful this gentleman speak with him at once." kay had been leading cuthbert along a passage with the familiarity of a friend of the house, whilst the serving man barred the door, and answered somewhat gruffly, as though disturbed by the interruption: "nay, if he is one of us, let him seek the master below. he is there, and hard at work, and will not be best pleased at being called away. i have but just come up myself. i am weary as a hunted hare and thirsty as a fish in a desert. find my master thyself, master kay; i am no servant of thine." kay appeared in no way astonished at this rough answer. he went on before without any remark, and cuthbert, not knowing what else to do, followed. presently they reached the head of a long flight of stairs that seemed to descend into the very heart of the earth, and from below there arose strange hollow sounds--the sound of blows steadily struck upon some hard substance; it seemed as though they were struck upon the very rock itself. greatly amazed, and wondering not a little what it could mean, cuthbert paused at the head of this long flight, and saw his companion prepare to descend; but just at that moment the sound of blows ceased. a cry and confusion of voices arose, as if the speakers were somewhere in the heart of the earth; and almost immediately there dashed up the stairs a man with stained garments, bloodshot eyes, and a white, scared face, crying out in fearful terror: "the bell! the bell! the tolling bell! god and the holy saints protect us! it is our death knell--our death knell!" kay seized the man by the arm. "what ails you, man? what is it?" he asked, quickly and sternly; but at that moment the pale face of robert catesby appeared, and he was followed by a tall bearded man of very soldierly bearing, who said, in calm, authoritative accents: "i have here some holy water, blessed by the pope himself. if we do but sprinkle the walls with that and bid the daring fiend cease, all will be well. it is no work of god; it is a work of the devil, striving to turn us aside from our laudable and righteous purpose. prove me if it be not so. if yon booming bell sounds again after this holy water has been sprinkled, then will i own that it is god fighting against us; but if it cease after this has been sprinkled, then shall we know that heaven is on our side and only the powers of darkness against us." "so be it," answered catesby, quickly and decisively; "thou shalt make trial of it, good guido. i trow we shall learn by that token that god is on our side." all this cuthbert saw and heard, as he stood in the shadow at the top of the stairs consumed by a burning curiosity. something had occurred of such overwhelming interest as to obliterate even from kay's mind for the moment the errand on which he had come, and his presence in the house at this moment awoke no question amongst the men assembled there, who were plainly otherwise engrossed. all vanished again down the stairs, and cuthbert stole after them with cautious footfalls, too eager to discover what could be so moving them to consider what he was doing. it was easy to track, by their voices and the light they carried, the men who had preceded him. the long flight of stairs terminated in a long stone passage, deadly cold; and this led in turn to a great cellar, at the far end of which a group of seven men was assembled. they appeared to be standing round the entrance to a small tunnel, and this tunnel they had plainly been making themselves; for a number of tools for boring and picking lay about, and the faces, hands, and clothes of the assembled party plainly indicated the nature of their toil, albeit from their speech and bearing it was plain that all were gentlemen. robert catesby was sprinkling the walls of this tunnel with some water, using words of supplication and exorcism, and his companions stood bare headed around him. a great hush fell upon all as this ceremony ceased, and all seemed to listen intently. "there is no sound; the devil hath taken flight. i knew how it would be!" spoke the tall dark man exultantly. "and now, comrades, to work again, for we have heard the last of our knell tonight. no powers of darkness can stand before the charm of his holiness's power." with an air of relief and alacrity the gentlemen seized their tools, and again the hollow or ringing sounds commenced to sound in that dim place; but kay had plucked robert catesby by the sleeve, and was whispering some words in his ear. catesby turned quickly round, made a few strides towards the staircase, and then catching sight of cuthbert, stopped short, and seized kay by the arm. "fool!" he cried, in a low, hissing tone, "what possessed you to bring him here? we are undone!" "nay, but he knows; he is one of us." "he is not; it is a lie! if he said so, he is a foul spy!" and then striding up to cuthbert with eyes that gleamed murderously, he looked into the youth's face, and suddenly the fury died out of his own. "why, it is cuthbert trevlyn! good luck to you, good youth! i had feared i know not what. but thou art stanch and true; thou art a chip of the old block. if it had to be some one, better thee than any other. boy, thou hast seen a sight tonight that must have awakened thy curiosity. swear to secrecy--swear to reveal nothing--and i will tell thee all." "nay, tell me nothing," answered cuthbert firmly; "i love not mysteries. i would fain forget all i have heard and seen. let me tell thee of father urban--let me give thee his letters; but tell me naught in return. i will not know--i will not." cuthbert spoke with sudden vehemence. he and catesby were mounting the stairs together. as they reached the dim vestibule above, catesby took him by the arm and looked him searchingly in the face, as he said: "maybe thou art in the right. it may be better so. but thou must swear one thing ere thou goest hence, and that is--to reveal to no living soul what thou hast seen this night. know, boy, that if thou wilt not swear this--" but cuthbert shook himself free, and looked proudly at his interlocutor. "nay, threaten me not, good master catesby, else i may be moved to defy thee and thy power. for the goodwill i bear thee, and for that i loathe and abhor those craven souls who will betray their fellow men to prison and death, i will give thee my word of honour to hold sacred all that i have seen and heard in this house this night. i know not what it means, nor do i desire to know. be it for good or be it for ill, it is thy secret, not mine, and with me it is safe. but i will not be threatened nor coerced--no, not by any man. what i will not give for friendship and brotherly love, no man shall wrest from me through fear." catesby looked at the lad with his flashing eyes and proudly-held head, and a smile illuminated his features. whether or not his companions would have been satisfied with this pledge, he himself was content, and with a kindly grip of the hand he said: "enough, boy, enough! i like thy spirit, and i ask thy pardon for dreaming of treating thee in any unworthy fashion. and now let us talk of father urban and what has befallen him; and give to me these papers of which thou hast been such a careful custodian." an hour later, cuthbert's wherry floated out into midstream once more, and swiftly sped along the dark water, propelled by a pair of strong young arms. could any have seen the rower's face, it would have been seen to be grave and rather pale. the lights of the bridge beginning to gleam ahead of him as he looked over his shoulder, cuthbert muttered to himself: "this has been a strange night's work, and there be more in all than i can rightly understand. pray heaven i be not further entangled in such mysteries and secrets! well did the wise woman bid me beware of underground cellars. would i had never been into that ill place this night!" chapter : may day in the forest. "canst put up with my company, good cuthbert? for i have a mind to travel with thee." cuthbert turned quickly as these words fell upon his ear, and found himself face to face with a gay-looking youth dressed all in forester's green, whom at first he took for a stranger, till the young man with a laugh removed his wide-brimmed hat, so that the evening light fell full upon his handsome boyish face; and cuthbert exclaimed, with a start of surprise: "verily, it is lord culverhouse!" "and thy very good cousin, cuthbert trevlyn," said the viscount, as he linked his arm within that of his would-be comrade. "so let there be no more ceremony betwixt thee and me; for we are both bent upon a merry time in the forest, and we will fare forth thither together as brothers and friends." "with all my heart," answered cuthbert warmly; for he loved companionship, and greatly liked what he had seen of kate's cousin and lover, the gay and handsome lord culverhouse. he had been once or twice recently to the great house in the strand, generally rowing himself up to the garden steps, and sometimes taking the viscount upon the river with him. in this way they had struck up a certain friendliness and intimacy; and cuthbert had spoken to lord culverhouse of his proposed visit to the forest on may day, although without explaining to him the real and chief object of that journey. culverhouse had not at the time expressed any desire to accompany him, though he had asked a good many questions respecting the forest and the forest fetes held upon that day. cuthbert had observed an unwonted animation in his eyes as he had done so; but nothing in the young nobleman's manner had prepared him for this freak on his part, and he had actually failed at the first moment to recognize this fanciful figure in its smart forester's dress when first saluted by the wearer. but he was glad enough of the meeting, and the proposition of travelling in company was very welcome, though he still had one qualm to set at rest. "i only go on foot, my lord. doubtless you have a horse in waiting, and will soon outride me." "a horse! not i. i have neither beast nor man in waiting. i travel alone and on foot, and for the nonce am no more lord culverhouse, but only rupert de grey--thy trusty comrade rupert--and a would-be follower of bold robin hood, did he but hold his court with his merry, merry men in the free forest now. see, i wear his livery. i feel as free as air. i marvel i never thought of such a masquerade before. we will have a right merry time this joyous springtide. how long dost thou purpose to remain in the greenwood thyself?" "i know not," answered cuthbert, as the pair strode southward together, quickly leaving behind the last houses of london, and striking away in the direction of the forest whither both were bound. it was the last day in april: the soft south wind was blowing in their faces, the trees were beginning to hang out their tassels of tender green, the hawthorn was bursting into bloom and filling the air with its fragrance. it was, in fact, the eve of one of those old-fashioned may days which seem utterly to have gone by now, and all nature was rejoicing in the sweet exaltation of the happy springtide, full of the promises of the golden summer to come. cuthbert's heart swelled with delight as he looked about him and felt that the strife and bustle of the great city were at last shaken off. in spite of the spell exercised upon him by the life of london, he had for some weeks been pining like a caged bird for the freedom of the country again, the vault of the sky alone above him, the songs of the birds in his ears. the spring had brought to him yearnings and desires which he scarcely understood, and latterly he had been counting the days which must pass ere he should find himself in the forest once again. in his uncle's house matters were growing a little strained. martin holt undoubtedly suspected something of the matter betwixt him and cherry, and as plainly disapproved. he looked upon cherry as promised to her cousin jacob, and doubtless he thought the steady, plodding, slow-witted son of the house of dyson a far safer husband for his feather-brained youngest than handsome cuthbert trevlyn, with his gentler birth, his quick and keen intelligence, and his versatile, inquiring mind, which was always inclining him to meddle in matters better left alone, and to judge for himself with an independence that was perilous in times like these. not that martin holt was himself averse to independence of judgment, rather the reverse; but he knew the dangers besetting the path of those who were resolved to think and judge for themselves, and he would fain have seen his youngest and dearest child safely made over to the care of one who would be content to go through life without asking troublesome questions or intermeddling with matters of danger and difficulty, and would conform to all laws, civil and religious, without a qualm, recognizing the king's will as supreme in all matters, temporal and spiritual, without a doubt or a scruple. cherry would be safe with jacob, that was martin's feeling, whilst with cuthbert he could have no such security. cuthbert had still his way to make in the world, and it had not yet appeared that he would be of any use in business matters. he was clever with his pen. he was a good scholar, and had been able to make himself useful to his uncle in a number of small matters where his quickness and sharp wits had room to work. he was also of no small use in the matter of the building and fitting up of the new sloop, in which he took such keen interest. he would go over every bit of the work, comparing it with what he saw in other vessels, and learning quickly to distinguish good workmanship from bad. he became so ready of resource and suggestion when any small difficulty occurred, that both martin holt and abraham dyson learned to think exceedingly well of his abilities, and employed him largely in matters where quickness of observation and apprehension was wanted. but for all that, and despite the fact that he had earned some considerable sum of money (as he reckoned it) during the winter and spring months, he had shown no great desire to settle himself down to any steady occupation or trade, and neither of the elder men saw any opening for him that should give him regular and permanent occupation. "he has too much of the gay gallant about him for my taste," abraham would say. "he is more trevlyn than holt; and some folks say more wyvern than trevlyn. be that as it may, he is a gentleman to the fingertips; and one might as well try to tame an eagle as set him down to the round of work that comes natural to lads like jacob." and martin holt would nod assent, feeling that there was something about his sister's son that would never assimilate with the life of a merchant tradesman. he liked his nephew, and thought well of him in many ways; but he was not sorry to receive his request for leave to revisit his old haunts and his own kindred when the long spring days were upon the world; and he bid the lad please himself for the future, and return or not as he best liked. there was the gold to be given up to him when he should make formal claim for it. martin had satisfied himself by now that he was worthy to be intrusted with it; but cuthbert intended petronella to have the bulk of that, so that she might wed philip, if they were both inclined that way. as for himself, he was still bent on finding the lost treasure of trevlyn, and he had vowed the whole of the long summer to the search, resolved that he would find it, be the perils and perplexities what they might. so that although he saw by his uncle's manner that he was not especially anxious to see him back soon, and shrewdly guessed that this was in part on cherry's account, he did not let the matter distress him. when good jacob had had his turn, and had failed in winning cherry's hand, and when he himself should return laden with the treasure which should enable him to place his little love in a nest in all ways worthy of her, surely then his uncle would give her up to him without opposition. this was how he spoke to cherry, comforting her as the hour for his departure drew near, and vowing eternal constancy and unchanging love. he was beginning to feel that he was doing his cause more harm than good by lingering on, unable to declare himself, yet betraying himself, as he often felt, in a hundred little nameless ways. it would be better for all when the wrench was finally made; and neither he nor cherry doubted for a moment that he would be successful in his search, and would come riding up at last to the house on the bridge, the gayest of gay gallants, to claim cherry in the sight of all, lifting her upon his horse, and riding away with her in the fashion of the bold knights of old, whose deeds of prowess they both so greatly admired. it was this brilliant prospect of glory to come which consoled cherry and reconciled her to the parting of the present. hard as it would be to live without cuthbert, she would strive to do so in the thought that he would come again ere long and take her away for ever from the life which was becoming odious to her, she scarce knew why. so they had parted in hope as well as in sorrow, and cuthbert felt all his elasticity of spirit returning to him as he strode along by his unexpected comrade's side. "i know not how long i shall be absent from london," he said in answer to culverhouse's question. "there be many things depending on that. i have set myself a task, and i know not how long a time it will take to accomplish. and you, my good lord, how goes it with you? are you about to visit trevlyn chase, as you will be thus near, and see your kinsfolks there?" "call me not good lord, call me rupert, as i have bidden thee before!" was the quick response, as a flush dyed for the moment the smooth fair cheek of the viscount. "cuthbert, since we are to travel together, i must needs tell thee my secret. i am not bound for trevlyn chase. my father has forbidden me for the nonce to visit there, not for any ill will he bears our kinsfolk, but--but that--" "but that he fears the bright eyes of mistress kate, and hopes by keeping you apart to help thee to forget? is it not so, rupert?" "marry, thou hast well guessed. or has it been no guess? hast thou heard aught?" "my cousin kate herself told me somewhat of it," answered cuthbert; "but she laughed to scorn the artifice. she is not made of the stuff that forgets." "heaven's blessing be upon her for a true-hearted maiden!" cried culverhouse, with a lover's easily-stirred enthusiasm. "cuthbert, since thou knowest so much, thou shalt know more. i have made shift to write to kate about this purpose of mine to visit the forest glades on blithe may day; and she has sent me a little missive, fresh and sweet and dainty like herself, to tell me that she will ride forth herself into the forest that day, and giving the slip to her sisters or servants, or any who may accompany her, will meet me without fail in a certain dell that doubtless i shall find from the directions she gives. there is a giant yew tree in the midst that would hide six men in its hollow trunk, and a laughing streamlet circles well-nigh round it. she tells me it has got the name of oberon's horseshoe." "i know the place well," answered cuthbert. "i can guide thee thither. so mistress kate will meet thee there! it is like her. she has a daring spirit. i would i could help her to her dowry." "her dowry! thou!" echoed culverhouse in surprise; and then as they walked onwards through the dewy night, cuthbert could not but tell a little of his purpose to the comrade who had intrusted him with his own secret; and culverhouse listened with the greatest interest, albeit without quite the same sanguine hope of success that cuthbert himself entertained. still, he was of opinion that a patient search and inquiry instituted by an obscure lad like cuthbert, used to rough ways and the life of the forest, would be more likely to succeed than one set on foot by any person better known. if the old tradition were true that the gipsies had hidden the gold again in spite, it was possible that after this lapse of time the old hatred would have died out, and that somebody might be willing to betray the precious secret for a sufficient reward. at any rate cuthbert's idea of living in the forest and cultivating and studying these strange folk was amply worth a trial. if his quest succeeded, the whole trevlyn family would be once more wealthy and prosperous; if not, no harm would have been done, and the youth would have enjoyed his free life and new experiences after the winter spent in the confinement of the great city. the travellers walked on through the twilight and until long after moonrise. they had put a good twelve miles between them and london before they talked of halting. they had no intention of seeking shelter for the night in any wayside hostelry. a hollow tree would give them all the cover they needed, and both had brought with them such supply of provision as would render them independent of chance hospitality for twenty-four hours at least. cuthbert's quick eyes soon sought out the sort of resting place they desired--a great oak, into whose hollowed trunk the dead leaves had drifted, and were now piled up into a soft heap. lying luxuriously upon this easy couch, the two travellers took such refreshment as each needed; and as cuthbert saw in the distance before them the bold outlines of the high ground, part of which went by the name of hammerton heath, he recounted to his companion his adventure there the november previous, and by what means he had saved his purse from the hands of the robbers. culverhouse listened to the story, and when it was done he said: "take heed, good cuthbert, that thou dost not meet with a worse mischance than the loss of thy purse. i would sooner have mine filched from me by freebooters than owe aught to robert catesby that could give him any claim upon me." cuthbert looked up quickly. since that night when he had delivered the papers to catesby, and had seen and heard so much that was mysterious, he had gradually let the strange incident slip from his memory. nothing had occurred to recall it, or to render him in any wise uneasy. he had seen nothing of catesby or his companions. father urban had said that they had all dispersed into the country. he himself shortly took leave of the coles, and was taken off by a boat on a dark night to reach a vessel about to start for spain. the whole incident seemed more like a dream than a reality now; and cuthbert's vague sense of uneasiness had by this time died quite away. "what dost thou mean?" he asked, as the viscount's words fell on his ear. "no more than this, that yon catesby is a dangerous man. i know naught against him, save that he is a papist of the type i like not--a plotting, designing, desperate type, that ofttimes injure themselves far more than they injure others, yet too often drag their friends and those who trust them to destruction with them--and all for some wild and foolish design which they have not the wits to carry through, and against which heaven itself fights to its overthrow. have no dealings with this same catesby, good cuthbert; thou wilt rue it an thou dost." "i am not like to see him again," answered cuthbert slowly. "he is gone i know not whither. if men look thus darkly upon him, doubtless he will not adventure himself in london again." "i know not how that may be. my father hath heard disquieting rumours of late, and the name of robert catesby is mingled in all of them. however, he speaks little to me of matters of state. men in high places are for ever hearing whispers and rumours, and it boots not to give over-much credence to every idle tale. only, what thou spakest of this catesby recalled the matter to my mind. he is a man to fear, to avoid. he has a way with him that wins men's hearts; yet it is but the fatal fascination of the glittering snake, that snares the fluttering bird to its destruction. so, at least, i have heard." cuthbert made no direct reply. he would have liked to tell culverhouse of the incident of the lonely house on the river, and the dark cellar in which catesby and others had been at work; but his tongue was bound by his promise. moreover, the hour for sleep was at hand, and the travellers, wrapping themselves in their cloaks and stretching their limbs upon their soft couch, were soon lost in the land of dreams. the following morning dawned as fair and clear and bright as heart could wish. it was just such a may day as one pictures in reading of those old-time festivities incident to that joyous season. and the forest that day was alive with holiday makers and rustic folks, enjoying themselves to the full in all the green glades and bosky dells. culverhouse and cuthbert found it hard to push along upon their way into the heart of the forest, so attractive were the scenes enacted in every little clearing that had become the site of a tiny hamlet or village, so full of hospitality to wayfarers was every house they passed, and so merry were the dances being footed on the greensward, in which every passer by was expected to take a part. culverhouse, in his green forester's dress, daintily faced with silver, a silver hunting horn slung round his neck, was an object of universal admiration, and the fact that he was plainly some wealthy gentleman masquerading and playing a part did not in any way detract from the interest his appearance excited. his merry, courteous ways and well-turned compliments won the hearts of maidens and matrons alike, whilst his deft and elegant dancing was the admiration of all who watched; and he was besought on all hands to stay, and found no small difficulty in pursuing his way into the forest itself. however, they had made an early start, and as they drew near to the denser part of the wood interruptions became less frequent, and presently ceased altogether. cuthbert found a track he knew which led straight to the trysting place with kate; and though from time to time the travellers heard distant sounds of mirth and revelry proceeding from the right hand or the left, they did not come upon any groups of gipsies or freebooters, who were doubtless enjoying the day after their own fashion, and the two pursued their way rapidly and without molestation. "this is the place," said cuthbert at length, as the underwood grew thick and tangled and the path became almost lost. "and see, yonder is a lady's palfrey tethered to a tree. mistress kate is the first at the tryst. go down thither to her, and i will wait here and guard her steed; for there be many afoot in the forest this day, and all may not be so bent on pleasure taking that they will not wander about in search of gain, and a fair palfrey like yon would be no small prize." culverhouse readily consented to this arrangement, and for some time cuthbert was left to a solitary enjoyment of the forest. he caressed the horse, which responded with great gentleness and goodwill; and then he lay down in luxurious ease, his hands crossed behind his head, his face turned upwards towards the clear blue of the sunny sky, seen through the delicate tracery of the bursting buds of elm and beech. it was a perfect feast for eye and ear to lie thus in the forest, listening to the songs of the birds, and watching the play of light and shadow. fresh from the roar and the bustle of the city, cuthbert enjoyed it as a thirsty traveller in the desert enjoys a draught of clear cold water from a spring. he was almost sorry when at last the sound of voices warned him that the lovers' stolen interview was at an end, and that they were approaching him at last. kate's bright face was all alight with happiness and joy as she appeared, holding fast to her lover's arm. she greeted cuthbert with the prettiest air of cousinly affection, asked of himself and his welfare with undisguised interest, and then told them of some rustic sports being held at a village only three miles distant, and begged culverhouse to take her to see the spectacle. she had set her heart upon it all day, and there would be no danger of her being seen in the crowd sure to be assembled there to witness the sights. her sisters had no love for such shows, and nobody would be greatly troubled at her hardihood in escaping from the escort of her servants. she was always doing the like, and no harm had ever befallen her. her father was wont to call her his madcap, and her mother sometimes chided, and feared she would come to ill by her wild freaks; but she had always turned up safe and sound, and her independent ways had almost ceased to excite comment or uneasiness. on may day, when all the world was abroad and in good humour, they would trouble still less on her account. kate had no fear of being overtaken and brought back, and had set her heart on going with culverhouse to this village fete and fair. she had heard much of it, yet had never seen it. sure this was the very day on which to go. culverhouse would have gone to the moon with her had she asked it--or would at least have striven to do so--and his assent was cordially given. cuthbert knew the place well; and kate was quickly mounted on the palfrey, culverhouse walking at her bridle-rein, whilst cuthbert walked on ahead to choose the safest paths, and warn them of any peril in the road. he could hear scraps of lover-like dialogue, that sent his heart back to cherry, and made him long to have her beside him; but that being impossible, he gave himself up to the enjoyment of the present, and found pleasure in everything about him. he had been before to this gay fair, held every may day, to which all the rustic folks from far and near flocked with one accord. he knew well the look of the tents and booths, the bright dresses of the women, the feats of skill and strength carried on between the younger men, the noise, the merriment, the revelry that towards sundown became almost an orgie. but in the bright noon-day light all was at its best. kate was delighted with everything, especially with the may queen upon her throne, surrounded by her attendant maidens in their white holiday dresses, with their huge posies in their hands. this was the place for love making, and it attracted the lovers not a little. cuthbert, who undertook to tie up the horse in some safe place, and then wandered alone through the shifting throng, found them still upon the green when he rejoined them after his ramble. plainly there was something of interest greater than before going on in this quarter. people were flocking to the green, laughing, chattering, and questioning. blushing girls were being led along by their ardent swains; some were protesting, others laughing. cuthbert could not make out what it was all about, and presently asked a countryman why the folks were all in such a coil. "why? because the priest has come, and all who will may be wed by him. he comes like this every may day, and he stands in the church porch, and he weds all who come to him for a silver sixpence, and asks no questions. half our folks are so wed year by year, for there be no priest or parson here this many years, not since the last one was hunted to death by good queen bess--heaven rest her soul! the church is well nigh falling to pieces as it stands; but the porch is the best part of it, and the priest who comes says it is consecrated ground, and so he can use it for his weddings. that is what the coil is about, young sir. you be a stranger in these parts, i take it?" cuthbert was not quite a stranger, but he had never heard before of these weddings. "are they lawfully wed whom he marries?" he asked; but the man only shook his head. "nay, as for that i know naught, nor do any of the folks hereabouts neither. but he is a priest, and he says the right words, and joins their hands and calls them man and wife. no man can do more so far as my poor wits tell me. most of our young folks--ay, and some of the old ones too--have been married that fashion, and i can't see that there is aught amiss with them. they be as happy and comfortable as other folks." cuthbert moved on with the interested crowd to see these haphazard weddings. it was plain that the marrying of a number of young couples was looked upon as part of the may day sports. it was a pretty enough sight to see some of the flower-crowned blushing girls in their festal white, led along by their gaily-bedecked swains in the direction of the church, which was hard by the open village green. some other importunate youths were eagerly pleading their cause, and striving to drag their mistresses to the nuptial altar amid the laughter and encouragement of the bystanders. cuthbert moved along in search of his companions, greatly amused by all he saw and heard; and presently he caught sight of kate and culverhouse standing together close beside the church, half hidden within a small embrasure enclosed between two buttresses. her face was covered with brilliant blushes, whilst he had hold of her hand, and seemed to be pleading with her with impassioned earnestness. as cuthbert approached he heard these words: "nay, sweetest kate, why hold back? have we not loved each other faithfully and long? why dost thou fear?" "o culverhouse, methinks it would be wrong. how can we know that such wedlock would be lawful? methinks my mother would break her heart did she think the knot had been thus loosely tied." "nay, but, kate, thou scarce takest my meaning as yet. this pledge given betwixt us before yon priest would be to us but the betrothal troth plight. i doubt myself whether such wedlock would be lawful; nor would i dare to call thee my wife did none but he tie the knot. but listen, sweet coz: if we go before him and thus plight our troth and join our hands together, none will dare to bid us wed another. it will be too solemn a pledge to be lightly broken. men think gravely of such matters as solemn betrothal, and in days to come if they should urge upon thee or me to wed with another, we have but to tell of what was done this day, and they will cease to strive to come between us more. "o sweetest mistress, fairest kate, let us not part today without some pledge of mutual faith and constancy! let me hold this little hand and place my token on thy finger; then be the time of waiting never so long, i shall know that at last i may call thee mine before all the world!" kate was quivering, blushing, trembling with excitement, though not with fear; for she loved culverhouse too completely to feel aught but the most perfect confidence in him and his honour and faith. "if only i could be sure it was not wrong!" she faltered. "wrong to plight thy hand, when thy heart is long since given?" he asked, with tender playfulness. "where can the wrong be there?" "i know not. i would fain be altogether thine. but what would my father and mother say?" it was plain already that she was yielding. culverhouse drew her tenderly towards him. "nay, sweet coz, there be times when the claim of the parent must give place to the closer claim of the lover, the husband. does not scripture itself tell us as much? trust me, i speak for our best good. let us but go together before this priest and speak the words that, said in church, would make us man and wife, and none will dare to keep us apart for ever, or bid us wed with another. such words must be binding upon the soul, be the legal bond little or much. it is hard to say what the force of such a pledge may be; but well i know that neither my father nor thine would dare to try to break it, once they were told how and when it had been made. thou wilt be mine for ever, kate, an thou wilt do this thing." the temptation was too great to be resisted. to plight her troth thus to culverhouse, in a fashion which might not be wholly ignored or set aside, was a thing but too congenial to the daring and ardent temperament of the girl. with but a few more quivers of hesitation she let herself be persuaded; and culverhouse, turning round with a radiant smile of triumph, saw that cuthbert was standing beside them, sympathy and interest written upon his face. "thou wilt be witness to our espousals, good cousin," he said gaily, as he led his betrothed to the porch, where the crowd made way for them right and left, seeing well the purpose for which these gentlefolks had come. it pleased them mightily that this fine young forester with his air of noble birth, and this high-born maiden in her costly riding dress, should condescend to come before the priest here in their own little church porch, and plight their troth as their own young folks were doing. a hush of eager expectation fell upon the crowd as culverhouse led his betrothed love before the priest; and when the ring, bought from an old peddler who always attended at such times and found ready sale for his wares, was placed on kate's slim finger, a murmur of applause and sympathy ran through the crowd, and kate quivered from head to foot at the thought of her own daring. the thing was done. she and culverhouse had plighted themselves in a fashion solemn enough to hinder any person from trying to make light of their betrothal. right or wrong, the deed was done, and neither looked as though he or she wished the words unsaid. but kate dared not linger longer. cuthbert fetched her palfrey, and culverhouse lifted her to the saddle; and hiring a steed from a farmer for a brief hour, promising to bring it back in time for the good man to jog home again at dusk, the newly-plighted pair rode off into the forest together, he promising to see her to within sight of her own home before taking a last adieu. cuthbert stood looking after them with a smile on his lips. "now, if heaven will but speed my quest and give me happy success, i trow those twain may yet be wed again, no man saying them nay; for if sweet mistress kate can but bring with her the dower the treasure will afford, none will forbid the union: she will be welcomed by lord andover as a fitting wife for his son and heir!" chapter : the gipsy's tryst. "this is surely the spot. methinks she will not fail me. moonrise was the hour she named. i will wait with what patience i may till she comes to keep the tryst." so said cuthbert to himself as, at the close of that long and varied day, he stood at the mouth of a natural cave, half hidden by tangled undergrowth, which had been appointed months ago by joanna the gipsy as the place where on may day evening she would meet him, and tell him more of the matter so near to his heart. culverhouse and he had parted company when the former had escorted towards her home the lady of his choice, to whom his troth had been so solemnly plighted a short while before. the young viscount was going to make his way rapidly to london again; but cuthbert purposed a long stay in the forest. the search for the lost treasure might be a matter of weeks, possibly of months. but he was very well resolved not to give it up until the search had been pursued with unabated zeal to the last extremity, and he himself was fully satisfied as to its fate. nothing but actual knowledge that it had been dissipated and dispersed should induce him to abandon the quest. standing at the mouth of the cave, leaning against the rocky wall, and enjoying the deep solitude of the forest and its tranquil stillness, cuthbert revolved many matters in his mind, and it seemed more certain than ever that the finding of the treasure alone could save him and many that he loved from manifold difficulties and perplexities. how that treasure would smooth the path and bring happiness and ease to the trevlyn family! surely it was well worth a more vigorous search than had long been made! cuthbert took from his pocket the bit of parchment containing the mystic words of the wise woman, or her familiar spirit, and perused them again and again, albeit he knew them well nigh by heart. "thou art here! it is well." cuthbert started at the sound of the rich, deep tones, and found himself confronted by the queenly-looking gipsy. he had not heard her approach. she seemed to have risen from the very ground at his feet. but he was scarcely surprised. she had the air of one who could come and go at will even upon the wings of the wind. "i am here," answered cuthbert, making a courteous salutation. "i thank thee that thou hast not forgotten the tryst." "i never forget aught, least of all a promise," answered joanna, with her queenly air of dignity. "i come to strive to do my share to atone a wrong and render restitution where it is due. what paper is that, boy, that thou studiest with such care?" cuthbert handed her the scrap of parchment. he did not know if she would have learning to decipher it; but the writing appeared to have no difficulties for her. she read the words in the clear light of the may evening, albeit the sun had set and the crescent moon was hanging like a silver lamp in the sky; and as she did so she started slightly, and fixed a keenly penetrating glance upon cuthbert. "where didst thou get these lines, boy?" "they were given me by a wise woman, whom i consulted to see if she could aid me in this matter." "a wise woman! and where didst thou find her?" "in london town, where she practises her arts, and many come unto her by secret. she is veritably that which she professes, for she told me the object of my quest ere i had told mine errand to her." "but thou hadst told her thy name?" "yes, verily, i had done that." "and knowing that, she divined all. verily thou hast seen esther the witch! and this was all she knew--this was all she knew!" joanna's head was bent over the parchment. her eyes were full of fire. her words seemed addressed rather to herself than to cuthbert, and they excited his ardent curiosity. "and who is esther? and dost thou know her? thou speakest as if thou didst." "all of us forest gipsies know esther well. she is one of us, though she has left the forest to dwell in cities. according to the language of men, she is my aunt. she is sister to old miriam, whom thou sawest in the forest mill, and who would have done thee to death an i had not interposed to save thee. and miriam is my mother, albeit i am her queen, and may impose my will on her." "and does she know aught of the lost treasure?" asked cuthbert, with eager impatience. "i had hoped she did," answered joanna slowly, her eyes still bent on the paper. "i have seen her myself since i saw thee last. i have spoken with her on this same matter. i could not draw from her what i strove to do; but i see now that i prepared the way, and that when thou didst go by chance to her, she was ready for thee. but if this is all she knows, it goes not far. still it may help--it may help. in a tangled web, no one may say which will be the thread which patiently followed may unravel the skein." "belike she knows more than she would say," suggested cuthbert quickly. "if she can look into the future, sure she may look into the past likewise--" but joanna stopped him by a strange gesture. "peace, foolish boy! thinkest thou if gipsy lore could unravel the riddle, that it had not long ago become known to me? we have our gifts, our powers, our arts, and well we know how to use them be it for good or ill. but we know full well what the limits are. and if men know it not, it is more their blindness than our skill that keeps them in ignorance. and if they give us more praise and wonder than we merit, do they not also give us hatred and enmity in like meed? have we not gone through fire and sword when men have risen up against us and called us sorcerers? have we not suffered for our reputation; and do we not therefore deserve to wear it with what honour we may?" the woman spoke with a strange mixture of bitterness, earnestness, and scorn--scorn, as it seemed, almost of herself and of her tribe, yet a scorn so proudly worn that it scarce seemed other than a mark of distinction to the wearer. cuthbert listened in amaze and bewilderment. it was all so different from what he had looked for. he had hoped to consult an oracle, to learn hidden secrets of which the gipsies had cognizance through their mysterious gifts; and, behold, he was almost told that these same gifts were little more than the idle imagining of superstitious and ignorant men. "then canst thou tell me nothing?" he asked. "i can tell thee much," was the steady answer, "albeit not all that thou wouldst know; that will still be thine to track out with patience and care. but these lines may help; they may contain a clue. i wonder how and where esther learned them! but come within the cave. the evening air grows chill, and i and thou have both walked far, and stand in need of refreshment. all is ready for us within. come; i will lead the way." joanna stepped on before, and cuthbert followed. he had thought the cave a small and shallow place before, but now he discovered that this shallow cavity in the rock was but the antechamber, as it were, to a larger cavern, where twenty men might sit or lie at ease; and the entrance to this larger place was through a passage so narrow and low that none who did not know the secret would think it possible to traverse it. cuthbert wondered if he were letting himself be taken in a trap as he followed the gipsy through this narrow way; but he trusted joanna with the confidence of instinct which is seldom deceived, and presently felt that they had emerged into some larger and wider place. in a few moments the gipsy had produced a light, and the proportions of the larger cavern became visible. it was a vaulted place that had been hollowed out of the ruddy sandstone either by some freak of nature or by the device of men, and had plainly been adapted by the wandering gipsy tribes as a place of refuge and resort. there were several rude pieces of furniture about--a few pallet beds, some benches, and a table. on this table was now spread the wherewithal for a modest repast--some cold venison, some wheaten bread, a piece of cheese, and a flagon of wine. cuthbert, who had fared but scantily all that day, was ready enough to obey the gipsy's hospitable invitation, and seated himself at the board. she helped him liberally to all that was there, but appeared to want nothing herself; and whilst cuthbert satisfied his hunger she commenced the tale, part of which in its bare outline was already known to him. "thou knowest the story of the witch burned on the village common, nigh to trevlyn chase, by the order of the knight then ruling in that house? dost know too that that woman was my grandam, the mother of miriam and of esther?" "i knew that not," answered cuthbert. "but so it was," pursued joanna, her big dark eyes fixed upon the flickering flame of the lamp she had kindled. "i never saw my grandam myself; she had met her doom before i saw the light. yet i have heard the tale so ofttimes told that methinks i see myself the threatening crowd hooting the old woman to her fiery death, the stern knight and his servants watching that the cruel law was carried out, and the gipsy tribe hanging on the outskirts of the wood, yet not daring to adventure themselves into the midst of the infuriated villagers, watching all, and treasuring up the curses and maledictions poured upon the proud head of sir richard as the old woman went to her death." "a cruel death, in all truth," said cuthbert. "yet why hold sir richard in fault? he was not the maker of that law; he was but the instrument used for its enforcement, the magistrate bound to see the will of the sovereign performed. most like he could not help himself, were his heart never so pitiful. i trow the trevlyns have always done their duty; yet i misdoubt me if by nature they have been sterner or more cruel than other men." a faint smile flickered round the lips of the gipsy. she went on with her story without heeding this plea. "they had made shift to see her once before her death--my mother, my father, and esther with them. upon those three she had laid a solemn charge--a charge to be handed down to their children, and passed throughout all the tribe--a charge of deadly hatred to all that bore the name of trevlyn--a charge to deal them one day some terrible blow in vengeance for her death, a vengeance that should be felt to the third and fourth generation." "i have heard somewhat of that," said cuthbert. "ay, the old woman raved out her curses in the hearing of all as she was fastened to the stake and the flames leaped about her. all heard and many treasured up those words, and hence the tradition always in men's mouths that the treasure of trevlyn was filched by the gipsy folks in fulfilment of that curse. but now another word. my grandam laid another charge upon the tribe and all who claimed kindred with her; and that charge was that all should give loving and watchful care and tender service to the house of wyvern; that all bearing that name should be the especial care of the gipsies--they and their children after them, whether bearing the old name or not. the wyverns had been true friends to the gipsy folk, had protected them in many an hour of peril, had spoken them gently and kindly when all men else spoke ill of them, had given them food and shelter and a place to live in; and to my grandam had given a home and sanctuary one bitter winter's night, when, pursued by foes who strove then to get her into their hands and do her to death, she flung herself upon their charity, and received a welcome and a home in her hour of peril and sore need. it was beneath the roof of the wyverns that esther first saw the light; and in gratitude for their many acts of charity and kindness my grandam, ere she died, laid instructions on all who owned her sway that the wyverns and all descended from them should be sacred to the gipsies--watched over and guarded from all ill." "ah!" said cuthbert, drawing a long breath; "and shortly after that a wyvern wedded with this same sir richard." "ay, and that but just one short month before his house was to have been burned about his head, and he himself slain had he come forth alive. all the plans were laid, and it was to be done so soon as he should return to the chase after long absence. long robin had planned it all, and he had a head as clever and a will as firm as any man that ever lived. he had thought of all--he had everything in order; and then came the news that the knight had wed with isabel wyvern, the tenderest, the sweetest, the gentlest maiden that ever drew breath; and when they knew that, even long robin knew that no hand could thenceforward be raised against the knight." "long robin--who is he?" questioned cuthbert eagerly. "he is miriam's husband--my father," answered joanna, a strange shadow passing across her face. "and does he yet live?" the gipsy paused and hesitated. "ask any other member of the tribe, and they will tell thee that he does; but for me, i do not know, i cannot tell." cuthbert looked at her in amaze. "not know, and he thy father!" a curious smile crossed her face. "we think little of such ties amongst the gipsy folk. the tie betwixt us all is stronger than the simple one of blood. we are all of one race--of one stock; that is enough for us. the lesser is swallowed up of the greater." "but thy mother lives; she must know?" joanna's dark eyes glowed strangely. "ay, she verily must know; but will she tell what she knows? if it be as i suspect, she must be in the plot." "what plot?" asked cuthbert, beginning to feel bewildered with all this intricacy of mystery. "thou hadst better hear my story to the end," answered joanna with a slight smile; "then thou wilt better comprehend. listen to me, and ask thy questions when i have done." "speak on, then," said cuthbert, glad enough to hold his peace; "i will give good heed to all thou sayest." and joanna continued her tale. "sir richard, wedded to isabel wyvern, might no longer be the mark for the gipsy's curse. esther was then queen of the tribe, and with her, love for the wyverns far outweighed hatred towards the trevlyns. she gave it out that no hair of his head should be hurt; the vengeance must wait. if it were to be carried out, it must be upon another generation. so said the queen, and none dared openly lift the voice against her; but there were angry mutterings and murmurings in the tribe, and none were more wroth at this decree than miriam and long robin." "her sister and that sister's husband." "ay. long robin was the head of the tribe, and loved not to yield to the sway of a woman; but amongst us there has always been a queen, and he was powerless to hinder the rest from owning esther's rule. but he and miriam withdrew in wrathful indignation for a time from the rest of the tribe, and brooded over schemes of vengeance, and delighted themselves in every misfortune that befell the house of trevlyn. it was whispered by many that these two had a hand in the death of more than one fair child. if their beasts sickened, or any mischance happened, men laid it to the door of miriam and long robin. but for mine own part, i trow that they had little to do with any of these matters. trouble is the lot of many born into this world. the trevlyns had no more than their fair share of troubles that i can see. one fine stalwart son grew up to manhood, and in time he too wedded into the house of wyvern--married thy grandam the fair mistress gertrude, whose eyes thou hast, albeit in many points a trevlyn." "and what said miriam then?" "she liked it not well. sullen, brooding hatred had gained possession of her and of long robin. as esther and some of the tribe had learned to forgive trevlyn for the sake of wyvern, those twain and a few others had come to hate wyvern for their alliance with trevlyn. "all this i have been told by esther. i was not born till after the treasure had been stolen--born when my mother had long ceased to look for offspring, and had no love for the infant thrust upon her care. i was taken from my infancy by esther, who trained me up, with the consent of all the tribe, to take her place as their queen when i should have grown to womanhood. esther loved not the roving life of the forest; she had other wishes for herself. she practised divination and astrology and many dark arts, and wished a settled place of abode for herself when she could leave the tribe. she brought me up and taught me all i knew; and she has told me all she knows about that strange night on which the treasure of trevlyn was taken--and lost!" "lost--lost by the trevlyns truly; but surely thou dost not mean that they who stole it lost it likewise!" joanna's dark eyes were fixed. she seemed to be looking backwards to a far-distant time. her voice was low and monotonous as she proceeded with her tale. "the years had flown by since miriam and long robin had divided themselves from the tribe; and they had long since returned, though still keeping aloof in part from the rest--still forming, as it were, a separate party of their own. long robin had dealings with the robbers of the king's highway; he often accompanied them on their raids, he and some of the men with him. the tribe began to have regular dealings with the freebooters, as thou hast seen. they come to us for shelter and for food. they divide their spoil with us from time to time. since the hand of all men has been against us, our hands have been raised freely against the world. our younger men all go out to join the highwaymen. we are friends and brothers, and the wronged and needy resort to us, and are made welcome." joanna threw back her proud head as though rejoicing in this lawless freedom; and then giving herself a little moment for recollection, she returned to the main course of her narrative. "it was easy for us gipsies, roving hither and thither and picking up the news from travellers on the road, to know all that was going on about us and in the world beyond. we had scouts all over the forest. we knew everything that passed; and when the treasure was borne in the dead of night from trevlyn chase, and hidden beneath the giant oak in the forest, we knew where and wherefore it was so hidden, and the flame of vengeance long deferred leaped into miriam's eyes. "'this is our hour!' she cried; 'this the day for which we have had long patience! thus can we smite the false trevlyns, yet do them no bodily hurt; thus can we smite them, and lay no hand upon the house of wyvern. it is the trevlyns that love the red gold; the grasping, covetous trevlyns who will feel most keenly this blow! upon the gentler spirits of the ladies the loss of wealth will fall less keenly. the proud men will feel it. they will gnash their teeth in impotent fury. our vow of vengeance will be accomplished. we shall smite the foe by taking away from him the desire of his heart, and yet lay no hand upon any who is loved by a wyvern.' "and this desire after vengeance took hold of all those gathered in the ruined mill that night, whilst into long robin's eyes there crept a gleam which esther liked not to see; for it spoke of a lust after gold for its own sake which she had striven to quench amongst her children, and she wished not to see them enriched beyond what was needful for their daily wants, knowing that the possession of gold and treasure would bring about the slackening of those bonds which had hitherto bound them together." joanna paused, and looked long into cuthbert's attentive face. he asked no question, and presently she continued: "esther laid this charge upon those who were to go forth after the treasure: they might move it from its present resting place, and hide it somewhere in the forest, as securely as they would; but no man should lay hands upon the spoil. it should be hidden away intact as it was found. it should belong to none, but be guarded by all; so that if the day should come when the trevlyns should have won the love and trust of their whilom foes, we should have the power to make restitution to them in full." cuthbert started, and his eyes gleamed beneath their dark brows; but joanna lifted her hand and continued: "remember i am telling the tale as i learned it from esther. as she spoke those words she saw a dark gleam shine in robin's eyes--saw a glitter of rage and wrath that told her he would defy her if he dared. the rest opposed her not. the wild, free life of the forest had not bred in them any covetous lust after gold. so long as the day brought food and raiment sufficient for their needs they asked no more. men called them robbers, murderers, freebooters; but though they might deserve these names, there was yet much good in them. they robbed the rich alone; to the poor they showed themselves kindly and generous. they were eager to find and secrete this treasure, but agreed by acclamation that it should not be touched. only robin answered not, but looked askance with evil eye; and him alone of the eight men intrusted with the task did she distrust." "then why was he sent?" "verily because he was too powerful to be refused. it would have made a split in the camp, and the end of that might no man see. she was forced to send him in charge of the expedition; and he alone of the eight that went forth ever returned to the mill." "what!" cried cuthbert, "did some mischance befall them?" "that is a thing that no man knows," answered joanna darkly. "it is as i have said: long robin, and he alone, ever came back to the mill. he was five days gone, and men said he looked ten years older in those days. he told a strange tale. he said that the treasure had been found and secreted, but that the sight of the gold had acted like strong drink upon his seven comrades: that they had vowed to carry it away and convert it into money, that they might be rich for the rest of their days; and that when he had opposed them, bidding them remember the words of the queen, they had set upon him, had bound him hand and foot, and had left him to perish in a cave, whence he had only been released by the charity of a passer by, when he was well-nigh starved with hunger and cold. he said that he had gone at once to the place where the treasure had been hid, and had found all of it gone. the seven covetous men had plainly carried it off, and he prophesied that they would never be seen again." "and they never were?" "never!" answered joanna, in that same dark way; "for they were all dead men!" "dead! how came they so?" "listen, and i will tell thee. i cannot prove my words. the fate of the seven lies wrapped in mystery; but esther vows that they were all slain in the heart of the forest by long robin. she is as certain of it as though she saw the deed. she knows that as the men were carrying their last loads to the hiding place, wherever that might be, long robin lay in wait and slew them one by one, taking them unawares and plunging his knife into the neck of each, so that they fell with never a cry. she knows it from strange words uttered by him in sleep; knows it from the finding in the forest not many years since of a number of human bones and seven skulls, all lying near together in one place. some woodmen found the ghastly remains; and from that day forward none has cared to pass that way. it was whispered that it was the work of fairies or gnomes, and the dell is shunned by all who have ever heard the tale." "as the lines say!" cried cuthbert, in great excitement. "thinkest thou that it is in that dell that the treasure lies hid?" "esther thinks so, but she knows not; and i have hunted and hunted in vain for traces of digging and signs of disturbance in the ground, but i have sought in vain. long robin keeps his secret well. if he knows the place, no living soul shares his knowledge. it may be that long since all has been removed. it may be he has vast wealth stored up in some other country, awaiting the moment when he shall go forth to claim it." a puzzled look crossed cuthbert's face. he put his hand to his head. "thou speakest of robin as though he were yet alive, and yet thou hast said thou thinkest him dead. and there is miriam--surely she knows all. i am yet more than half in the dark." "none may wholly know what all this means," answered joanna; "but upon me has esther laid the charge to strive that restitution be done, since now the house of trevlyn has become the friend and champion of the poor and oppressed, and the present knight is a very proper gentleman, well worthy of being the son and the grandson of the house of wyvern. this charge she laid upon me five long years agone, when she bid the tribe own me their queen, for that her age and infirmities hindered her from acting longer as such. ever since then i have been pondering and wondering how this thing may be done; but i have had to hold my peace, for if but a whisper got abroad and so came to miriam's ears, i trow that the treasure, if still it lies hidden in the forest, would forthwith be spirited away once more." "then miriam knows the hiding place?" "i say not that, i think not that. i have watched, and used every art to discover all i may; and i well believe that miriam herself knows not the spot, but that she knows it lies yet in the forest, and that when the hour is come she and robin together will bear it away, and keep it for ever from the house of trevlyn." "but sure if they are ever to enjoy their ill-gotten gains it should be soon," said cuthbert. "miriam is old, and long robin can scarce be younger--" "hold! i have not done. long robin, her husband, was older by far than she. if the old man who goes by that name be indeed he, he must be nigh upon fourscore and ten. but i have long doubted what no man else doubts. i believe not that yon gray-beard is robin; i believe that it is another who masquerades in old man's garb, but has the strength and hardihood of youth beneath that garb and that air of age." "marry! yet how can that be?" "it might not be so hard as thou deemest. in our tribe our men resemble each other closely, and have the same tricks of voice and speech. nay, it was whispered that many of the youths were in very truth sons to robin; and one of these so far favoured him that they were ever together, and he was treated in all ways like a son. miriam loved him as though he had been her own. where long robin went there went this other robin, too. he was as the shadow of the other. and a day came when they went forth together to roam in foreign lands, and miriam with them. they were gone for full three years. we gave up the hope of seeing them more. but suddenly they came amongst us again--two of them, not three. they said the younger robin had died of the plague in foreign lands, and all men gave heed to the tale. but from the first i noted that long robin's step was firmer than when he went forth, that there was more power in his voice, more strength in his arm. true, he goes about with bowed back; but i have seen him lift himself up when he thought there was none to see him, and stretch his long arms with a strength and ease that are seldom seen in the very aged. he can accomplish long rides and rambles, strange in one so old; and our people begin to regard him with awe, as a man whom death has passed by. but i verily believe that it was old robin who passed away, and that this man is none other but young robin; and that in him and him alone is reposed the secret of the lost treasure, that he may one day have it for his own." "and why to him?" questioned cuthbert, drawing his brows together in the effort to understand; "why to him rather than to miriam or any other of the tribe?" "verily because he was the one being in the world beloved of long robin. miriam he trusted not, for that she was a woman, and he held that no woman, however faithful, might be trusted with a secret. i have heard him say so a hundred times, and have seen her flinch beneath the words, whilst her eyes flashed fire. methinks that long robin loved gold with the miser's greed--loved to hoard and not to spend--loved to feel it in his power, but desired not to touch it. miriam was content so long as vengeance on the trevlyns had been taken. she wanted not the gold herself so long as it was hidden from them. but the secret was one that must not die, and to young robin it has been intrusted. and if i mistake me not, he has other notions regarding it, and will not let it lie in its hiding place for ever. he is sharp and shrewd as lucifer. he knows by some instinct that i suspect and that i watch him, and never has he betrayed aught to me. but sure am i that the secret rests with him; and if thou wouldst find it out, it is long robin's steps that thou must dog and watch." "i will watch him till i have tracked him to his lair!" cried cuthbert, springing to his feet in great excitement. "i will never rest, day nor night, until the golden secret is mine!" chapter : long robin. the gipsy had left him, gliding away in the moonlight like a veritable shadow; and cuthbert, left alone in the dim cave, buried his face in his hands and sank into a deep reverie. this, then, was the meaning of it all: the long-deferred vengeance of the gipsy tribe; the avaricious greed of one amongst their number, who had committed dastardly crimes so as to keep the secret hiding place in his own power alone; the secret passed on (as it seemed) to one who feigned to be what he was not, and was cunningly awaiting time and opportunity to remove the gold, and amass to himself this vast hoard; none beside himself of all the tribe heeding or caring for it, all holding to the story told long ago of the seven men who had disappeared bearing away to foreign lands the stolen treasure. a generation had well-nigh passed since that treasure had been filched from the grasp of the trevlyns. the stalwart fellows who had been bred up amongst the gipsies, or had joined the bands of freebooters with whom they were so closely connected, knew little of and cared nothing for the tradition of the hidden hoard. they found gold enough in the pockets of the travellers they waylaid to supply their daily needs; the free life of the forest was dear to them, and left them no lingering longings after wealth that might prove a burden instead of a joy to its possessor. out of those who had been living when the treasure was stolen and lost, only miriam and long robin (if indeed it were he) and esther remained alive. esther had retired to london, and was lost to her people. miriam had done everything to encourage the belief that the treasure had been made away with by the seven helpers who had gone forth, but had never returned to tell the tale. esther, who had thought very differently, had confined her suspicious for a time to her own bosom, and later on had spoken of them only to joanna. upon her had she laid the charge to strive to make restitution, now that vengeance had been inflicted and the curse of the old witch fulfilled. to joanna it belonged to restore prosperity to the house of wyvern through the daughters' sons, and it was for her to strive to learn where the treasure lay, and give notice of the spot to the trevlyns. the queen had done all that she could. she had watched with close attention the pair with whom esther believed the secret to lie. miriam, her mother, knew not the spot, of that she was convinced; but she did know that the treasure had been hidden somewhere in the forest by her husband, and that the exact place was known to the white-bearded man whom she and others called long robin. about that weird old man, said to be well-nigh a hundred years old, a flavour of romance existed. men looked upon him as bearing a charmed existence. he went his lonely way unheeded by all. he was said to have dealings with the fairies and the pixies of the forest. all regarded him with a species of awe. he had drawn, as it were, a charmed circle about himself and his ways. none desired to interfere with him; none questioned his coming or going. all brought to him a share of the spoil taken on the roads as a matter of right and due, but none looked to receive aught in return from him. he and miriam, from their great age, lived as it were apart. they took the place of patriarchal heads of the tribe, and were treated with reverence and filial respect by all. the question cuthbert had pressed home on joanna was why, this being so, the treasure had not been moved away before this, so that miriam should end her days in peace and luxury, instead of growing old in the wilds of the forest. joanna's reply had been that she did not think miriam had ever really wished to leave the free forest life; that with her, vengeance upon the trevlyns had been the leading impulse of her life; and that she had no covetous desires herself after the gold. old robin had loved it with the miser's love; but doubtless the younger robin (if indeed the long-bearded man were he) was waiting till such time as miriam should be dead, and he alone in full possession of the golden secret. then he would without doubt bear it away and live like a prince the rest of his days; but for the present he made no move, and joanna was very certain that he suspected her of watching him, as indeed she did, and he had shown himself as cunning as any fox in baffling her when she had sought to discover any of his haunts. her watching had been in vain, because she was suspected of a too great knowledge, and was looked upon as dangerous. but where she failed cuthbert might succeed, for he was absolutely unknown to robin, and if the two were to meet face to face in the forest, it would be impossible that the wily old man (if old he were) should suspect him of any ulterior purpose. robin had not been at the mill the night that cuthbert had been brought there by tyrrel and his companions. joanna had described him so graphically that the lad was certain of knowing him were he to come across him in the forest. she had also indicated to him the region in which she suspected him most generally to lurk when he spent days and sometimes weeks alone in the forest. she believed that during the summer months, when the forest became the resort of many wandering bands of gipsies or of robbers and outlaws, he kept a pretty close and constant watch upon the spot where his treasure lay hid. the dell, at the head of which the bones of the seven murdered men had been found, was certainly a favourite spot of his; and she believed it was owing to some trickery of his that men still declared it haunted by evil or troubled spirits. travellers passing that way had been scared almost out of their senses by the sight of a ghostly white figure gliding about, or by the sound of hollow moans and the rattling of chains. none but the ignorant stranger ever ventured within half-a-mile of that ill-omened spot. cuthbert, as he sat thinking over the gipsy's words and charge, saw clearly that there was ample room for suspicion that here the treasure might lie, since robin took such pains to scare away all men from the spot. the light burned dim; but cuthbert still sat on beside the rude table where he had supped. before him lay the scrap of parchment with the doggerel lines of the wise woman inscribed upon them. it had been something of a shock to his faith to find that the wise woman knew all his story beforehand, and had had no need to dive into the spirit world to ask the nature of his errand. he felt slightly aggrieved, as though he had been tricked and imposed upon. he was very nearly burning the parchment in despite; but joanna had bidden him keep it, and had added, with a slight significant smile: "keep it, boy; and think not too hardly of those who juggle with men's fears and fancies, to obtain the greater sway upon them. it is not always used amiss. as for those lines, there may be more in them yet than thou or i can see at this moment. for there may be words in them that have been spoken by long robin in his dreams. esther has told me such before now. she knew not their meaning, nor do i; but that they have a meaning she is very sure. 'three times three'--that was what he was muttering ever. it was the burden of his thought, even as she made it the burden of her song. keep the lines; they may serve thy turn yet. esther is a wise woman. she did not give thee that paper for naught." the day had well-nigh dawned before cuthbert flung himself upon one of the pallet beds in the cave, and fell asleep from sheer weariness of mind and body; but he was young, and sleep came quickly and held him in a fast embrace. the silence and darkness of this underground place were favourable to a long spell of repose. the youth did not open his eyes till the sun had passed its meridian many hours, though no ray of daylight glinted into that dim abode. it might have been the middle of the night for all he knew when he opened his eyes once again; and when he did so he lay perfectly still, for he was convinced that he was yet in the midst of some strange dream. he was in the cave of red sandstone where he had fallen asleep, lying in the darkest corner of all upon a straw pallet, with his sad-coloured cloak over him; but the cave itself was lighter than it had been when he had fallen asleep. two torches flamed upon the table, and by the bright flame they cast upon the objects near to them, cuthbert saw a strange and weird-looking figure. this figure was that of a man, who was seated at table, and had evidently been partaking of some refreshment. he was dressed in outlandish garb, and in a fashion which was only affected now by very old men, who had worn such garments all their lives, and were averse to change. cuthbert had occasionally seen such a dress amongst the aged folks about his home, but this was more fanciful than any assumed by a mere rustic, and gave to the tall thin figure a certain air of distinction. a soft felt hat with a high crown lay upon the table; and the light shone full upon a face that was seamed by tiny wrinkles, and upon a thick head of hair that was either flaxen or white, cuthbert could scarcely say which. the face was almost entirely hidden by a tangled growth of beard as white as snow, which beard descended almost to the man's waist, and was of wonderful fineness and bushiness. at the first glance the impression produced by this strange apparition was that he was a man immensely old; but a closer examination might well raise doubts. the air and bearing of the man were strangely alert for an octogenarian, and the way in which he tackled the hard bread and cheese which still stood before him was scarcely like the fashion in which the aged generally eat. cuthbert held his breath as he gazed. was this a dream--the outcome of his talk with the gipsy? no, he was awake; he became more and more sure of it. but lying perfectly still, and not betraying his presence by so much as a deeply-drawn breath, he gazed and gazed as if fascinated upon the face of this strange being, and in his heart he said: "long robin himself!" he was certain of it; there could be no manner of mistake. dress, air, everything corresponded with joanna's description. for a moment a sick fear crossed his mind lest he should have left upon the table the fragment of parchment with the mystic words upon it, for he had had no idea that the cave would be invaded that night. but no; the habit of caution had been strong within him, and he had put the paper away before retiring to his corner. plainly the man before him had no suspicion that any living soul was near. the deep shadows of the cave hid cuthbert completely from view, and the secret entrance to the inner cave was doubtless known to very few. none would suspect the presence of a hidden stranger there. as cuthbert watched as if fascinated, robin ceased eating, and pushed back his stool, rising to his feet quickly, and showing the grand proportions of his tall figure, which certainly deserved the epithet of "long." he stretched his arms, and swung them backwards and forwards with a gesture strangely unlike that of age; and throwing back his broad shoulders, he began pacing to and fro in the cave with a firm, elastic tread seldom seen after the meridian of life is passed. "joanna is right," thought cuthbert, crouching closer against the wall and into the shadows; for he had no wish to be discovered by this giant, who would probably have scant mercy upon an observer who might have taken his measure and discovered his secret now that he was off his guard. "in all truth this man is not old; he can scarce be above forty years. it is by some clever artifice that he whitens his beard to that snow-like hue. he himself is young and strong. he shows it in every movement." he certainly did, pacing to and fro with rapid strides; and presently he began to mutter words and phrases to himself, cuthbert listening with all his ears. "a curse upon the women!" he said more than once; "they are the very plague of my life! miriam's besotted love, joanna's suspicions and her accursed watch upon me, both hinder my plans. if the twain were in league together, it could not be worse. miriam implores me with tears and lamentations to wait till she be laid in the tomb for the fulfilment of my cherished dream. and if i thwart her too far, there is no telling what she may not say or do. love and hate in jealous natures such as hers are terribly near akin, and the love may change to burning hatred if once i provoke her too far. she knows not all, but she knows too much. she could spoil my hand full well if she did but tell all she knows. and that jade joanna, how i hate her! she has been well drilled by that witch esther, who ought long ere this to have been hanged or burned. i would i could set the king's officers on her now, but if i did i should have the whole tribe at my throat like bloodhounds, and not even my great age would serve to save me from their fury. "ha, ha! ha, ha!" and a sardonic laugh rang through the cave. "would that i could wed joanna to tyrrel, who would give his soul to call her his. once the wife of a member of the band, and some of her power would go. i misdoubt me if any would long call her queen; and when she had babes to fill her mind and her thoughts, she would soon cease to watch me with those suspicions eyes of hers, and to make me fear continually for my secret. would that they were both dead! would that i could kill them even as he killed the other seven who had a share in the golden secret! i would strangle them with my own hands if i did but dare. once those two removed from my path and my way would be plain. i could remove it all, bit by bit and piece by piece, away from this accursed forest, of which i am sick to the death. then in some far-off foreign land of perpetual sunshine, i could reign a prince and a king, and life would be one long dream of ease and delight; no more toil, no more privation, no more scorching summer heat or biting winter cold. i have seen what the life of the east is like--the kneeling slaves, the harem of beauteous dark-eyed women, the dream-like indolence and ease. that is the life for me. that is whither i and my treasure will go. a plague upon old miriam, that she clings to these cold forests and the sordid life we live here! but for her insane jealousy and love i would defy joanna and go. but the pair of them are too much for me. i must find a way of ridding myself of one or both. i will not be bound like this for ever!" the man raised his right hand and shook it with a vehement, threatening gesture; and then relapsing into sudden moody silence, continued his pacing to and fro, wrapped in gloomy thought. cuthbert held his breath as this monologue proceeded, and a sense of unlooked-for triumph made his heart swell within him. here was proof positive that the treasure lay still in the forest; that it had not been taken thence and dissipated; that it still remained to be found by his unremitting endeavours. the youth felt almost as though the victory were already his. what might not a few weeks of patient perseverance bring? he would dog robin's' steps like a bloodhound. he had not been brought up to hardship and forest life for nothing. to sleep in the open, to live scantily on such fare as might be picked up at the huts of the woodmen or in the camps of the gipsies, was nothing to him. he would live on roots and wild fruits sooner than abandon his quest. nothing should come between him and his overmastering resolve to win back for the house of trevlyn the long-lost treasure. but as he mused and robin impatiently paced the floor of the cavern, the torches burned slowly down, till one flickered and went out and the other showed signs of speedy extinction. robin, with a start and an oath, stopped in his walk and muttered that he must be gone. he placed upon his head the slouched hat, that at once concealed his features, and gave a different expression to his face. as he donned his hat and took up a heavy oaken staff that lay upon the table, his whole aspect changed. he seemed to don likewise a new action, a new outward appearance altogether. his straight back bent and assumed a stoop such as one sees in men who have long grown old. there came a feebleness into his gait, a slight uncertainty into his movements. and all this was done so naturally, so cleverly, that cuthbert, as he gazed fascinated at the figure before him, could scarcely believe that his eyes had not played him some strange trick--could scarcely credit that this could be the same being as the upright, stalwart man, whose movements he had been watching during the past half hour. but all this only went to show how shrewd joanna's surmise had been, and every corroborating fact increased cuthbert's confidence in all that she had told him. leaving the last torch to die into obscurity by itself, long robin made for the opening in the wall which led to the outer cave, and cuthbert rose swiftly and silently and crept after him, gaining the opening in time to see the tall figure slouching across the moorland track in the direction of the westering sun. afraid of following too closely, and so of being seen, cuthbert retreated once more into the cave, and had the forethought to fill his wallet with the remains of the meal of which both he and long robin had partaken. he did not know exactly what was his best course to pursue, but it seemed a pity to let long robin out of his sight without tracking him to some one of his lairs or hiding places. cuthbert now knew that he had slept during the greater part of the day, and taking a draught of mead, and rapidly munching some bread and cheese, he fortified himself for his evening stroll, and then, before the torch actually expired, found his way to the opening again, and so out upon the moor. far away, but still distinctly visible against the bright sky, was the tall figure of the gipsy. cuthbert was not afraid of being seen at so great a distance, but he still took the precaution of keeping all the tallest bushes and clumps of flowering gorse between him and the quarry he was following; and when at length the trees of the wooded tracts rose up before his eyes, he quickened his pace slightly, and gained decidedly upon robin before he glided into the dark pine forest. before doing this, the gipsy turned back and looked carefully round; but cuthbert was already crouching behind a bush, and escaped observation. as soon as robin had fairly disappeared, the youth rose and ran quickly after him, and soon caught glimpses of the tall, stooping figure wending its way amongst the ruddy pine stems, now dyed golden and crimson in the glow of the bright sunset. on and on he went in the fading light, and on and on went cuthbert in steady pursuit. this part of the forest was strange to the youth, but it was familiar enough to the gipsy. from the mechanical way in which he chose his track, and the direct certainty with which he walked, it was plain that he knew every inch of the road, and could have found the path by night as well as by day. "sure it must lead to the haunted dell," thought cuthbert, as the gloom deepened around him and the wood grew denser and denser. the pines began to be mingled with other trees. the undergrowth was thicker and more tangled. it was not always easy for cuthbert to force his way along. he paused sometimes in fear lest his steps and the cracking of the boughs should be heard by the man in advance of him. on and on they went, and now the track became more distinct, and it led downwards. an owl in a tree overhead hooted as cuthbert passed by, and something of a cold shiver ran through the young man's frame; he stumbled over the outspread root of a gnarled old oak, and fell, making more noise than he liked. the owl flew away, hooting ominously as it seemed to his strained nerves, and the hooting was answered as from the very heart of the dell, if dell it was, mingled with many other strange and fierce sounds. cuthbert rose to his feet and crept forward with a beating heart, and as he did so he heard a shout of demoniacal laughter which chilled the very blood in his veins, and seemed to raise the hair upon his head, so unearthly was the sound. but making the sign of the cross upon his brow, and striving to keep his presence of mind and his courage unimpaired by ghostly terrors, cuthbert still pursued his way downwards into this dim, strange place. he felt more and more certain that this was the pixies' dell of which the verses spoke--the dell wherein some deed of darkness had been committed that caused it to be shunned of all; and it needed all his native stoutness of heart to enable him to conquer his fears and pursue his way, as he reflected on the foul murders that had been committed not far off, and wondered if indeed the restless souls of those to whom christian burial had been denied hovered by night about the ill-omened spot, to fright away all travellers who strove to pass that way. for a while the fearful sounds of hooting and laughter continued, under cover of which he crept nearer and nearer to the centre of the dell. presently they ceased, and a death-like silence ensued. cuthbert dared not move, and scarcely dared to breathe. this was the most trying experience he had yet had. he had felt far less fear on the darkly-flowing river and in that strange underground cellar, against both of which the wise woman had warned him. but after a long pause of silence he heard another and a different laugh--a laugh in which he recognized the sardonic intonation he had recently heard from the lips of long robin. "i trow that has been enow," spoke a voice nigh at hand, though the speaker was invisible owing to the thick growth of bushes. "if that sound were caused by aught but a rabbit or wildcat, i wager the hardy traveller has taken to his heels and fled. but i misdoubt me that it was anything human. there be sounds and to spare in the forest at night. it is long since i have been troubled by visitors to this lone spot. the pixies and i have the dell to ourselves. ha, ha!" "robin's voice again!" whispered cuthbert to himself, creeping forward with the cautious, snake-like movement that he had learned when snaring birds or rabbits to furnish the scanty larder at the gate house. he advanced by slow degrees, and soon gained what he desired--a view of his quarry and of the heart of the dell. in the fading light he could see both plainly. long robin was seated upon a low stone wall overgrown with moss, that seemed to be built around a well; for it was of circular construction, and to the listener was borne the faint sound of running water, though the sound seemed to come from the very heart of the earth. round this well was a space of smooth greensward--sward that appeared to have been untouched for centuries. all around, the sides of the dell rose up, covered with a thick growth of wood and copse. it was a lovely spot in all truth, but lonely to the verge of desolation. cuthbert dimly remembered having heard fragments of legends respecting a pixies' dell in the heart of the forest--a dell avoided by all, for that no man who ventured in came forth alive. most likely this was the place; most likely the legend of fear surrounding it was due to some exaggerated version of old robin's ghastly crime in bygone years. cuthbert gazed and gazed with a sense of weird fascination. he fully believed that in some spot not many yards from where he stood lay hidden the lost treasure of trevlyn, and that the secret of that resting place remained known to one man only in the whole world; and that was the man before him! a wild impulse seized cuthbert to spring upon that bowed figure, and, holding a knife to the man's throat, to demand a full revelation of that secret as the price of life. perhaps had he not seen but an hour before how upright, powerful, and stalwart that bending figure could be, he would have done it then and there. but with that memory clear in his mind, together with his knowledge of the perfectly unscrupulous character of the gipsy, he felt that such a step would be the sheerest madness; and after gazing his fill at the motionless figure, he softly crept away once more. he lay hidden in the bushes till he heard long robin leave the dell and go crashing through the underwood with heavy steps, cursing as he went the two women who stood between him and his desire. it was plain from his muttered words that he was going back to the camp now. plainly he had paid his visit to the hoard and found all safe and undisturbed. cuthbert was more and more convinced that the treasure lay here, as esther had always believed; and it would be strange indeed, being so near, if he could not find it in time. but he would not search tonight; he had the whole summer before him. plainly long robin was not going to take any immediate step for the removal of the treasure; and during the last hours a great longing had come upon cuthbert to see petronella again. he was within ten miles of his old home now, and the thoughts of his sister had been mingling with these other thoughts of the lost treasure. surely he could find his way to the gate house from this lonely dell, and once there, by making a signal at his sister's window, he could advise her of his presence and gain a stolen interview. so taking his bearings from the moon, he struck boldly across the lonely waste of forest that lay between him and his former home, and soon found himself tramping over the ling and moss of the high ridge of common land with which the woody tracts of the forest were frequently interspersed. as he thus tramped the words of the verses began singing in his head: "three times three--o'er ling and moss." what was that three times three? the question mingled with his dreams of his sister, and suddenly the thought came to him, could the three times three be miles--miles from the giant oak from beneath which the treasure had been taken? three times three--it might well be so. the distance was surely about nine miles. the spot where the trevlyns had hid their treasure lay directly in cuthbert's way as he marched steadily towards the gate house. he saw the giant oak rise up before him in the moonlight, and he hastened to the spot and stood beneath the overhanging branches. standing beneath it with the oak behind him, he looked straight along the way he had come across the bog and moss. surely there were nine miles, and little more or less, between the one spot and the other. and again, with the oak behind there was a beech at his right hand, and straight before him the road to the pixies' dell. well, it might not be much, yet it seemed like a link in the chain. esther had perchance heard robin mutter these numbers in his troubled sleep. surely he had been thinking or dreaming of that long nine miles' tramp, and the words he had used to direct the men whom afterwards he had foully and treacherously murdered! "i am on the track! i am on the track!" cried cuthbert exultantly, as he pursued his way. "the secret lies hid in the pixies' dell. surely if i have learned as much as that, i cannot be long in finding out the whole!" and with thoughts of his sister, of cherry, of kate, warm in his heart, cuthbert sped gaily along in the direction of his old home. midnight struck from the clock in the turret of trevlyn chase as the youth approached the gray walls of the old gate house. how grim and hoary it looked in the white moonlight! something of a faint shiver of repulsion ran through cuthbert's frame as he looked upon the familiar outline of the building. was it possible that all but the few last months of his life had been spent there? it seemed to him that the old life was already like a dim and distant dream, and that the fuller life he had enjoyed since leaving was the only one that had any reality about it. but he well knew the habits and the sullen ferocity of the grim old man his father, and it was with cautious steps that he approached the walls. no light burned in any window. the inmates of the building were doubtless wrapped in sleep. he well knew his sister's window, and cutting himself a long hazel bough, he gently swept it to and fro across the glass. this had always been a signal between them in their childhood, and many had been their nocturnal rambles taken together when cuthbert had contrived to escape from the house before it was locked up, and had then called petronella and assisted her down by the tangled ivy that clung to the gray old walls. he knew she would recognize in a moment who was outside when she heard the tapping of that hazel wand; and it seemed indeed as if she did, for in a moment the window was opened, and a soft tremulous voice asked eagerly: "cuthbert, can it be thou?" "it is indeed i, sweet sister. canst thou come to me? hast thou lost thy cunning or thy lightness of foot? i am here to help thee." "i will come to thee anon; but the little postern door is seldom locked since thou art gone, and i can get out thus. linger not beside the house, cuthbert; speed to the chantry--i will meet thee there. he might hear or see thee here. do not linger; go. i will be with thee anon; i will not keep thee but a few short minutes. but do not tarry; go!" there was such earnestness in her soft whispers that cuthbert did not attempt to reply save by a brief nod. he slid away in the darkness and took the familiar but now tangled path to the chantry, looking round the old ruin with loving eyes; for it was the one spot connected with his home not fraught with memories of pain and fear. "poor little timid petronella!" he mused. "was i right to leave her thus alone with our harsh father? yet i could do nothing for her; and it seemed as though my presence in the house stirred him up to continual fury. i would i had a home to bring her to. i would i might carry her off with me now. but what could she do in the forest, away from the haunts of men? nay, she must tarry here but a little while. then will i come and claim her. then will she have dowry worthy her name and state. oh that lost treasure, that lost treasure! what happiness will there be in store for very many when that lost treasure is found!" and then he paused and held out his arms, for light steps were speeding towards him through the dewy grass, and petronella, with a little sobbing cry, flung herself upon him, to be enfolded in a strong embrace. chapter : petronella. "cuthbert, is it--can it really be thou?" "petronella--sister! what happiness to see thee once more!" she clung to him almost sobbing in the excitement of pure happiness. he could feel that she trembled in his arms, and he enfolded the slight frame ever closer and closer. "sweetest sister, fear not! dost fear i could not protect thee from harm? believe me, thou hast a wondrous different brother now from the cowed and timorous lad who went forth from these doors but six short months back. fear not, my sister; look up, and let me see thy face. i would learn how it has fared with thee since we parted that night on this very spot, though it now seems so long ago." petronella heaved a long sigh, and her tremblings gradually ceased. it seemed as though the brotherly clasp of those strong arms stilled her fears and brought comfort and soothing. but as cuthbert held her closely to him, it seemed to him almost as though he clasped a phantom form rather than one of solid flesh and blood. there seemed nothing of the girl but skin and bone; and looking anxiously into the small oval face, he noted how wistful and hollow the great dark eyes had grown, and how pinched and worn every feature. had it always been so with her? he scarce knew, for we heed little the aspect of those about us when we are young and inexperienced. petronella had always been somewhat shadowy and wan, had always been slight and slim and small. but was she always as wan and slight as she now seemed? or did he observe it the more from the contrast it presented to cherry's blooming beauty, to which his eyes had grown used? he asked the question anxiously of himself, but could not answer it. then drawing petronella into the full light of the silver moon, he made her sit beside him on a fragment of mouldering wall, and holding her thin hands in a warm clasp, he scanned her face with glances of earnest scrutiny. "my sister, hast thou been ill?" she shook her head with a pathetic little smile. "alas, no! methinks i am a true trevlyn for that. sickness passes me by and seizes upon others who might so much better be spared." "why dost thou say 'alas' to that, sweet sister?" "verily because there be times when i would so gladly lay down my head never to lift it more. for me death would be sweeter than life. the dead rest in god's peaceful keeping--my good aunt at the chase has told me so, and i no longer fear the scorching fires of purgatory. i have a little new testament now of my own, full of sweet promises and words of love and peace. when i read of the pearly gates and the streets of gold, and the city into which nothing unholy may enter, i long sorely to leave behind this world of sin and sorrow and find a refuge there. "but i would know more of thee, cuthbert, and of what thou hast seen and done since thou hast left the gate house. for me i have naught to tell. life here is ever the same. but thou must have done and seen so much. may i not hear thy tale? may i not learn how it has fared with thee?" cuthbert was willing enough to outpour his story to her, sitting beside her in the old chantry, where so many happy hours of their shadowed childhood had been spent. he told of his adventures by the way, of his night with the gipsies, of his timely rescue of cherry and his admittance to his uncle's house. he told of his uncle's wonderful story of the gold that was to be all for his sister; told of the life at the bridge house, and his attachment to his cousin cherry. the only matter he named not was that of his meeting with master robert catesby, and all that had followed in which he was concerned. petronella would only be bewildered by so many strange things. it was enough to tell her of his recent adventures in the forest, and his growing hopes of coming upon traces of the lost treasure. petronella listened to the whole of this tale with parted lips and wide-open eyes, as a child listens to a tale of fairy romance and wonder. she could scarce believe that all these strange things had befallen her own brother; but as she questioned and he answered, she gradually began to understand, to enter into his feelings, and to obtain a clearer comprehension of the situation of affairs. her intercourse with the trevlyns of the chase had done something to widen her knowledge of life, and cuthbert found that her mind had matured and expanded in a fashion he had hardly expected. he wondered where she had picked up some of the bits of experience that fell from her lips from time to time, and he looked somewhat searchingly into her face. "methinks, my sister, that time has not stood still with thee since i went away. thou art wondrous wise for thy years. who has been thy instructor?" even in the moonlight he could see the sudden flush that dyed her cheek and neck at the question. "i have been to the chase as much as our father would permit--indeed, i fear me i have been oftener; but i was very lonely, and they were all so kind. and philip, he has been often here. he has been in very truth a--a--brother to me in thy place. methinks but for him i should almost have died. but, o cuthbert, it is hard, it is hard!" the last words were spoken with such sudden passion and vehemence that the youth started and looked once again at his sister. of old, petronella had always been so gentle, so meek and yielding, that to hear such an outburst from her startled him not a little. "what is hard, sweet sister?" "to be the daughter of--of--such a father as ours," she answered, lowering her voice and speaking with infinite sadness now. "heaven knows i have striven to love him, have striven to obey him, have striven to be all a daughter should!" "ay, verily thou hast!" answered cuthbert warmly. "i have chidden thee many a time before this for the meekness that raised no protest let him be never so harsh. thou hast done more than thy share, sweet petronella. none can blame thee for rebellious thoughts or words. if he will none of our love or service, the fault is his, not ours--thine least of all, for thou wast ever gentle and meek." "i have tried," repeated petronella sadly; "and when thou hadst gone and the tempest had something subsided, i tried as never before to be a loving daughter, and make up to him for the loss of his son. but he would have none of my love. he drove me from his presence with bitter words. i had perforce to seek others, if i were to live at all; and though he hurled taunts and harsh speeches at me oftentimes, he did not forbid me that house, albeit he scarce knew perchance how oft i was there, since he shut himself up more and more, and sometimes saw me not from one week's end to the other." "what a lone life for thee, my sister!" "yes, it was lone, save for the comradeship of our cousins. but that was better, far better, than what followed." cuthbert looked quickly at her, and his eyes darkened. "and what did follow, petronella?" she bent her head a little, that he might not see the expression of her face. her words were falteringly spoken. "it was not many weeks since--it was when the days began to lengthen out, and the forest paths to grow decked with flowers--that some evil thoughts of suspicion came into his head, i know not how, and he dogged my steps as i wandered in the woods; and twice--nay, thrice--he came suddenly upon us as we walked together in the woodland dells." "'we? who was with thee, sister?" "philip," she answered very softly, and there was something in the tender intonation with which she spoke the name that told a tale cuthbert was not slow to read. he had guessed as much before, but this made assurance doubly sure; and with the sympathy of the ardent young lover, he put his hand on petronella's and pressed it tenderly. she understood the meaning of that clasp, and looked gratefully at him, going on with more confidence afterwards. "it was with philip that he found me; and the sight filled him with a sullen fury--the fury that thou knowest, brother, which brooks no opposition, no words. he would not hear philip speak. he struck him on the mouth--a cruel blow that caused the blood to spring forth; and he dragged me away by main force, and locked me up in the pillared chamber, vowing to keep me a prisoner all my life an i would not promise never to speak with philip again." "and thou?" "i told him i would promise naught save to meet him no more in the forest. i was glad to promise that; for i feared our savage father might kill him in a fit of fury were he to find us again together. i should have been terrified to wander forth with him more. i promised that, but i would promise no more." "and did that satisfy him?" asked cuthbert breathlessly. "tell me all, my sister. he did not dare lay hands on thee?" petronella smiled faintly. "methinks he would dare anything he wished; but he let himself be satisfied with that pledge. only he kept me many days in that dim place of terror, and gave me but scant prisoner's fare the while. cuthbert, as thou art free and thou art nigh, wilt thou to trevlyn chase for me ere thou goest back into the forest, and tell philip what has befallen me, and that i may no more hope to meet him in our favourite haunts? tell him all i have told to thee, and bid him keep himself from this house. it is an ill place! an ill place! ah, cuthbert, were i but a man like thee, i would fare forth as thou hast done. i would not stay beneath yon roof to be starved in soul and body and spirit. o father, father!" the cry was one of exceeding bitterness, and yet in it spoke a patience that moved cuthbert strangely. "sister, my sister!" he cried, in accents of suppressed agitation, "i know not how to leave thee here. petronella, why not forth with me to the forest? sure i could protect thee there and give thee a better home beneath the greenwood trees than our father does beneath yon grim walls. and, sister, i could take thee to our uncle, martin holt. sure he would give thee asylum with him, as he gave to me. thou wouldst have cherry for a sister. thou--" but petronella shrank away a little, and looked scared at the thought. hers was one of those timid natures that find it easier to endure even a terrible wrong than to take a bold step to escape from it. the life of the forest might have attracted her, for she loved the freedom of the woodlands, and had no fears of loneliness or privation. but she had heard from cuthbert of the bands of outlaws and gipsies, of long robin and his murderous hatred; and of other perils which she felt she had scarce courage to face. she feared that if she let cuthbert carry her off she would but prove a burden and a care, whilst the thought of london and the strange relations there filled her with distaste and dread. "nay, nay, my brother; i have borne much--i will bear a little more. i love the old gate house as thou hast never loved it; and perchance after this storm there may be a lull of quiet peace. i should but hamper thee, and hold thee back from that great purpose; and--" "but martin holt, he would welcome thee; and once beneath his roof--" "nay, cuthbert, it might well be that our father would guess whither i had fled, and would come and drag me back. i am not of an age to resist him. and i am a helpless woman, not a man. i have thought many times of flight, but i fear me it would but lead to worse." "i know not that," answered cuthbert thoughtfully. "our uncle martin is a good man; and, petronella, remember that whether or no thy brother finds the lost treasure, he holds in his keeping a dowry for thee that will make thee no unworthy mate for philip trevlyn when the day comes for him to claim thee as his bride. nay, hide not thy face, sister." "alas, alas, my brother! that day will never come! my father--" "nay, courage, sweetheart; our father's power lasts not for ever, and we will be happy yet in spite of him. and, sister mine, we must have kinsfolks somewhere of the house of wyvern. our father never speaks to us of any such matters; but hast thou heard aught at the chase?" petronella looked quickly up at him. "ay, i have heard them speak of kinsfolk of that family, albeit i heeded not greatly what they said. are they our kinsfolk likewise?" "ay, verily, inasmuch as our grandam was a wyvern; and there have been wyverns of two generations that have wed with the trevlyns, as thou hast heard in the story of the lost treasure, which i have told to thee. sister, it might be that thou mightest find a refuge with them safer than with mine uncle of the bridge, who might perchance think i asked too much were i to bring my sister to him, albeit he is a kind man and a just; but--" "but i trust i may not have to flee," said petronella, with the same air of shrinking that she had shown before. "i have borne so much; surely i can bear the rest, until thou hast found the treasure, and all is changed for us. when thou art rich and great, and high in favour with all, then perchance thou canst prevail even with our stern father, and win his leave to carry hence thy poor little sister. till then i will strive to remain." cuthbert took her hand and held it between his. "petronella, i like it not--i like not to leave thee here; but it must be as thou desirest. only, remember one thing, my sister. i am nigh at hand. i am in the forest, not many miles away; and if things should become worse with thee, thou canst fly to me thither; thou wilt find me, doubtless, in or about the pixies' dell, of which thou hast heard me speak, for it is there that my closest watch will be held. thinkest thou that thou canst find the place?" "i trow so; thou hast told me how to do so. nine miles across the open forest, starting from the trevlyn oak, with the great beech to the right. if i am forced to fly, i will fly thither by night, and the stars will be my guide. brother, it is good to feel that thou art near." "ay, petronella, i am glad indeed; for i fear me sometimes that our father--" "what, cuthbert?" "that he must surely be going mad. it is hard to believe he could so persecute his children were it not so, and it is not fitting that thou shouldest dwell beneath the roof of a madman." the girl shivered slightly, and her dark eyes dilated. "thinkest thou so, cuthbert? sure i had thought it was his wrath at finding that we loved not the faith in which he has brought us up; that first thou and then i have learned to find comfort in the holy book he has denied to us, and to find that there be other holy things than our priests have taught us, and purer truths than methinks they know themselves. i thought that was why his anger burned so hotly against us. that was his quarrel with thee, and methinks he must have suspected me, else would he scarce have dogged my steps as he did." "it may be so," answered cuthbert; "but i fear me he has brooded over his wrongs and his sins until he is well-nigh beside himself. my sister, let not thy patience lead thee into peril. remember what i have said, and whither i may be found. i will take thy message to philip. he shall be bidden not to anger thy father further by seeking thee. after that it is for thee to decide whether thou canst still live in such solitude as must then be thine at the gate house, or whether thou wilt fly to me in the forest." "i will remember," answered petronella, rising to her feet; for even here, and at this hour, and with her brother for her companion, she dared not linger long. "tell my kind aunt that the testament she gave me is the solace and happiness of my life. i think of her words every day, and they are written on my heart. though i see her not, my blessing rests upon her. i would that she could know what peace and joy she has helped to bring into my lonely lot." "i will tell her," answered cuthbert, as he took the slight form into his arms. "she will be rejoiced to hear it, i doubt not. i too, my sister, have shared some of that peace myself. i have found that the faith in which we were reared, albeit it holds much of golden truth, has been so overlaid by artifice of man that the gold is sadly tarnished. i have some deep love for it yet, but i love better the purer faith that i have learned from the written word of god, and have heard from the lips of godly men of the established church of the land. i have seen and heard much in yon great city, and methinks that all creeds have much that is true--much that is the same; but it seems the nature of man to fight and wrangle over the differences, instead of rejoicing in the unity of a common faith; wherefore there be misery and strife and jealousy abounding, and the adversaries may well blaspheme. but i came not to talk such matters with thee, sweet sister; they baffle the wisdom of the wisest. keep fast hold of the peace thou hast found, and let no man take it from thee. i would i lived not in the midst of such weary war of words. there be times when the heart sickens at it, and one is fain to lay all aside sooner than have to own allegiance to any one party, when one sees the bad as well as the good of all." petronella's eyes were wide with astonishment and perplexity. she felt as though she had a very solon for a brother when cuthbert talked after this serious fashion. but she too had heard from the trevlyns of the chase somewhat of the burning questions of the day, and she was not wholly uninstructed in the matter. "that is one boon granted to us weak women," she said, with a shadowy little smile. "we are not called upon to take part in the world's battlefield. we may think our own thoughts, and go our quiet way in the main unheeded and unmolested. but i am glad that thou dost see as i do, my brother. it is sweet to find accord in those we love. and now i must be gone; i dare not linger longer. heaven bless and keep thee ever! i shall carry my daily load more lightly for this happy hour spent together." cuthbert kissed her many times before he let her go, reminded her again of the place where he himself might be found, and then walked slowly with her towards the old gate house, only letting her go when she desired it, and watching her glide towards the little door with a sense of sinking at heart which he could hardly explain. as for petronella, she stole within the door, which she bolted behind her, as she had found it, and felt her way up the narrow winding stairs that led to the ground floor of the house. the postern door was below that level, and had a little stair of its own leading to the house, from which it was again shut off by another door at the top. when petronella had stolen out to meet cuthbert, she had left this door open, so as to avoid all needless noise; but when she reached the head of the stairs she found it closed, and her heart gave a sudden throb of dismay as she stood quite still listening and wondering. surely she had left it open? her memory had not deceived her! no; she remembered debating the matter with herself and deciding to do so. could it have shut by itself afterwards? she could scarcely believe it. it was a heavy oaken door, that moved ponderously on its hinges; and the night was calm and breathless. no current of air could have blown upon it. had some person from above come down and shut it after her? and if so, who could that person be? and had he suspected that she had slipped out into the night, and for what purpose? with a wildly-beating heart and a frame that felt ready to sink into the ground with fear, petronella tried the latch of the door, and found it yield to her hand. she pressed it open and then stood suddenly still, a gasp of terror and dismay escaping her; for there, in the middle of the hall, the moonlight falling full upon his tall rugged figure, stood her father, waiting with folded arms for his truant daughter, a look upon his stern face that she shivered to behold. "so, girl!" he exclaimed, making one stride forward and catching the frail wrist in a vice-like grasp which almost extorted a cry of pain--"so, my daughter, thou hast come in from this midnight tryst with thy lover! and what dost thou think is the reward a father bestows upon a daughter who leaves his house at this dead hour of the night to meet the man he has bidden her eschew for ever?" petronella's agitation was so great that she was well-nigh swooning. her nerves had been on the strain for some time. the excitement of seeing cuthbert again, of hearing his story and telling her own, had been considerable. and now to be confronted by a furious father, and accused of having broken her solemn pledge, and of having met her lover at an hour of the night when no virtuous maiden would dream of such a tryst, was more than she could bear. slipping to her knees, she laid her hand upon her father's robe, and clutching hold of it, as if for support, she gasped out the one word: "pardon! pardon!" "thou mayest well sue for pardon, false jade; but to win it is another matter. say, vile girl, whom i blush to call my daughter--say how oft hast thou thus gone forth to meet thy lover?" "father--father, revile me not thus!" cried the girl, beside herself with agitation, fearful of betraying cuthbert's near presence to the gate house, lest the angry man should contrive to do him some injury or gain some hold upon him, yet terrified at the accusations levelled at her own head, which seemed to bear some show of reason. "father, have pity; drive me not to despair, as thou didst drive my brother. i am so lonely and so miserable. pity me! pardon me!" "answer my question, base girl. how oft hast thou done this deed before tonight?" "never before, my father, never before! ah, do not be too hard upon me! i have done no wrong--i swear it!" "keep thy false oaths for thy false lover!" cried the angry man; "i will have none of them. thou hast passed me thy word once, and i believed thee, and thou hast played me false. i will never believe thee again--never, never! thou hast made thy bed, and thou shalt lie upon it." and with that the angry man flung the kneeling girl from him with such violence that she fell against the wall, and striking her head sharply, sank stunned and unconscious at his feet. "serve her right well, the false minx, the evil jade!" spoke the heartless father, as he strode back to his own room without so much as going across to the girl to know if she were severely hurt. "she will be safe enow for this night. she will not seek to go forth again. she shall smart for this bare-faced defiance. i will not be set at naught by both of my children. i will not--i will not!" when petronella awoke from what seemed to her a long dream, she found herself in her own bed, tended by the deaf-and-dumb servant, who was sitting beside her and watching her with wistful glances. a glad smile lighted up the woman's face as petronella made a sign that showed she recognized her; but no speech was possible between them, and the girl was too weary to care to ask questions by means of the series of signals long since established between them. she turned her eyes from the light, and fell asleep again like a tired child. for several days her life was more like one long sleep than anything else. it was some while before she remembered any of the events immediately preceding this mysterious attack of illness; and when she did remember, the events of that night seemed to stand out in fearful colours. yet there was one thought of comfort: cuthbert was not far away. since her father had openly accused her of vileness, deceit, and treachery; since he had struck her down so cruelly, and had not even come to see her in her helplessness and weakness, must not cuthbert's surmise be the true one--must he not surely be mad? she could see by the old woman's cowering looks if the door moved on its hinges, how much she feared the terrible master; and when petronella was sufficiently recovered to be able to enter into the kind of conversation by means of signals which in some sort resembled the finger talking of more modern times, she learned that indeed her father was in a more black and terrible mood than ever before, and that old martha herself went in fear of her life. bit by bit the old woman made the girl understand what had happened. shortly after the day upon which she had found her young mistress lying cold and insensible on the stone floor of the hall, philip trevlyn had come to the gate house, and had demanded an interview with the owner. right well did both the women know the nature of that errand, though none had been present but the young lover and the enraged father. there could be no manner of doubt but that, incited to it by cuthbert's tale, he had come to make a definite offer of marriage, and doubtless had tried to bribe the avaricious old man by some tempting offer of gold or land. but whatever had been the terms in which the proposal was couched, anger had proved a stronger passion with nicholas than greed. philip had been driven from the house with a fury that threatened actual violence, and for hours afterwards nicholas had raged up and down the house like a wild beast in a cage. he had once gone up to his daughter's room with a face so full of fury that the old woman had feared he meant to fall upon her then and there; but even he had been calmed by a glance at the still, unconscious face upon the pillow, so white and bloodless and death-like; and the man had gone down with a quieter footfall than he had mounted, but had been brooding in sullen fury ever since, so that the old servant had feared to approach him even to bring him his needful food. she had spent almost all her time up with her young mistress, afraid to leave her by night or day lest some mischance should befall her. all this the girl gradually understood as she became strong enough to take in the silent talk of the old woman. she knew that she must have lain some days in this state of unconsciousness, for the trees were greener than they had been when she had seen them last, and the sunlight was fast gaining its golden summer-like glow. there was something exhilarating in the beauty and richness of reviving nature, and even petronella's wan cheek kindled into a flush of pleasure as she looked forth once again upon the fair world around her dismal home. home? no, that was no longer the word for it. slowly but surely the knowledge had come to her that cuthbert had been right, and that this house could no longer be a home to her. right well did she credit now, what had never entered her mind before, that her father had brooded and brooded until his very mind had become unhinged. he was not master of his words when he spoke to her as he had done upon that terrible night; he was not master of his actions when he had flung her away and left her lying unconscious on the stone floor. there was even some slight comfort in this thought, though it settled for ever the doubt in her mind. she must leave the gate house so soon as she was strong enough to walk, and she must find her brother in the forest, and place herself beneath his care. the old servant approved the plan. she herself could find a refuge at trevlyn chase; but that house would be no shelter for her young mistress. her father's authority would be enough to carry her back into captivity; and what her fate would be, were she to have escaped him once and be again brought back, was a thought to shudder at. "i must go back to cuthbert," she said to herself, as she looked over the fair landscape, and thought longingly of the cool, dim woods, and the free life of the forest. her own home was nothing now but a prison house. she knew that if she presented herself before her father sound and whole, she would at once be placed under some close restraint that would effectually hinder her from carrying out her plan. he would sooner kill her, as she verily believed, than permit her such liberty as might enable her to meet by accident or design any member of the household from the chase. if she were to succeed in her escape, the attempt must be made whilst her father still believed her too feeble to stir from her bed; after that she would be too closely watched for it to be possible. the old woman entered into this scheme with alacrity and zeal. petronella kept to her bed; and when nicholas trevlyn demanded by signs how it fared with his daughter, he was answered by solemn shakings of the head. if he mounted the stairs to see with his own eyes how she was, he saw her lying upon the bed with closed eyes and wan face, and would smile with an evil smile and mutter that she was safe enough now--safe enough now. yet each day hope and the good food the shrewd old woman contrived to provide for her did its work upon petronella's frail body, and she grew better every hour. indeed, after some while she felt stronger than she had done for many weeks before her illness; and in due time even the fond old woman began to see that there was no need to postpone longer the scheme of escape. it was a simple little scheme, yet one which promised success if carefully carried out. nicholas trevlyn was accustomed to take night by night a posset of mead, brewed in some particular way by martha. she was, upon the night planned as the one for the escape of petronella, to add to this posset some drops of a concoction prepared by herself from herbs, which would infallibly produce sound and deep sleep within two hours. the master of the house asleep, all would be simple. the two women would sally forth by the postern door, and make for the forest. with the first light of the dawn, martha would seek the shelter of trevlyn chase, whilst petronella sought her brother in the pixies' dell. nicholas trevlyn would awake the next morning to find himself alone in the old gate house that he had made intolerable for any other inmate. chapter : the pixies' dell. after leaving petronella close to her home, and watching the slight figure vanish within the postern door, cuthbert turned his own steps towards the chase, resolved to see philip and tell him what had passed between him and his sister before returning to the forest dell where he had resolved to keep his watch. he would not make any disturbance at the house at this dead hour of the night; but as he was familiar with the place, he quickly found his way to a small pavilion in the garden, the door of which was not locked at night, and stretching himself upon a wooden settle which stood there, he quickly fell asleep, and slept soundly and well until awakened by the sound of a startled exclamation. springing to his feet, bewildered for a moment, and unable to remember where he was, he found himself confronted by the eager, startled face and big lustrous eyes of his cousin kate. "cuthbert! thou here!" she exclaimed in amaze. "thou surely hast not brought me ill news of my--of culverhouse!" and a deep flush overspread her face as she spoke. cuthbert hastened to reassure her. he explained that he had not seen culverhouse since they parted in the forest, and that his own errand was of a private nature, and concerned himself and his sister. "ah, poor petronella! methinks a hard lot is hers, cuthbert. my brother does what he may; yet that is but little, and of late he has not been able so much as to get sight of her. yet i see not what thou canst do for her. thy father is even more incensed against thee than against us!" "i came but to see with mine own eyes how she fared, and to breathe a word of hope in her ear. kate, sweet coz, let me breathe that same word in thine; for thou wast the one to give me hope and confidence when all besides looked on me as a wild dreamer. methinks i am on the track of the lost treasure. methinks with patience and care i shall find it yet." kate's eyes kindled and glowed. "nay, now, that is good hearing! said i not ever that the old saws spake sooth? and is not the luck to return to the house of wyvern through its daughters' sons? cuthbert, tell me more--tell me all! how is it thou hast succeeded where all besides have failed?" "i cannot lay claim to success as yet," answered cuthbert, smiling. "i have not said the treasure is mine, only that i trow i know where soon i may lay hands upon it. sweet kate, when all that gold is brought back to the halls of trevlyn chase whence it was taken, sure thy dowry will be fair enough to win lord andover's smiles. sure thou wilt not then be afraid to own--" but kate laid her soft hand upon his lips and glanced round with startled eyes. courageous as she was to carry out a bold resolution, she was not free from nervous timidity, too. "speak not the words, good cuthbert, neither here nor yet within the walls of the chase. i have not dared to breathe to them at home the thing i have done. heaven pardon me if it were a sin; but i may not wish it undone. it is so sweet to feel myself his; and if it be as thou sayest, we may not have long to wait ere he may claim me before the world. but if thou findest the treasure thyself, will it not be all thine?" "i trow not, and i trust thou hast no such evil thoughts of me, fair cousin, as to think that i would keep all, when but a portion was my father's share, and that will scarce be mine whilst he lives. i do but hope to restore it to those to whom it rightfully belongs. i trow there will be enough to make all glad and happy, and i doubt not that something of good hap may come to me thereby. but to lay claim to all--why, that would be a scurvy thought, unworthy a man of honour." kate's bright face was full of eager sympathy and approval. "i like thee, cuthbert," she cried; "i like thy honest thoughts and words. thou art in sooth a very proper youth. thou art worthy of thy wyvern blood, which i hold to be purer than that of trevlyn, which has times and again been stained by acts of malice, greed, and violence. but see, the sun is rising in the sky! we must back to the house for the morning meal. and, cuthbert, good cuthbert, thou wilt keep my secret? thou wilt not tell of our meeting on may day in the forest?" "never a word an thou biddest me not," answered cuthbert, with a smile. "so that is to be a secret, lady culverhouse?" she recoiled with a little start, her eyes dancing, her cheeks aglow. "o cuthbert, i had not thought that my name was changed. lady culverhouse! what a pleasant sound it has! but oh, not a word at home! i dare not tell them aught till culverhouse be by my side. i misdoubt me that i did right to let him persuade me thus; and yet i could not say him nay, and i longed to hear the words spoken that should bind us to each other. but i dare not tell my father! i trow both he and my mother would chide full sternly. in truth, i fear me it were scarce a maidenly act. but, o cuthbert, love is so strong--so hard a task master. where he drives, it seems that one needs must go;" and she looked up at him with such arch appeal that he felt those glances would go far to soften the sternest parental heart. "in truth, i believe thee, fair coz, and i will keep thy secret faithfully. it is safe with me; and i trust that all will end happily when the lost treasure shall return to the house of trevlyn." and talking eagerly upon this theme, which was also to be kept secret from all the world besides, the cousins walked towards the house. cuthbert received a warm and hearty greeting from all his kinsfolks there, who were pleased that he should have kept his promise and have come to see them with the long days of early summer. sir richard and his wife were both pleased with the fashion in which the youth had developed; his intelligence and information were now plainly apparent, and had taken a fresh impetus from the new surroundings in which he had found himself. he could talk with discrimination and insight on all the leading topics of the day, had plainly lost much of his old rusticity of thought and speech, and had become an interesting and self-possessed youth. but his errand was really to philip, and to him he spoke in private of his sister's story, and how she had promised to obey her father and to see him no more. cuthbert could assure the disappointed lover that this was no indication of coldness on petronella's part, but that it was done from a sense of filial duty, combined with a fear of some violence on her father's part towards her lover should he be provoked too far. cuthbert was as certain as philip could wish that petronella's heart was entirely his. he had read the girl's secret in the tones of her voice and in the shy glances of her soft eyes. he told philip, too, of the gold that was awaiting the girl in her uncle's keeping, and added that he was certain sure that martin holt would be glad enough to give it over to his niece if she had a sturdy husband of the reformed faith to take care of her and it. his only fear was of its falling into the hands of the papists, which thing would have been abhorrent to the grand sire whose legacy the money was. that fear laid to rest, he would be glad to be rid of the charge, and to give over the gold to its rightful owner. philip's heart was with petronella, and he had not concerned himself as yet with any thoughts as to her poverty and his own somewhat impecunious position as his father's heir, but with three sisters to be provided for out of the revenues of the impoverished estate. he was man of the world enough to know that this dowry would do much to smooth his path when the time should come for making known his case to his parents, but for the moment his thoughts were all with the lonely girl shut up so relentlessly by her father. "i will see nicholas trevlyn," he said, with stern decision. "things have gone too far not to go further. i will see him, and make formal application for his daughter's hand. he can but refuse me, and i shall tell him plainly that i decline to give her up at any word of his. i can wait with patience till she is of age to judge for herself; but she is the woman of my choice, and her alone will i wed if she will have me." cuthbert's face was grave and troubled. "and waiting for that, she may well be done to death within those walls, as i should have been had i not fled. i am in trouble of heart anent my sister. i pray she may find her way to me yet in the free forest!" philip started and looked surprised. "is there likelihood of that?" "i know not. i bid her come if our father should grow more harsh, and told her where i likeliest might be found. i purpose to dwell for a while myself in the forest, albeit thou wouldst mock me if thou knewest the wherefore." "to search for the lost treasure, i doubt not," said philip with a smile, remembering the talk of the autumn previous. "marry thou hast my best wishes for a happy quest. but what couldst thou do with a tender maid out in the woods with thee?" "i scarce know that myself; but anything would be better than life with a madman--as i trow our father is like to become an he change not his habit of life. belike i would take her to mine uncle on the bridge; yet perchance he would not thank me for adding to his charges. "if we had other relatives--" "why, and so ye have, even as we have. hast never heard of my lady humbert and mistress dowsabel wyvern? they must be kinsfolk of thine as well as of ours, and they dwell not very far distant from here, albeit i myself have never visited them." cuthbert raised his head and looked eagerly at philip. "i would know more of that," he said. "it is not much i can tell thee. this lady humbert is a widow, and is sister to that gertrude wyvern who was my grandam and thy aunt. mistress dowsabel is her younger sister; and albeit they are both now of a good old age, they dwell together, with only servants for company, in a house thou wouldst have passed on the road to london hadst thou not taken the lonelier way across the heath. my father and mother go each year to see after their welfare, and a letter comes now and again from them with greetings or questions. we of the younger generation have never been to visit them, since they are too old to wish for the presence of the young, and love not to see the changeless current of their lives interrupted. i remember that of old, when we were in disgrace for some prank, our grandam would shake her head at us and vow we should be sent to her sister dowsabel for chastisement, and stay with her till we learned better manners. so we have grown up in the fancy that these kinswomen be something stern and redoubtable ladies. nevertheless, if thou wast to put thy sister beneath their care, i trow they would receive her with kindness and treat her well, and she would scarce regret the gate house were the captivity never so hard. nor would nicholas trevlyn be like to seek her there, though at the chase he would find her at once, were we to strive to aid her flight as we aided thine." cuthbert saw this plainly, and asked a few more eager questions about these ladies and where they might be found. he hardly knew whether or not he expected petronella to flee away to him, but at least it would do no harm to be prepared in case she did so. philip told him all he knew, which was not much. the house would be easily found, as it stood upon the highroad just a mile from a large village, its gates opening straight upon the road, although at the back were gardens and pleasaunces and a clear trout stream. it seemed to cuthbert as he listened that such a place as this might prove a safe haven of refuge for his sister should one be needed, and he resolved that if she once came to him he would persuade her to place herself beneath the protection of these ladies. he would well have liked to see her again, to have whispered something of this new plan into her ears. but though he lingered much about the house during the two short weeks he spent at the chase, he saw no glimpse of his sister, and he did not dare to summon her out to meet him at night, lest haply the suspicions of the grim old tyrant should be aroused. leaving philip fully determined to see nicholas trevlyn ere long, to lay before him his formal proposal for petronella's hand, and confident that all at the chase would befriend her as far as it was possible; cuthbert, afraid to linger longer in the immediate vicinity of the gate house, took his departure for the forest, resolved to give himself over heart and soul to the search after the missing treasure, and not to give it up until every nook and corner of the pixies' dell had been subjected to the closest scrutiny. it was easy to obtain from philip all such tools as would be needful for the task of excavation. although the young man himself had small hopes of cuthbert's success, he was interested in spite of himself in the proposed plan, and would have been more so had he known how much had been already discovered. but cuthbert kept much of that to himself, not willing that tattling tongues should spread the rumour. only to real believers in the hidden treasure did he care to speak of the gipsy's strange words and the visit to the wise woman of budge row. philip, he thought, would smile, and perhaps he would speak of the matter to his father, who in turn might name it to some one else, and so it might come round, through the gipsy spies and watchers, to the ears of long robin himself. that, as cuthbert well knew, would be well-nigh destruction to all his cherished hopes; yet one who believed not would smile at his fears, and could scarce be expected to observe the needful caution. as cuthbert started for his nine miles' tramp in the cool of the evening, with his tools slung across his shoulders, he was glad to think that he had resisted the temptation to speak openly of this matter to any but petronella and kate. with them he well knew the secret was safe, for they entertained for long robin just the same suspicious fear as he did himself, and their lips were sealed even as his own. the walk was nothing for his strong young limbs; but as he approached the lonely dell, he instinctively slackened his speed, and proceeded with greater caution. the thick growth of the trees made the place dark in spite of the moon, which hung low in the sky and shone between the trees in long silvery beams; and the tangled path which once had led to the forest well had been long overgrown with a mass of bramble and underwood, through which it was hard to force a way. but cuthbert cautiously proceeded, listening intently for any sounds of life to indicate the presence of long robin, the only being likely to be near at such an hour; but all appeared to be intensely still, and presently he commenced his cautious descent into the dell itself, and at last stood beside the old stone wall that guarded the mouth of the well. cuthbert had heard something of that well since he had been at his uncle's house. some of the old servants at the chase knew the forest well, and he had been told the story of the pixies' dell: how it had once been a noted spot in the forest, and how travellers turned aside to drink the waters, which were not only fresh and clear and cold, even on the most sultry summer's day, but were reported to possess healing properties, especially if taken at certain hours of the night and in certain phases of the moon. long ago there had been a monastery near the well, and the monks had dispensed the waters to the applicants who came. but the monastery had fallen into ruins and had disappeared, and after that the pixies were given the credit of the healing waters. people came to drink them, though less frequently than before; and as the place grew more lonely and deserted, rumours began to float about that the pixies were inimical to man, and that the waters no longer possessed their old power. later on still, a more terrible thing was discovered: it was said that it was death to approach that dell and drink the waters. men's bones had been found in great numbers close about that spot, and it was plain that they must belong to the unhappy wights who, disregarding cautions, had ventured to the place, and had died before they could get away from thence. after that, as may well be guessed, no sick folks had cared to trouble the dell again. travellers made a wide circuit to avoid it, and it was held to be the place of most evil repute in the forest. all this story was well understood by cuthbert, who felt no fear of the spot, only a little natural awe as he recollected the deed that had once been done there. the moon was going down as he looked about him; the dark hour before morning was about to fall upon the world. he looked about for a resting place in which to conceal himself till he could commence his search, and found the place he desired in a hollow tree, just beyond the circle of smooth sward that surrounded the well itself. plainly this tree had been used before for a like purpose. the leaves had been carefully raked together within, and were covered by a warm rug, in which cuthbert was not sorry to wrap himself, for the night air was sharp and chilly though the days were hot. "long robin's rug, or i greatly mistake me," he said with a smile. "i trow he would be sore amazed were he to come and find me here. howbeit he would but take me for a passing wayfarer, since he knows not my face, and i misdoubt me if he come tonight. he fears too much joanna's watchful eyes and miriam's jealous ones. i will sleep in peace till daylight dawns, and then i will begin my search." sleep came quickly to the lad's eyes, but it was only light, for with the first blush of dawn he awoke and prepared to commence his work. his tools he had hidden away beneath the heap of leaves which had formed his bed, and he did not disturb them for the time being, but walked forth and examined the dell for himself before making any excavation. first his attention was given to the patch of greensward around the well; but this was so smooth and even that it seemed as if it had not been disturbed for ages. such soft emerald turf, as cuthbert well knew, was the growth of centuries, and there was no sort of trace or seam to indicate the handiwork of man. round and round the open space he paced, his eyes fixed upon the ground beneath his feet, his quick glance shifting from spot to spot, as he strove for some indication, however faint, of the existence of some hidden hoard. "yet it is certain to be well hid. it were strange if i did light upon it in the first hour," he said to himself at length, covering his disappointment with a smile. "i will break my fast with the good fare given me by my fair cousin kate, and will taste the waters of the magic well. i trow i shall take no harm from them. long robin will scarce have poisoned the spring from which he himself must ofttimes drink." whilst he partook of his simple meal, he looked about him with keen and eager glances, wondering where he should next search, and striving to see traces of footsteps in the sandy sides of the dell, or breaks in the tangled growth of underwood that would indicate some track used by robin. cuthbert shrewdly suspected that he would not be able to resist the temptation of going frequently to the spot where the buried treasure lay, to see if the ground remained undisturbed, and he thought that the surest way of discovering this spot was to seek for traces likely to be left by him; or, failing these, to watch patiently from some obscure spot till the gipsy came again to the dell, when it was probable he might betray the secret by his own movements. "if i dig and delve before the clue is mine, i may chance to put him on his guard, and find nothing. no; i will be patient--i will be very cautious. success comes to him that can wait. long robin is a foe not to be despised or trifled with; i can tell that from his own words and joanna's. he would take a hundred lives to save his golden secret. he is cautious and cunning and wary. i must try to be the same." all that long summer's day cuthbert prowled up and down the dell, searching for some trace, however slight, which should give him the clue, and searching in vain. the only path where the undergrowth was in any way trodden was the one by which he and robin alike approached the well, the old, half-obliterated track that once had been so freely used. all around the sides of the dell, fern and bramble, hazel and undergrowth of all kinds, grew in wild confusion. search as he would, cuthbert could find nothing like a path of any kind. did robin indeed trust to that tangled undergrowth to keep his secret hid? and if so, what chance was there of its being found unless the whole dell was dug up? a short while back it seemed so much to have found out this dell. when he had been resolved to search the whole forest through, no wonder the task had been practically impossible; but when he had had indications of a confined locality, he had looked upon his work as well-nigh accomplished, and had come here with a heart full of high hopes. and now he was confronted by difficulties that appeared almost as insurmountable as before; for he plainly saw the hopelessness of attempting single-handed to delve the whole dell over. robin would return before the task was more than begun. he would guess the import, would set a close watch, and would slay the bold invader of his haunted dell without pity or remorse. whilst the only other plan, that of bringing a gang of men to work strong enough to be a guard to themselves, was simply out of the question for cuthbert. he had no money himself. his uncle martin would certainly not give him the gold in the box for any such hare-brained scheme; whilst to appeal to sir richard, with nothing to back his statements but what would be looked upon as old wives' fables and gipsy delusions, would only be to provoke ridicule and scorn. the trevlyns had long given up the treasure as lost beyond recall. they had no sort of hope of recovering it, and the present owner of the chase and his lady were in particular very greatly averse to any sort of dealings with occult magic and gipsy lore. cuthbert had a shrewd notion that there was little enough of magic in any of the words and dark sayings he had heard. he had been let just a very little behind the scenes, and had his own opinions on the subject. his faith in spirits and familiars had been greatly shaken; but he knew that his story would sound wild and improbable, and he was by no means sure that even joanna would consent to appear before sir richard and repeat it all to him. she was anxious to do her part towards making restitution; but, having put the clue in cuthbert's hands, would very likely consider that part done, and decline to be questioned further by any one. "what i do i must do alone," said cuthbert to himself, with a sigh, at the close of that day of toil and discouragement. "well, i should have been mightily surprised had i lighted on the treasure at the close of the first day. i ought not to be thus discouraged, and yet i am. still there is one more thing to do. if i can but watch long robin, surely i shall learn somewhat from him. i vow that that is better far than prowling aimlessly about the dell. let me spend my time and strength in building for myself some nook high up in one of yon trees, from which vantage ground i may spy upon his doings. if i can but get me up high enough, i can watch him from spot to spot. sure i should be stupider than a daylight owl an i could not learn somewhat from his looks and actions on his next visit. and it will be safer for me to have mine own perch. i will venture to sleep one more night in the tree; but after that i will sleep by day and watch by night, for it is plain that he is a night bird in his visits here." the next day cuthbert set to work with a better heart. it was not difficult to find the sort of nook he wanted high up in the branches of a great sycamore. the oaks were hardly thick enough yet to conceal him, and the foliage of the elm was somewhat scanty still, for all that the season was forward. but by good hap there chanced to be, amongst the tall trees that fringed the round of sward, a noble sycamore in full leaf and very thick; and by skillful contrivance, and with the help of his tools, cuthbert quickly built himself up there a small but secure and commodious platform, upon which he could perch himself at ease and watch the whole of the dell. even if he fell asleep, he was in no danger of falling; and if he could obtain the needful supplies of food, he could keep watch there unseen for an indefinite time. he had plenty of provision so far, for he had been supplied with dry and salted provisions enough to last a week. these he took up to his nest, and also his tools, which he resolved to keep beside him for safety; and having spent the best part of the day in this labour of ingenuity and patience, and having then quenched his thirst by long draughts of clear cold water, he ascended to his perch with an armful of dried bracken--the eighth such load he had carried up--and as he arranged his riding cloak upon the soft and fragrant cushion thus prepared, he said to himself with a smile that he could afford to be patient now, for he had a commodious castle all his own, and could await with patience the advance of the foe. his patience was not, however, destined to be very sorely taxed. he had fallen into a light sleep, and was dreaming of a hand-to-hand struggle with long robin, when some unwonted sound smote upon his ears, and he started up all alert on the instant. he knew that sound; he had heard it before. it was the wild, unearthly noise made by robin to increase the fear of this dell in the hearts of any chance wayfarers who might haply be within hearing. in a few more seconds cuthbert, peering down from his leafy canopy, saw the tall form thrusting itself through the underwood; and robin, with a loud laugh, threw himself upon the low wall of the pixies' well. he was talking and muttering to himself, but cuthbert could not catch the words. he seemed in a merry mood, for he laughed aloud once or twice, and drank of the well and laughed again. once cuthbert thought he caught the words "treasure" and "safe," but of that he could not be certain; and it was not easy to see how robin could know this, seeing he had not stirred three paces from the well. and then a sudden flash came into cuthbert's soul like one of inspiration. suppose the treasure was in the well itself? what more likely? would not that be the safest place of all? for the precious metals would not hurt through contact with the water; and had he not heard that the waters of this well possessed peculiar properties for preserving anything thrown into them? cuthbert's heart beat so fast that he almost feared robin would hear his deep breathing; but the man was looking down into the well, laughing to himself in the peculiarly malevolent fashion that cuthbert had heard before. he never moved from the side of the well for the long hour he remained; and cuthbert, waiting in feverish impatience till he should be gone, felt as though he had never known an hour so long. but it ended at last. the tall figure reared itself upright, and he heard the voice distinctly now. "i must be going--i must be going. miriam will be asking questions. that hag is the plague of my life. all safe--all safe. and now i will depart." the tall figure put on its stooping gait, which appeared to be second nature, and went slouching away through the underwood along the narrow track. cuthbert waited till there had been a long spell of perfect silence, and then he glided with cat-like caution to the ground. "i may not be able to see anything by this light, not even the glint of gold beneath the clear waters. but he seemed to see. he looked down and muttered, 'safe--safe!' beshrew me but i trow i have the secret now! the pixies' well--the hidden secret it guards so well. all is true! all is true! why did i not think of it before?" creeping to the side of the well, cuthbert peered over the edge and gazed fixedly into the dark water. what was it he saw? was that moonlight shining and glinting there; or was it--could it be--hold, what is this? with a stifled cry cuthbert strove to spring to his feet; but the attempt was vain. he was encircled in the bear-like grip of a pair of arms that were strong as bands of iron around him. he felt as though all the breath were being pressed out of him, and in his ear there rang a hideous laugh, the sound of which he knew but too well. "fool!" cried a hoarse voice, hissing the words in his ears--"fool of a mad boy to trust a treacherous gipsy tale! so thou thoughtest to outwit long robin! thou thoughtest to win back the lost treasure to the house of trevlyn! mad boy--fool of a hardy knave! but yet thou shalt have thy wish--thou shalt have thy will. thou shalt see with thine own eyes that long-lost treasure." there was a cruel sneer in the man's eyes, a mocking inflection in his voice, that sent a thrill of cold horror through cuthbert's veins. he was absolutely powerless in that merciless clasp. he felt the strength leaving his limbs and his head turning giddy. he only just knew it when he was laid upon the grass, his captor's knee firmly planted on his chest; and then he felt his hands and feet being tightly and securely bound, whilst the stars in the sky seemed to reel and dance before his eyes, and he said to himself, without realizing the import of his own words: "he is going to kill me; he is going to kill me." "yes, i am going to kill thee, mad boy," said long robin coolly, as though he had heard the spoken word. "i am going to kill thee, as i kill all those who dare to thwart my will or cross my path. i shall kill thee; but thou shalt first have the desire of thine eyes and of thine heart. thou shalt see and thou shalt touch the long-lost treasure! thou shalt learn the secret ere thou diest, and thy ghost can impart it to thy friends." with a brutal and almost diabolical laugh, long robin rose to his feet and leaned over the well. he seemed to be raising from it some heavy weight, and cuthbert heard a heavy thud fall upon the grass. "now, thou shalt go to join the lost treasure. the trevlyns when they find it will find their lost kinsman, too! ha, ha! they are welcome to that find; they are welcome to it!" and the man stooped to lift the bound and helpless cuthbert in his strong arms. cuthbert closed his eyes. he knew well what was coming. a fall, a sullen splash, one brief ineffectual struggle, and then black darkness. he tried to breathe a prayer, but could form no words. he thought of cherry, of petronella, and sharp stabs of pain seemed to run through him. one minute more and all would be over. but what an endless minute that was, whilst he felt the grip upon his body growing firmer as the giant prepared to lift him. what was that? "crack!"--a sudden flash from the dark underwood, and with a loud cry his captor dropped him, and staggered backwards, to fall a few paces farther on, where he lay rigid and motionless. then from the thicket there came the sound of a quick sharp cry, and a slim figure rushed forward with the gasping question: "is he dead? oh, have i killed him?" and cuthbert, raising his head, and scarce believing aught of this could be anything but a fevered dream, uttered the one word: "petronella!" chapter : brother and sister. "petronella! thou here!" "brother--brother mine--art thou hurt?" "never a whit, though i looked to be a dead man ere this. sister, take my knife and cut my bonds; yon man may rise again, and i must be free to defend myself and thee." petronella cast a scared and fearful glance at the long dark figure lying face downwards upon the sward, showing signs of life only by a spasmodic twitching of the limbs; and then drawing cuthbert's long hunting knife from his belt, she cut the cords that bound his hands and feet, and in another moment he sprang up and shook himself, keeping a wary eye all the while upon the prostrate foe. but he did not go to his side at once; he was too keenly aroused and interested by this sudden appearance of his sister. "petronella! i can scarce credit my senses. how comest thou here, and at such an hour?" "i am doing as thou biddest me," she answered in a low voice: "i am flying from our home, even as thou wast forced to fly. i verily believe that thou art right, and that our father is well-nigh mad. i dared not remain. even old martha feared to linger longer under that roof. she has found safe refuge, i trust, at trevlyn chase. thou didst go there, my brother, after parting from me?" "ay, verily i did, and stayed there a matter of some two weeks, ever hoping to see thy face again, and to hear how it fared with thee. but thou camest not." "i could not," answered the girl, in the same low tone; "i was in my bed, unable to move hand or foot, unable to know night from day. cuthbert, the night i went forth to thee in the chantry our father missed me from the house. he thought i had gone to meet philip in the wood at night. he reviled me cruelly, and i feared to tell him it was thou i had gone to see. then, i know not how, but i fear he struck me. a great blackness came before mine eyes; and when i opened them again a week or more had passed, and i knew, as i began to understand what had chanced, that i could no longer remain beneath the roof of the gate house." cuthbert ground his teeth in sudden fury. "struck thee, my gentle sister! nay, i can scarce credit it; and were he any other than my father--" "but he is our father," answered the girl gently. "and truly methinks, cuthbert, that his lonely brooding has something unhinged his mind. let us think of him only with pity." cuthbert put his arm about her tenderly. "tell me the rest of thy story, sister. how camest thou here so opportunely, to play the part of amazon and save thy brother's life?" she shivered a little, as if afraid even to think what she had done, but her words were quietly and clearly spoken. "that is soon told. old martha nursed me back to health again, and our stern father hindered her not in her tendance of me. and this very night we made our plans, and she put a concoction of herbs into his nightly potion, which caused him to sleep too sound to awake for any sound within or without the house. then we softly stole away without let or hindrance--she to go to the chase, i to walk across the moorland and forest as thou hadst bidden me, to find thee here." "and thou didst arm thyself ere thou wentest forth?" she looked up with strange earnestness into his face. "i know not if the thought were sin, cuthbert," she said, "but as i slipped through the dark house ere our flight, my eyes fell upon that pair of heavy pistols always loaded that our father keeps ever on the mantle shelf of the hall. i thought of the lessons thou hadst given me in old days, and knew i could pull the trigger were i so minded, and send the bullet whizzing through the air. i had no thought of harming any man as i put forth my hand and took one of the weapons. i was thinking rather of myself. i had heard men speak of perils worse than death that may beset weak and helpless women alone in the world. i knew not if i might find thee as i hoped. i could not but fear that some mischance might keep us sundered. i thought of my father's cruel wrath should he discover my flight, and pursue and overtake. it seemed to me, standing in the darkness of the old gate house, that it would be better to perish than to be dragged thither again to die of misery and harsh captivity. i said within myself, 'sure, if it be sin, it is one that god would pardon. it is not well for me to go forth without some weapon which might end all, were it to be the less peril to die than to live.' and so i took the pistol and carried it in my girdle." "and then?" "then we went forth together, and martha walked with me awhile. but as i felt the clear fresh air of the night fanning my cheek, and the dewy sweetness of the grass beneath my feet, i grew strong and full of courage. i felt certain by what thou hadst told me that i was on the right track. the moon and the stars shone in the sky and guided my steps. i sent martha away, and journeyed on alone. it was sweet to find myself free, to see the heavens above my head, and to hear the soft night breezes. in the clear brightness of the night i could see far about me, and i knew that i was alone and had naught to fear. thanks to martha's good nursing and the food she had contrived for me, i was stronger than i had been for many long days and weeks. it was happiness to use my limbs, and i was not wearied by my journey. i entered the forest track at last, and quickly found the path that thou hadst spoken to me of. i knew then that i was near my journey's end, and my heart was light within me." "didst thou not fear the dark wood and the many strange sounds of the night?" "i feared somewhat, but chided myself for that fear. but it was well i felt it, else might i not have crept along as i did with such mouse-like stillness; and but for that, yon man"--with a shuddering glance at long robin on the ground--"would surely have found me." cuthbert started and asked her how that was. "i will tell thee, brother. i was drawing very nigh this dell, and i felt as by some instinct that it was close at hand, when i heard the sound of footsteps coming thence, and i well-nigh ran forth calling thee by name, for i felt assured it must be thou. but then some impulse of fear possessed me, and i trembled in every limb, and instead of running forth to meet him who was coming, i hid myself within the shadows of a deep hollow tree, scarce daring to breathe lest i should be discovered. and scarce had i done this before a tall figure crept out along the path, and halted so close beside me that i well-nigh screamed aloud in my terror, for i thought for sure i was discovered. but no: he had not paused for that, and as he stood scarce three ells from my hiding place i heard him mutter to himself; and i knew by what thou hadst told me, and by his tall form and long white beard, that it was long robin who was so near. "and couldst thou hear what he said?" "i could hear many words, and fierce ones, too--words that made my flesh creep, and turned me sick with fear for thee, my brother. he muttered that he was watched and spied upon. he spoke of other footfalls than his own in the dell, and cursed joanna for striving to outwit him, vowing he would slay her if once he found that she had dared to set others to watch him. he spoke the name of trevlyn once or twice. it was as if he had heard somewhat of thee and of thine errand to the gipsy queen--something he must surely have heard, else could he not have spoken of the 'trevlyn spawn,' and what he would do if one of that 'brood' dared to come betwixt him and his design. and then he leaned against a tree and waited, listening with an intentness that showed a deep suspicion; and he must have heard sounds that i could not--for my heart beat so wildly i feared he would hear it where he stood--and he smote his hands softly together and laughed a low laugh like that of a demon." "i have heard that laugh; i know it well," whispered cuthbert. "it is indeed what thou callest it. doubtless he heard my cautious descent from the tree. what did he then?" "i heard his next words plainly, and they sent a thrill of cold horror through me, for too well i divined their import. "'he is there!' he hissed between his teeth--'he is there! i shall catch him red handed in the act. good! he shall not leave the dell alive; he shall join the seven who strove before to know too much. long robin's hand has not lost its cunning, and it will strike the more heartily when aimed against one of the false, hateful brood.' "and then, cuthbert, i saw it all in a moment. i knew that thou wert in the glen, and that he was going forward to kill thee. and for a moment my head swam, and i well-nigh swooned with terror, and could not even lift my voice to shout to thee and warn thee to fly for thy life." "it was well thou didst not," answered cuthbert; "for i should scarce have heard or understood, and he would but have turned his destroying hand against thee ere he went forward to slay me. thou didst do better than cry aloud, my sister." she shivered slightly and pressed close up to him. "when the mist passed from my eyes and i could see, long robin was no more there, and in awful fear what might even then be happening, i stole down as fast as my trembling limbs would carry me towards the centre of the dell. ere i could see aught i heard thy voice raised in a sharp cry, cuthbert, and then i heard fierce, cruel words spoken, mingled with that laugh that makes the blood run chill in the veins. i crept as fast as i could through the tangled underwood, and then i saw before me a terrible sight. yon man was binding thee hand and foot with bonds that thou couldst not break, and i knew that he would kill thee without mercy, even as he had threatened. it was then that i remembered for the first time the weapon i carried at my side, and as i took it in my hands i felt a strange coldness come upon me. i trembled no longer. i felt calm and resolute and fearless. i crept cautiously out of the brushwood, though i kept still in the shadow of the trees, and i drew nearer and nearer, expecting every instant to be seen. i dared not fire till i was very close. it was long since i had discharged such a weapon, and i knew well that thy life and mine both hung upon that one charge. robin rose suddenly to his feet after binding thee, and i thought for certain i was seen. but no; he turned and leaned over the well, and drew forth from it yon huge round slab of stone, which he flung there on the grass as thou seest it. when his back was thus turned i crept nearer yet. i would have fired then, but still feared to miss. then he bent over thee and lifted thee in his arms. he could not see me then, he was too much engrossed in his task. i saw well what he meant to do--to fling thee bound and helpless into the well, where the lost treasure, methinks from his words, must lie. "the rest thou knowest. coming up close behind, i fired my pistol. he dropped thee and fell himself, and i feared that he was dead. brother, it is something fearful to have killed a man, though it was to save life. wilt thou not go to him and see if he yet lives? we ought to show charity even to our foes." cuthbert was willing enough to do this since he had heard his sister's story, which had not taken many minutes in the telling. he went across to the spot where long robin lay, and turned him gently over. although the sight of death was by no means familiar to cuthbert, it took only one glance to show him that this man was dying or dead. his face was ghastly and drawn, and his limbs were already growing rigid and motionless. the heavy charge of the pistol had done its work surely and fully: the bullet had passed through the spine, and had entered the vital organs. there was little effusion of blood, but death was delayed only a few minutes. even as cuthbert looked at him, the man gave a deep groan. his eyelids flickered a few moments, and then his jaw dropped, a quiver passed through his frame, which then became absolutely still. cuthbert shook his head. "he is dead!" cried petronella, in a voice of compunction and awe--"he is dead; and i have killed him!" she put her hands before her eyes and shivered. it was something of a terror to her that she should have done this thing. she shook in every limb. "i did not mean to kill him--i never thought of killing him; i only thought of how to save thee, cuthbert. o brother, brother, what shall i do? will they hang me for it?" "never," cried cuthbert, throwing his strong arm about her and smiling at her words. "sweet petronella, thou hast naught to fear. this man has long been an outlaw and a robber. he has many lives to answer for himself, as well as innumerable acts of violence with robbery. even were it not so, thou couldest not be held in any wise guilty by law either of god or man. may heaven forgive me if i sin, but i am right glad thy bullet did its work so well. our enemy thus removed from our path, the secret of the lost treasure lies with thee and me. petronella, i doubt it not for a moment now, that treasure lies at the bottom of the pixies' well. my only wonder is that none have thought of this before." petronella pointed to the circular slab lying wet and sparkling in the moonlight upon the sward beside the well. "look there!" she said: "it is that that has helped to hide the secret so long. robin is cunning. he is deep, he is full of artifice. he has given to the well a false bottom, of which perchance none knows but himself. he knows how to raise it from the well, as i saw him do; but all the world beside would hold it in truth to be the well's bottom. beneath yon slab the treasure lies. cuthbert, thou hast found the secret. thou wilt be the one to restore the fortunes of our house." "methinks it will be more thou than i, sweet sister," answered cuthbert, gladly and proudly, as he leaned over the low stone wall and gazed eagerly into the deep, dark water. "and right glad am i that we should be together when we find the treasure trove. canst see aught in yon deep hole, petronella?" she shook her head. "nor i neither. we must wait for daylight for that, and then perchance it will not reveal itself to our eyes. yet it is there. i am certain sure of it; and although it may be something difficult to rescue even now, i doubt not that with patience and time we may succeed. petronella, i will tomorrow to the village nighest at hand, whilst thou dost rest up in yon tree out of the way of all harm, where i have prepared a place of comfort. i will purchase there a suit of boy's clothes for thee to wear whilst thou dost share my forest life; it will be safer for thee, and more commodious likewise. i will also buy us victuals and a coil of rope. then we twain can set to work over our task, and it will be strange indeed if we be balked in it, seeing that the hardest part is already accomplished. the secret is ours!" petronella's eyes sparkled beneath their heavy fringes. there was a spice of adventure and romance about this that could not but be delightful to any young spirit. "thou wilt not then tell our kinsfolk at the chase, and ask their aid in this?" cuthbert shook his head. "i will tell no man aught. i will ask for nothing till the treasure is in mine own hands!" he cried, with a gesture of triumph and pride. "they would believe naught when i spoke of the treasure before. they might even yet laugh us to scorn were we to tell our tale and point to the well as the place. no: we have done all alone thus far; let us do all alone even to the end. time presses not. we have the summer before us. we have possession of this dell, where no foot but that of yon dead man ever dared to tread. he thus removed from our path, none else will spy upon us nor hinder us. we are safer here than in any other spot in the forest. "say, sister, wilt thou be my helper in this labour, be it small or great?" she laid her hand trustingly in his; her dark eyes glowed. "gladly, gladly will i share the labour and the toil, my brother. o cuthbert, it seems a happy and a fitting thing that the luck of the house should return to the trevlyns of the chase through the two poor cousins whom they befriended in their hour of need. they were kind to us when our life was darkest; it will be sweet to think that they will win happiness through us." "ay, and philip's bride will be no longer a portionless damsel, but will have gold enough and to spare. sweet sister, philip hath spoken to me openly of his love. he hath been ere this to ask thee at thy father's hand." "ay, and was driven forth with blows and curses." "thou hast heard it? but thinkest thou he will take that for an answer? nay, petronella, thou wilt one day be his bride; and i will give thee to him with a joyful heart, for he loved thee in the days of our poverty and distress; so that one knows his love is for thee and thee alone, not for the fair dowry thou wilt presently bring." petronella hid her happy, blushing face on her brother's shoulder, and thus they stood awhile, till the girl drew back with a light shiver and said: "cuthbert, can it be right for us thus to stand thinking of our own happiness, whilst he lies there so still and cold?" "i was just about to bid thee give me leave to bury him, whilst thou dost rest thyself awhile. we will not grudge him that last service; and it will be safer and better to do it here than to give notice of his death to the gipsies and outlaws, and so bring them down upon us in this place, provoking perchance their vengeance upon ourselves. i have here a spade, brought to dig after the treasure. i little thought it would first be used to dig long robin's grave. but the task had better be done, and that quickly. the man is dead as a stone. we will bury him away out of our sight ere we do aught beside." petronella assented with a slight shudder. she could not regret the death of the giant gipsy, who himself made so light of human life, and would have slain her brother before her eyes without a qualm. but she shivered each time she looked at the motionless form, and was glad when, after some hours of hard work beneath the trees, cuthbert succeeded in dragging the corpse away and in covering it up from sight. kneeling beside the rude grave, the girl breathed a prayer for the soul of the departed man, and repeated many an ave and paternoster, in the hope of smoothing for him his passage into eternity (being still considerably imbued with the teachings of her early life, which the newer and clearer faith had by no means eradicated), and then she rose comforted and relieved, feeling as though a dark weight had passed from her spirit. daylight had now come, and the girl was very weary. she looked so wan and white that cuthbert was alarmed, and fed her tenderly with the best his wallet could supply; after which he took her up to his nest in the sycamore, first bringing the rug that was lying in the hollow tree to wrap around her. there he succeeded in making her so comfortable and secure that she fell asleep almost at once, and he was hopeful she would sleep the whole time of his absence, for she was worn out with fatigue, and only just recovering from an illness. how she had borne the fatigues of that night he scarce knew; but she possessed her share of the trevlyn tenacity of purpose, and her strong will had conquered the feebleness of her frame. it was a satisfaction to see her sink into a tranquil sleep, and secure in the certainty that she could not be seen by any person entering the dell. certain that none but a chance traveller ever did come nigh this haunted spot, he was not afraid to leave her; and after studying the simple contrivance by which the round slab was raised and lowered in the well, he dropped it to its former position, and went on his way to the village with a light heart. the secret of the lost treasure, he was fully certain, was now his; and though the work of rescue might require time and patience and labour, he was convinced it could be accomplished, and that he, with the help of his sister, should find himself competent for the task. it was evening before he returned, but he found petronella where he had left her. she had slept almost unbrokenly throughout the day, and was now greatly refreshed and invigorated. the air of the forest and the sweet breath of the pines were enough, as she said, to give her new life; and she descended eagerly to meet and greet her brother, and to examine the purchases he had made. the first excitement was the ass who bore the heavy load. cuthbert had had some trouble in making a way for the creature to pass down into the dell; but once here, he would never stray away of his own accord. indeed, he appeared to have no disposition that way, for he began at once to crop the emerald sward around the well with an air of great contentment, whilst cuthbert unloaded him and displayed his purchases to his sister. "there is thy suit, young peter," he said with a smile. "i trow thou wilt make a pretty boy, and wilt find thyself more fitted for our new life thus habited, and canst rove in the forest thus clad, an thou hast a mind that way, more safely than thou couldest in a maid's dress. and here is wine to put some colour into thy pale cheeks, and food to last us many a day, and blankets to wrap about us by night when the wind blows chill, and this heavy cloak to keep the rain from thee when the skies weep. and see, here is a rope which i trow will let me to the very bottom of the well, an we can once turn the water some other way; and the ass can drag me forth again--and the treasure likewise--when once this matter has been accomplished. the hot, dry weather is coming apace. men say already that the springs be something low. all this favours our plans; and if i can find the spring that feeds this well, as like enough i may, then will i make shift to turn its waters another way, and the pixies' well shall be dry!" petronella gazed at him in surprise. "brother, whence comes all this knowledge to thee? i should never have dreamed such a thing might be!" "but i have read of such things being done ere now," answered cuthbert eagerly. "i have spent many an hour at master cole's shop upon the bridge reading of such matters--how men mine and counter-mine, and dig and delve, and sink wells and drain them, and do many strange things of which we never dreamed in past days. in times of war it is wondrous how many shifts of that or like kind they think of and perform. i little thought how soon i myself should want some such thing accomplished; but i read all eagerly, and master anthony cole explained much that perplexed me; and i trow i might e'en do some such thing myself, with thee and this patient beast to help me in my toil!" it was with undisguised admiration that petronella regarded her brother, and very happy and merry was the meal taken together beside the well under the green-wood trees. it was hard to realize that this smiling girl, with the faint pink bloom in her cheek, and the bright eager eyes, was the cowed and sorrowful petronella of a few days back. cuthbert looked at her with glad pride as she talked to him and petted the docile ass, who came and stood beside them and got a full share of such things as were pleasant to his palate. petronella had never had the care of a live thing before, and was delighted with the affection shown towards her at once by the gentle creature. her sleep that night in the tree was sound and refreshing; and when she joined cuthbert, dressed in her suit of boys' garments; laughing, blushing, and delighted with the freedom of motion that they gave her; he found it hard to believe it was really petronella, and vowed it would not be hard to call her peter, for that there was little enough of the petronella of old days to be found in her. and from that day forward a happy life began for the brother and sister thus strangely located in the pixies' dell. each day saw the girl growing stronger, brighter, and happier, till she could scarcely believe it was so short a time since she had fled from her father's house; whilst cuthbert, intent upon his plans and his engineering operations, grew brown and muscular and self reliant, watching carefully and tenderly over his sister, but spending his time in healthful toil, and in working out self-imposed problems, confident that these would in the end succeed in enabling him to carry out the purpose of his heart. the pixies' well proved very deep. soundings taken by the rope showed that only too clearly. the water flowed three feet over the false bottom robin had contrived the better to conceal his hiding place, whilst below that there was fully ten feet of water; and petronella's face grew long as she saw the result of the sounding, for she could not imagine how any treasure could be got at that lay thirteen feet below the surface of the water. "never mind that, sister mine," said cuthbert. "belike it is to that very fact that it owes its long safety. even robin must have known that to bring it forth again must be a matter of time and patience. he could not visit it in a moment of haste or fright, and filch a piece away as he would. doubtless the place was chosen by the old long robin of past days for the very difficulty there must be in bringing forth the prize. i have often thought that no buried treasure could so long have escaped prying hands and covetous spirits. bit by bit some would have gone. it is the water that has been the best protection." petronella saw the force of that argument; but as she leaned over the wall, trying to peer into the dark depths whilst cuthbert talked of his scheme for draining it dry, she heaved a little sigh, and said: "and what if, after all that long labour, there be no treasure there in spite of all we believe?" he looked a little taken aback, but was struck by the practical nature of the suggestion. he pondered awhile, and then he spoke. "that is a thought worthy of consideration," he said. "it were a foolish thing to waste the whole summer only to be deceived in the end. "peter," he added suddenly, as if struck by a new idea, "i am no fearer of water. i can dive and swim, and i have long wind, and can hold my breath a great while. thinkest thou that if i were to leap into the well and dive to the bottom, thou couldst give me the rope when i reappeared, and with the aid of the ass pull me forth again? i can dive through the water, i trow, albeit the well is none too wide. but i could not climb the steep stone sides; thou and the ass must help me there." petronella was a little timid of the experiment lest harm should befall her brother, and persuaded him at last to tie the rope about him ere he dived, so that in the event of his striking his head, or in any other way hurting himself, she would have power to pull him up and out, even if he should have lost consciousness. after making her promise not to use this power unless she were fully persuaded he was in some difficulty and unable to help himself, cuthbert consented to this amendment; and when all preparations were complete he balanced himself for a moment on the edge of the well, and then launched himself downwards in a line as straight as an arrow. eagerly and breathlessly petronella watched for his reappearance, holding her own breath the while, as though in some way that would help the diver. he was long gone, as it seemed to her. she had been forced to take one deep respiration, and was almost tempted to pull at the rope in her hand, when the water suddenly became again disturbed and full of bubbles, and a head appeared above it again. "cuthbert!" she exclaimed, in a tone of glad relief, "o cuthbert, what hast thou found?" he was clinging to the rope with one hand; the other was beneath the water out of sight. he raised his eyes, and said between his gasping breaths: "draw me up; the water is chill as ice!" from the sound of his voice she could not tell whether success had crowned the attempt or not. she turned without another word, and led the donkey onwards, gently drawing cuthbert from the depths of the well. as she did so he gave a sudden shout of triumph, and springing over the side of the wall, flung at her feet a solid golden flagon richly chased, with the arms of the trevlyns engraved upon it. "i scarce dared to look at what i had got as i came up!" he cried, as he sprang high into the air in the exuberance of his spirit; "but that will lay all doubt at rest. the lost treasure of trevlyn is lost no longer, and cuthbert and petronella have found it!" chapter : "saucy kate." "wife, what ails the child?" lady frances trevlyn raised her calm eyes from her embroidery, and gave one swift glance around the room, as if to make sure that she and her husband were alone. "dost thou speak of kate?" she asked then in a low voice. "ay, marry i do," answered sir richard, as he took the seat beside the glowing hearth, near to his wife's chair, which was his regular place when he was within doors. "i scarce know the child again in some of her moods. she was always wayward and capricious, but as gay and happy as the day was long--as full of sunshine as a may morning. whence come, then, all these vapours and reveries and bursts of causeless weeping? i have found her in tears more oft these last three months than in all the years of her life before; and though she strives to efface the impression by wild outbreaks of mirth, such as we used of old to know, there is something hollow and forced about these merry moods, and the laugh will die away the moment she is alone, and a look will creep upon her face that i like not to see." "thou hast watched her something closely, richard." "ay, truly i have. i would have watched any child of mine upon whom was passing so strange a change; but thou knowest that kate has ever been dear to me--i have liked to watch her in her tricksy moods. she has been more full of affection for me than her graver sisters, and even her little whims and faults that we have had to check have but endeared her to me the more. the whimsies of the child have often brought solace to my graver cares. i love kate right well, and like not to see this change in her. what dost thou think of it, goodwife?" lady frances shook her head gravely. "methinks the child has something on her mind, and her sisters think so likewise, but what it is we none of us can guess. she keeps her secret well." "it is not like kate to have a secret; it is still less like her to hide it." "that is what i feel. i have looked day by day and hour by hour for her to come to me or to thee to tell what is in her mind. but the weeks have sped by and her lips are still sealed, and, as thou sayest, she is losing her gay spirits, or else her gaiety is over wild, but doth not ring true; and there is a look in her eyes that never used to be there, and which i like not." "i know the look well--one of wistful, unsatisfied longing. it goes to my heart to see it there. and hast thou noted that the bloom is paling in her cheeks, and that she will sit at home long hours, dreaming in the window seat or beside the hearth, when of old she was for ever scouring the woods, and coming home laden with flowers or ferns or berries? i like it not, nor do i understand it. and thou sayest her sisters know not the cause? i thought that young maidens always talked together of their secrets." "kate doth not. i have talked with cecilia anent the matter, and she knows not the cause. bess has opined that this change first appeared when it was decided that we went not to london this year, as we had talked of doing earlier in the summer. bess says she noted then how disappointed kate appeared; and she is of opinion that she has never been the same since." sir richard stroked his beard with meditative gravity, and looked into the fire. "it is true that the change has come upon her since that decision was made; and yet i find it something difficult to think that such was the cause. kate never loved the life of the city, and was wild with delight when she first tasted the sweets of freedom in these woods and gardens. she loves her liberty right well, and has said a thousand times how glorious a thing it is to range at will as she does here. capricious as the child has often shown herself, it is hard to believe that she is pining already for what she left with so glad a heart. it passes my understanding; i know not what to think." lady frances raised her eyes for a moment to her husband's face, and then asked quietly: "hast thou ever thought whether some secret love may be the cause of all?" the knight started and looked full at his wife. "i have indeed thought some such thing, but i can scarce believe that such is the case with our kate." "yet it is often so when maidens change and grow pale and dreamy, and sit brooding and thinking when erst they laughed and played. kate is double the woman she was six months gone by. she will sit patiently at her needle now, when once she would throw it aside after one short hour; and she will seek to learn all manner of things in the still room and pantry that she made light of a short while back, as matters of no interest or concern to her. she would make an excellent housewife if she had the mind, as i have always seen; and now she does appear to have the mind, save when her fits of gloom and sadness be upon her, and everything becomes a burden." sir richard looked aroused and interested. a smile stole over his face. "our saucy kate in love, and that secretly! marry, that is something strange; and yet i am not sorry at the thought, for i feared her fancy was something too much taken by her cousin culverhouse; and since his father must look for a large dower for his son's bride, our kate could never have been acceptable to him. nor do i like the marriage of cousins so close akin, albeit in these times men are saying that there be no ill in such unions." lady frances shook her head gravely. "i would sooner see daughter of mine wedded in a lowlier sphere. my heart shrinks from the thought of seeing any child of ours in the high places of this world. there be snares and pitfalls abounding there. we have seen enough to know so much. there be bitter strivings and envyings and hatreds amongst those of lofty degree. i would have my children wed with godly and proper men; but i would sooner give them to simple gentlemen of no high-sounding title, than to those whose duties in life will call them to places round about the throne, and will throw them amidst the turmoil of court life." sir richard smiled at this unworldly way of looking at things; but the trevlyns had suffered from being somewhat too well known at court, and he understood the feeling. "truly we live in perilous times," he said thoughtfully, "and obscurity is often the best security for happiness and well being. but to return to kate. if she is truly forgetting her girlish fancy for her cousin, as i would gladly believe--and she has not set eyes on him this year and more--towards whom can her fancy be straying?" "thou dost not think she can be pining after her cousin?" "nay, surely not," was the quick and decided answer. "had she pined it would have been at the first, when they were separated from each other, and thou knowest how gay and happy she was then. it is but these past few months that we have seen the change. depend upon it, there is some one else. would that it might be good sir robert fortescue, who has been here so much of late, and has paid much attention to our saucy kate! wife, what thinkest thou of that? he is an excellent good man, and would make a stanch and true husband. he is something old for the child, for sure; but there is no knowing how the errant fancy of maidenhood will stray." "i would it might be so," answered lady frances. "sir robert is a good and a godly man, and i would gladly give our restless, capricious kate to one who could be father and husband in one. but i confess the thought had not come to me, nor had i thought that he came hither to seek him a wife." sir richard smiled meaningly. "nor had i until of late; but i begin to think that is his object. he pays more heed to the girls than he did when first he came to visit us, and he has dropped a word here and a hint there, all pointing in one direction. and dost thou not note that our kate is often brightest and best when he is by? i had never thought before that her girlish fancy might have been caught by his gray hair and soldier-like air; yet many stranger things have happened. wife, dost thou think it can be?" "i would it were; it would be well for all. i will watch and see, and do thou likewise. i had not thought the child's fancy thus taken; but if it were so, i should rejoice. he would be a good husband and a kind one, and our headstrong second daughter will need control as well as love in the battle of life." so the parents watched with anxious eyes, eager to see some indication which should encourage them in this newly-formulated hope. when once the idea had been started, it seemed to both as if nothing could be better than a marriage between their high-spirited but affectionate and warm-hearted daughter and this knight of forty summers, who had won for himself wealth and fame, and a soldier's reputation for unblemished honour and courage in many foreign lands. if not exactly the man to produce an immediate impression on the heart of a young girl, he might well win his way to favour in time; and certainly it did seem as though kate took pleasure in listening to his stories of flood and field, whilst her bright eyes and merry saucy ways (for she was still her old bright self at times, and never more frequently so than in the company of sir robert) appeared very attractive to him. when we are increasingly wishful for a certain turn in affairs, and begin sedulously to watch for it, unconsciously setting ourselves to work to aid and abet, and push matters on to the desired consummation, it is wonderful how easy it is to believe all is going as we wish, and to see in a thousand little trifling circumstances corroboration of our wishes. before another fortnight had sped by, kate's parents had almost fully persuaded themselves of the truth of their suspicion. they were convinced that the attachment between their child and their guest was advancing rapidly, and a day came when sir richard sought his wife with a very happy expression of countenance. "well, wife, the doubt will shortly be at an end. sir robert has spoken openly at last." "spoken of his love for our kate?" "not in these words, but the meaning is the same. he has asked me if i am willing to entrust one of my daughters to his keeping." "one of our daughters?" repeated lady frances. "and did he not name kate? he cannot love them all." "he spoke of cecilia and kate both," answered sir richard. "sir robert is not a hot-headed youth, full of the fire of a first passion. he wishes an alliance with our house, and he sees that cecilia, with her four years' seniority, would perchance in the eyes of the world be the more suitable wife; and he admires her beauty, and thinks well of her dutifulness, her steadiness, and her many virtues. yet it is kate that takes his fancy most, and if he could hope to win the wayward fancy and the warm heart of our second child, she is the one whom he would fain choose as his own. he has spoken freely and frankly to me, and it comes to this: he would willingly marry cecilia, and doubtless make her an excellent husband, and value the connection with the house of trevlyn; but if he could succeed in winning the love of our saucy kate, he would sooner have her than the more staid sister, only he fears his gray hairs and his wrinkles will unfit him as a suitor for the child. but we, who suspect her heart of turning towards him, have little fear of this. kate's sharp eyes have looked beneath the surface. she has shown that she has a wise head upon her shoulders. so i told sir robert--" "not that the child had loved him unbidden, i trust, my husband? i would not have him think that!" "verily no, goodwife; but i told him there was no man living to whom i would more gladly give a daughter of mine; and that i would sound both of the maidens, and see how their hearts were set towards him. but i trow he went away happy, thinking he might win kate after all. i could not but whisper a word of hope, and tell him how wondrous tame the wild bird had latterly become, and how that her mother had wondered whether thoughts of love had entered into her head." lady frances smiled, half shaking her head the while, yet not entirely displeased even with such an admission as that. she had been watching her daughter closely of late, and she had tried to think as she wished to think; the consequence being that she had reached a very decided conclusion in accordance with her desires, and had small doubts as to the state of her daughter's heart. "i verily believe the child's sadness has come from the fear that her youth will stand as a bar to her happiness. she knows sir robert is old enough to be her father, and fears that his attentions are paid as to a child. thus has she striven to grow more wise, more womanly, more fit to be the mistress of his house. methinks i see it all. and what is the next thing to be done? must we speak with the child?" "ay, verily; for i have promised an answer to sir robert before many days have passed. he is to come again at the week's end, and his bride is to be presented to him. thinkest thou that cecilia will be grieved to find her younger sister preferred before her? does she, too, think aught of sir robert?" "i trow she likes him well, though whether she has thought of him as husband or lover i know not. she is more discreet than kate, and can better hide her feelings. i doubt not were her hand asked she would give it gladly; but more than that i cannot say." "then let us hope her heart has not been deeply touched, for i should be sorry to give her pain. but let us incontinently send for kate hither at once to us. i shall rejoice to see the light of untroubled happiness shining once again in those bright eyes. i would fain see my saucy kate her own self again ere she leaves us as a wedded wife." so kate was summoned, and came before her parents with something of timidity in her aspect, looking furtively from one to the other, as if a question trembled on her lips that she did not dare to utter. she had changed in many ways from the gay, laughing girl of a few months back. there were the same resolution and individuality in the expression of the face, and the delicate features had by no means lost all their old animation and bloom; but there was greater depth in the dark eyes, and more earnestness and gravity in the expression of both eyes and mouth. there was added sweetness as well as added thoughtfulness; and mingling strangely with these newer expressions was one still stranger on the face of kate--a look of shrinking, almost of fear, as though she were treading some dangerous path, where lurked hidden perils that might at any moment overwhelm her. the swift look of wistful questioning, the nervous movements of the slim hands, the parted lips and quickly coming breath, were not lost upon the parents, who were watching the advance of their daughter with no small interest and curiosity. but the smile upon both faces seemed to reassure the girl; and as her father held out his hand, she came and stood beside him willingly, looking from one to the other with fluttering breath and changing colour. "you sent for me, my father?" "yes, kate; we have somewhat to say to thee, thy mother and i. canst guess what that something is?" a vivid blush for a moment dyed her cheek and as quickly faded; but she did not speak, only shook her head. sir richard gave his wife a quick smile, and took kate's hand in his. "my child," he said, with unwonted tenderness, "why hast thou been keeping a secret from thy mother and me?" kate started and drew her hand away, moving a pace farther off, and regarding her father with wide open, dilated eyes. "a secret!" she faltered, and grew very pale. sir richard smiled, and would have taken her hand once more, but that she glided from his reach, still watching him with an expression he found it hard to read. her mother laid down her embroidery, and studied her face with a look of aroused uneasiness; but the father was utterly without suspicion of approaching any hidden peril, and continued in the same kindly tones. "nay, now, my girl, thou needest not fear!" he said. "all young maidens give their hearts away in time; and so as thou givest thine worthily, neither thy father nor thy mother will chide." kate gave one or two gasps, and then spoke with impassioned earnestness. "o father, i could not help it! i strove against it as long as i might. i feared it was a thing that must not be. but love was too strong. i could not fight for ever." "tut--tut, child! why shouldest thou fight? why didst thou not speak to thy mother? girls may breathe a secret into a mother's ear that is not to be spoke elsewhere. thou shouldest have told her, child, and have spared thyself much weary misery." kate's head was hung very low; neither parent could see her face. "i did not dare," she answered softly; "i knew that i was wrong. i feared to speak." "thou art a strange mixture of courage and fear, my saucy kate. i would once have vowed that thou wouldst fear not to speak aloud every thought of thy heart. but love changes all, i ween, and makes sad cowards of the boldest of us. and so thou didst wait till he declared his love, and fretted out thy heart in silence the while?" kate lifted her head and looked at her father, a faint perplexity in her eyes. "nay, i ever knew he loved me. it was that i feared thy displeasure, my father. i had heard thee say--" "nothing against sir robert, i warrant me," cried sir richard heartily; whilst kate took one backward step and exclaimed: "methought sir robert was cecilia's lover! why speak you to me of him, my father?" sir richard rose to his feet in great perplexity, looking at his wife, who was pale and agitated. "cecilia's lover--what meanest thou, child?" he asked quickly. "i was speaking to thee of thine own lover. sir robert would fain wed with thee, and methought thou hadst already given him thy heart." "no--no--no!" cried kate, shrinking yet further away. "i had no thoughts of him. o father, how couldst thou think it? he is a kind friend; but i have thought him cecilia's knight, and i trow she thinks of him thus herself." lady frances now spoke to her daughter for the first time, fixing her eyes upon her, and addressing her with composure, although visibly struggling against inward agitation. "listen to me, daughter kate. thou hast spoken words which, if they refer not to sir robert, as thy father and i believed, have need to be explained. thou hast spoken of loving and of being beloved; what dost thou mean by that? who is he that has dared--" "o mother, thou knowest that; thou hast heard it a hundred times. it is culverhouse, my cousin, who--" but sir richard's face had clouded suddenly over. he had set his heart on marrying kate to his friend sir robert, who would, he believed, make her an excellent husband; and he had long ago given a half pledge to lord andover to thwart and oppose the youthful attachment which was showing itself between kate and culverhouse. the earl wished a grand match for his son, and the trevlyn pride was strong in sir richard, who would never have had a daughter of his wed where she was not welcome. he also disliked marriages between first cousins, and made of that a pretext for setting his face against the match, whilst remaining on perfectly friendly terms with the viscount and all his family. he had hoped and quite made up his mind that that boy-and-girl fancy had been laid at rest for ever, and was not a little annoyed at hearing the name of her cousin fall so glibly from kate's lips. "silence, foolish girl!" he said sternly. "hast thou not been told a hundred times to think no more of him? how dost thou dare to answer thy mother thus? culverhouse! thou knewest well that he is no match for thee. it is wanton folly to let thy wayward fancy dwell still on him. methought thou hadst been cured of that childish liking long since. but if it has not been so, thou shalt soon be cured now!" kate shrank back, for her father had seldom looked so stern, and there was an inflexibility about his aspect that was decidedly formidable. no one knew better than his favourite daughter that when once the limit of his forbearance was reached, there was no hope of any further yielding, and that he could be hard as flint or adamant; so it was with a look of terror in her eyes that she shrank yet further away as she asked: "what dost thou mean, my father? what dost thou mean?" "i mean, kate," answered sir richard, not unkindly, but so resolutely that his words fell upon her ear like a knell, "that the best and safest plan of curing thee of thy fond and foolish fancy, which can never come to good, is to wed thee with a man who will make thee a kind and loving husband, and will maintain thee in the state to which thou hast been born. wherefore, prepare to wed with sir robert fortescue without delay, for to him i will give thy hand in wedlock so soon as we can have thee ready to be his bride." kate stood for a moment as if transfixed and turned to stone, and then she suddenly sank upon her knees at her father's feet. "father," she said, in a strange, choked voice, that indicated an intense emotion and agitation, "thou canst not make me the wife of another; for methinks i am well nigh, if not altogether, the wife of my cousin culverhouse." "what?" almost shouted sir richard, making one step forward and seizing his daughter by the arm. "wretched girl, what is this that thou sayest? the wife of thy cousin culverhouse! shame upon thee for so base a falsehood! how dost thou dare to frame thy lips to it?" "it is no falsehood!" answered kate, with flashing eyes, springing to her feet and confronting her parents with all her old courage, and with a touch of defiance. "i would have kneeled to ask your pardon for my rashness, for my disobedience, for the long concealment; but i am no liar, i speak but the truth. listen, and i will tell all. it was on may day, and i rode forth into the forest and distanced pursuit, and joined my cousin culverhouse, as we had vowed to do. we thought then of naught but the joy of a day together in the forest, and had not dreamed of such a matter as wedlock. but then to the church porch came one calling himself a priest. they say he comes every year, and weds all who will come to him. and many did. and culverhouse and i stood before him, and he joined our hands, and we made our vows, and he pronounced us man and wife before all assembled there. and whether it be binding wedlock or no, it is to us a solemn betrothal made before god and man; and not all the commands thou couldst lay upon me, my father, could make me stand up and vow myself to another as i have vowed myself to culverhouse. i should hold myself forsworn; i should be guilty of the vilest crime in the world. thou wilt not ask it of me. thou canst not know, even as i do not know, whether that wedlock is not valid before man, as it is before god." a thunderbolt falling between them could scarcely have produced more astonishment and dismay. lady frances sank back in her seat white with horror and bewilderment, whilst sir richard stood as if turned to stone; and when at last he was able to speak, it was to order kate to her room in accents of the sternest anger, bidding her not to dare to leave it until he brought her forth himself. kate fled away gladly enough, her mind rent in twain betwixt remorse at her own disobedience and deceit, triumph in having stopped sir robert's suit by so immovable an obstacle, and relief that the truth was out at last, even though her own dire disgrace was the result. the secret had preyed terribly on her mind of late, and had been undermining her health and spirits. terrible as the anger of her parents might be, anything to her open nature seemed better than concealment; and she dashed up to her own room in a whirl of conflicting emotions, sinking down upon the floor when she reached it to try to get into order her chaotic thoughts. meantime husband and wife, left alone to their astonishment, stood gazing at each other in blank amaze. "husband," said lady frances at last, "surely such wedlock is not lawful?" "i cannot tell," he answered gloomily; "belike it is not. yet a troth plight made in so solemn a fashion, and before so many witnesses, is no light thing; and the child may not be wedded to another whilst the smallest shadow of doubt remains. doubtless culverhouse foresaw this, the bold knave, and persuaded the child into it. well it has served his purpose. sir robert must be content with cecilia. but the artfulness of the little jade! i never thought kate would so deceive us--" "it is that that breaks my heart!" cried the mother--"that, and the thought that she should be willing to go before some popish priest and take her vows to him. oh, it cannot be binding on the child--it cannot be binding! and sir robert is stanch in the reformed faith; he is just the husband that wild girl needs. husband, can nothing be done?" sir richard looked very grave. "that would be hard to tell without strict inquiries. i doubt me if we could learn all before next may day, when we might get hold of the man himself and find out who and what he is. such wedlock as his cannot be without flaw, and might be made invalid by law; but, wife, there is no getting over this, that the child took her vows in the name of god, and i dare not act as though such vows were unspoken. her youth and ignorance may plead in part for her. she scarce knew the solemnity of the step she was taking. culverhouse won upon her and over persuaded her, i do not doubt. i do not seek to excuse her. i am grievously displeased and disappointed. but i cannot and i will not give her to sir robert; cecilia must be his wife." "then kate must be sent away," said lady frances, gravely and severely; "i cannot and will not have her here, mixing as before with her sisters with this cloud hanging upon her, with this secret still shadowing her life. she has proved unworthy of our confidence. i am more pained and displeased than i can say. she must go. she must not be able to tell cecilia that she might have been lady fortescue but for her marriage with culverhouse. she is no longer to be trusted. she must go forth from home as a punishment for her wrongdoing. i feel that i cannot bear to see her about the house, knowing how she has deceived us. she shall go forth this very day." sir richard stood considering. he too was deeply displeased with his daughter, though he had some sympathy with the ardent and impulsive lovers, who had got themselves into a queer plight, and had thrown much perplexity upon others. but he decidedly agreed with his wife that it would be better for kate to go--and to go in disgrace, that she might feel herself punished by being severed from her sisters when the first wedding of the family was taking place (save her own woodland nuptials). and it would doubtless save some natural embarrassment to sir robert himself to have one of the sisters out of the way before he formally espoused the other; though, to be sure, such a proposition as his had been was a common enough thing in those days. "it would be good to send her away; but whither can she go?" "where better than to lady humbert and mistress dowsabel, who have ofttimes asked us to send a daughter to enliven their dull solitude? we have ever excused them on account of their youth and high spirits, fearing they would be moped to death in that dismal place; but it will be the very house for our wayward kate to go to repent of her ill deeds. if you will write a letter to them, we will send it forthwith by a mounted messenger, and the answer will be back before dark. if she is to go, she can start with the first light of tomorrow morning, and we can get her mails packed ready tonight; for she must not disgrace her state, but must be furnished with all things fitting to her condition." sir richard thought that no other plan better than this could be devised for his erring daughter; and though he could not but feel some compassion for the girl, condemned to be the companion of a pair of aged and feeble gentlewomen such as his aunts had long been, was nevertheless of opinion that the captivity and dullness would be salutary, and despatched his letter without delay. that same night kate, who had passed the long hours in weeping and rejoicing, and in all those conflicting phases of feeling common to the young, heard with a mixture of' pleasure and dismay that she was to be sent in disgrace to the keeping of her great aunts, and that without delay; also that she was not even to say goodbye to her sisters, or to see them again until something had been decided as to her future and the validity of her wilful espousals. she was made to feel that she had committed a terrible sin, and one that her parents would find it hard to forgive; yet she could not help exulting slightly in the thought that they had been obliged to take the matter so seriously; and she had a dim hope that her aged relatives, when she did come to them, might not prove altogether so crabbed and cross as she had always been led to suppose. perhaps she might find a warm corner even in their old hearts. chapter : the cross way house. with the first light of day the start was to be made. kate, who had slept little, was ready betimes, had dressed herself in her riding suit long before she was sent for, and was employing herself in wondering if she would after all be permitted to say farewell to her sisters, and whether she should have an opportunity of asking her mother's pardon for her wrongdoing in this matter of her secret espousals. the girl had suffered a good deal during these past months. she had not realized when yielding to culverhouse's persuasions how hard it would be to live beneath her parents' roof with this secret preying on her mind. she had not realized what a weight it would become in time, and she had looked for a speedy meeting with her cousin and betrothed in london, whither sir richard had intended taking his family for a while before the autumn set in. kate had looked forward then to making her confession to her parents and his, and winning pardon for them both, as she felt sure of doing when she had his support in the telling of the tale. but the change of her father's plans, and the absence from england of lord culverhouse, who had been sent on a mission to france by his father, put an end to all these hopes, and she had felt the burden of her secret heavy indeed. moreover, she was fearful lest culverhouse should in some sort repent him of the step he had taken and wish it undone. kate had but a small share of vanity, and only a very modest appreciation of her own attractions, and it seemed to her as though her cousin, moving as he did in the gay world of fashion, must surely see many other maidens tenfold more beautiful and graceful. suppose he were to repent of his secret betrothal; suppose his troth plight weighed heavy on his spirit? what misery that would be for both! and during these long months of silence such thoughts and fears had preyed upon the girl's spirit, and had produced in her the change that both her parents had observed. wherefore now that the confession had been made, and the burdensome secret was a secret no longer, a reaction set in that was almost like relief. she felt certain, since all was known, that culverhouse would come forward and stand boldly beside her and lay claim to her hand before the world as he had talked of doing when he had led her to the troth plight on that may day that seemed so long ago now. even the thought of the journey and the visit to her father's great aunts was not altogether distasteful. she was more afraid of meeting her mother's sorrowful glances than stern ones from strangers. kate had no lack of courage, and the love of variety and change was implanted in her as strongly as it is in most young things; so that when philip knocked at her door as the first rays of the october sun were gilding the trees and fields, it was with a smiling face that she opened to him, whilst he looked at her with something of smiling surprise in his glance. "art ready, my sister? the horses will be at the door in a few short minutes. i am glad to see thee so bright and happy. i had feared to discover thee bathed in tears of woe." "perchance i ought to be heavier hearted than i am," answered kate, with a swift glance at philip through her long lashes. "i do repent me that i have angered our father and mother. i know that i have been wrong to keep the secret; perchance i was wrong to let culverhouse persuade me. but that the thing is done i cannot truly repent; the only thing which would make me wish that vow unsaid would be if culverhouse were to wish to be free of his troth plight." "which i trow he never will be," answered philip warmly, as he laid his hand on kate's shoulder. those two were very near akin in spirit and in sympathy. kate knew all his love for petronella, and his anxiety for her since her flight (though he fully believed her to be in hiding with cuthbert in the forest, albeit he had not been able to discover them), and he had strong fellow feeling with the impulsive lovers. "he has never loved any but thee, my sister, since the days we played together as children. save that concealment ever leads to trouble, and that wedlock vows are too sacred to be made playthings of, i could find it in my heart to wish that petronella and i were wed in like fashion. but our mother is sorely grieved at what thou hast done--going before a tonsured priest, with none of thine own kindred by, to take vows which should have had the sanction of thy parents before they passed thy lips, and should have been made in different fashion and in a different place. howbeit no doubt time will soften her anger, and she will grow reconciled to the thought. when we have made all inquiries anent this priest and his ways, my father and i will to london to speak with lord andover of this business. i trust all will end well for thee, sister. but thou must learn in thy captivity to be a patient and discreet maiden, that they do not fear to give thee to culverhouse at last, since it must needs be so." kate looked up gratefully, comforted by the kind tone of her brother's words. "in very sooth i will try, philip. i thank thee for thy good counsel. i will be patient and discreet towards my great aunts. i will strive to show them all due reverence, that they may satisfy my mother when she makes inquiry of them." kate long remembered the ride with her father and brother through the forest and across the heath that day. her father was stern and grave, and scarcely addressed a single word to her. philip and she talked a little, but were affected by this silence of displeasure, and observed a befitting decorum and quietness. sir richard made his daughter take him to the spot of her troth plight, and show him exactly how and where it had taken place. as they stopped to bait the horses at the little hostelry, he made various inquiries concerning the priest and his annual visitation to the wake on may day, and his face looked none the less severe as he heard the replies. "methinks the knot hath been something tightly tied--too tight for it to be easily unloosed," whispered philip to his sister as he lifted her to the saddle after the noontide halt; and she could not but answer by a bright smile, which she saw reflected in his face. the day, which had been bright and fine, turned dull and lowering as the riders neared the cross way house, as the residence of lady humbert was called; and kate looked curiously at the house as they approached it, wondering what sort of a life its inmates led. to her eyes, accustomed to the seclusion of park and grounds, the most striking feature of this house was that it stood actually upon the road itself. it occupied an angle of the cross formed by the junction of four roads, and its north and east windows looked out straight upon these two highways, with nothing intervening between them but some twenty feet of paved walk enclosed behind walls ten feet high, and guarded by strong gates of wrought iron. doubtless to the south and west there were gardens and grounds. the walls seemed to run a long way along the road, and kate felt certain that she should find seclusion and privacy there. she could see tall trees rearing their heads above the wall, and was certain from the aspect of the house, which was sufficiently imposing, that she should find within the ease and luxury to which she was accustomed. on the whole, she rather liked the prospect of looking out upon the roads. if culverhouse were to ride by, she could signal to him from the windows. she could watch the fine folk passing to and fro on their way to london. possibly a belated traveller might ask shelter at the house, and amuse them with tales of adventure and peril. kate had time to think of many things as their horses stood at the gates awaiting admittance; and when these were thrown back at last, and they rode through an archway and into a centre courtyard round which the house was built, the girl was delighted with everything; for the quadrangular structure was a novelty to her, and a novelty which took her fancy not a little. there were servants to look after the horses; and it was plain the travellers were expected, for they were quickly ushered into the house by one of the great doors which opened on a wide flight of steps leading down into the court, and were there met by an aged majordomo, who greeted them with ceremonious solemnity. "my lady is looking for you, sir," he said to sir richard; and turning to kate, he added, in the same mechanical fashion, "your maid will show you to your room, madam. my lady will see you after you have recovered from the fatigues of the journey." kate was not in the least fatigued, but she was too well brought up to remonstrate in any way. the maid was hovering in the background; an elderly woman with a capable face and slightly repellent manner. it was plain to kate that her relatives would not receive her till they had learned more of the details of her banishment from home from her father, and had made up their minds how to treat her. she felt that even the serving woman regarded her somewhat in the light of a culprit, and it was with a mind divided betwixt amusement and girlish shame that she followed the attendant into the bed chamber that had been prepared for her. this was a more sumptuous apartment than her room at home, and looked comfortable enough in the glow of the great fire of logs. the hangings of the bed were dark and heavy, and the carved oak furniture was also sombre in its polished blackness; but there was a thick square carpet on the floor, which was a luxury kate had never possessed in her bed chamber before, and the mirrors and silver sconces for the candles all bespoke an ease and luxury that reminded kate of what life would be like when she lived as a countess or viscountess in her own house, with lord culverhouse as lord and master. "this is your room," said the woman. "your mails arrived earlier in the day, and your things have been put away in the cupboard there and in the bureau yonder. my lady gave orders you were to be served with something to eat and drink in your own room, and that she would visit you later. there is another young lady visiting in the house; she will come and see you if you will permit her." "very willingly," answered kate, who was always ready for company, and very curious to know something about these great aunts of hers, whom she had never seen as yet. "i shall be glad of food, as i liked not what they served us with at the inn in the forest. as for the young lady, albeit i know not who she can be, i should gladly welcome her. i have no love for too much of my own company; wherefore the sooner she comes the better shall i be pleased." the woman withdrew, and kate removed her hat and gloves, and looked about her with quick, searching glances. "a good room in sooth, and no bad prison, if prisoner i am to be. and since i may have company, i can scarce be in such dire disgrace as that. i wonder who this visitor may be? some wyvern, belike; but doubtless we shall learn to take pleasure in each other. "soft! are those steps without? yes; and some one knocks at the door. "enter, enter, i pray. i am right glad--what! do my eyes deceive me? sure i am in some strange dream! petronella! surely it cannot be petronella! the features are the same; but the petronella i once knew was wan and frail as a fair wood lily, and thou--nay, but it cannot be!" "but it is--it is!" cried the girl, making a bound forward and flinging her arms round kate's neck in an ecstasy of happiness; "and, o kate, i have seen him again! i saw him ride to the door by thy side! perchance i shall even have words with him ere he journey forth again! ah, how rejoiced was i when i heard that thou wert coming! o kate, i have such news for thee--such news, such news!" the two girls were folded in each other's arms. between every few words they paused to kiss and laugh in the very exuberance of their happiness. it seemed like a dream to kate; she could scarce believe her eyes. "petronella--but how earnest thou here?" "i came when the weather grew so inclement that cuthbert would no longer let me share his forest life. he brought me to this house, and our aunts, when they heard our story, opened their doors to me; and i have been here three whole weeks--ever since the summer's heats broke in storms of rain. but here i go by the name of ellen wyvern, lest haply it should come to my father's ears that i am here, and he should fetch me away. but i have almost ceased to quake at that thought; i have had my freedom so long." "i scarce know thee, thou art so changed--so full of sunshine and courage," cried kate. "erstwhile thou wert like a creature of moonlight and vapour; a breath seemed as though it would blow thee away. what has befallen to change thee so? what hast thou been doing all this while? and where is cuthbert?" "cuthbert is yet in the forest," answered petronella, sinking her voice to the merest whisper, as if afraid that even the walls would have ears. "his task is not yet finished. it is one that takes great skill and patience and watchfulness. but it is being accomplished by slow and sure degrees. ah, kate! what news thinkest thou that i have for thee? the time has not yet come when the world may know all; but i trow that thou mayest know, for thou hast ever been with us in the secret of the quest." kate's face flushed and paled; her heart beat fast with hope and wonder. she well knew what difference to her future would be made by the restoration to the house of trevlyn of that lost treasure. she could scarce frame the words she longed to speak, but her eyes asked the question for her; and petronella, putting her lips close to her cousin's ear, whispered the wondrous news that the lost treasure was found. "found--really found!" and kate gave a great gasp. "nay, but, petronella, tell me how." petronella laid a warning hand upon kate's lips. "nay, cousin, but thou must call me ellen here. and we must wait till the household be at rest, and we share the same bed, ere i dare to pour into thine ears all the tale. and thou must promise to breathe no word of it, bad nor good, till the moment has come for the world to know. it will not be long now, i trow; but we are pledged, and were it not that i know well thou art stanch and true, i dared not have shared the joyful secret with thee." "it is safe with me," cried kate; "i will never betray it. o ellen, how i long to hear the whole! but since that may not be now, tell me more of these great aunts of ours. what treatment am i to look for beneath their roof? am i to be received as kinswoman or as prisoner? for marry i know not myself." petronella's face kindled into smiles, those bright happy smiles that gave it a charm never seen in past days. she bent an arch glance upon her cousin, and then made reply. "the lady humbert is a fine stately dame, before whom my heart quailed mightily when first i stood before her. her voice is sharp; her eyes look you through and through; her frown sets you quaking, and makes you wish the earth would swallow you up. but for all that, when once you get to know her, you find that a warm heart beats beneath her stiff bodice, and that though she will speak sharply to you before your face, she will do you many a kind act of which you know little or nothing. mistress dowsabel is younger, smaller, less fearsome to the eye; indeed she is timorous and often full of fears herself. she too is kind, though i truly think that lady humbert has the larger heart. they love each other well, and are willing to befriend all who have claims of kindred. for the rest, they live much secluded from the world, and think that the times are sadly changed for the worse since the days when they were young." "and what think they of me?" asked kate, with natural girlish self consciousness. petronella repeated her arch glance. "to me they say that thou art a wilful maid who needest watching and stern guarding. they shake their heads at such loose marriage, and tell me to take warning and not fall into like folly and sin through overmuch love of my own way. but i heard them talking together of thee when they forgot that i was by; and then there was something different in their words, and i could scarce forbear to smile." "what said they then?" asked kate eagerly. "my lady humbert, she said that lord andover was a good man and stanch, and that all spoke well of his son. they added that if thou wouldst one day be countess of andover, they would gladly think that thou wouldst worthily fill that place. aunt dowsabel asked if thou hadst made a good beginning in this hasty marriage or troth plight of thine; whereat lady humbert gave a laugh, and said she was glad that thou hadst had the spirit of thy ancestors in thee, and that for her part, if you were both true and stanch in your love, she saw small harm in letting love have the mastery over prudence. and then it turned out, as i learned from their talk, that she herself had run away to be married when she was a girl, and that she had never for one hour repented the act. so she plainly felt that thou wast her own kinswoman in all faith; and although she may speak to thee with stern rebuke, thou mayest know in thy heart that she thinks kindly of thee, and that she will stand thy friend with thy father, and make the peace with thy mother if she may." kate's face flushed happily. "nay, now, that is good hearing! why did we not know these good aunts before? i can go before them with a light heart now. i repent me of nothing save that i displeased my parents, and hid the matter from them all this while. i trow i shall never repent that i let culverhouse persuade me to plight my troth to him." kate was glad of the assurance petronella's words had given her when she was presently summoned before her relatives, and stood in the dim panelled room before their straight-backed chairs, feeling the stern eyes of lady humbert fixed full upon her, whilst she heard that her father and brother had already left, since it was only pain and grief to them to be beneath the same roof as their obdurate and disobedient daughter and sister. kate received the lecture addressed her by the mistress of the house with all becoming humility, and without that sinking of heart that she might otherwise have felt at the cold stern tone; and she gladly passed her word, when desired to do so, not to go beyond the precincts of the great walled garden without special permission. in her walks and rides abroad she was always to be attended, and was to promise never to slip away from her escort. if she would faithfully promise this, she might be allowed the companionship of ellen wyvern, now a guest beneath the roof of cross way house; and to give this promise cost kate no pang, for she had no feverish desire after unfettered liberty, but was content to await the time she knew must shortly come now, when culverhouse would come to claim her for his own, and would find her no longer the portionless maiden she once had been, but dowered with some of the rich spoil from that long-lost hoard. supper was served in solemn state in the dining parlour, and the two girls sat with their aged relatives to partake of it. petronella was a little sad that philip had gone without even knowing of her presence beneath that roof: but she was certain their meeting would not be much longer delayed, and was content to wait. the wyvern sisters did not keep a great establishment, as their means were not large, though they clung to the old house which had come down to them, and would have sacrificed much rather than sell it. but kate soon discovered that the largest rooms were shut up and partially dismantled in order that comfort should reign in those parts of the house that were habitually used; that the staff of servants was but small; and that of these nearly all were old men and women who had grown gray and enfeebled in the service of the family, and were kept on by the present mistresses, who themselves disliked any changes in their establishment, and who could hardly see their way to finding the wages that able-bodied servants would look to receive. so they lived in this very quiet fashion, surrounded by retainers almost as aged as themselves, and led on the whole a happy and a placid life. petronella was proving of so much use that the burden of her maintenance was not felt, and sir richard trevlyn made generous arrangements for the cost of his daughter. but there was something altogether quaint and curious in the life of the house, and kate thought it exceedingly interesting even before the first evening had passed. yet all the while she was longing to hear petronella's tale, and was glad when the tapestry work was put away, and formal good nights had been exchanged. the girls ran up to the guest chamber prepared for kate, which they had agreed to share together from that time forth. it did not take them long to slip into bed; and old dyson, the waiting woman, who also acted as housekeeper, came quickly in to see that the lights were safely extinguished, after which only the glow of the fire illuminated the darkness of the big room; and kate in an eager whisper begged petronella to lose no time in telling her tale. with breathless eagerness she heard of the girl's flight from home, and of her rescue of cuthbert from the very jaws of death. she could not understand petronella's shuddering horror at the thought of having killed a man. "i would have killed fifty, and been glad to rid the earth of them were they such wretches as long robin!" she cried. then in deep silence she heard of cuthbert's dive into the well, and of the golden flagon he had brought up as an earnest of what was to come. petronella went on to say that, having made absolutely sure of the presence of the treasure in the well, cuthbert had then directed all his energies to detecting the sources of the hidden springs that fed it, and after long search and patience had satisfied himself that it was filled by two, both rising in the high ground not far distant. he had then set to work to see how these waters could be diverted so as to leave the well dry at his will; and though it had taken months to perform this feat, and had only been done at the cost of immense labour and trouble, still it had been done, and one day in early september the brother and sister had stood together to see the water ebbing slowly and more slowly away, until at last their eyes beheld a vast quantity of silver and gold lying exposed at the bottom of the well, and knew that the lost treasure of trevlyn was theirs indeed. but their labours were not yet ended. it was plain to both that they must quickly find some safe spot whither they could transport it all, else some passing traveller might even now see and report what he had seen, and so rob them of the fruit of their toil. afraid to go to trevlyn chase for help, lest the news should in some way leak out to nicholas at the gate house, and also because the brother and sister had set their hearts on accomplishing the task entirely alone, it suddenly entered cuthbert's head to take his sister to the cross way house, and ask of its owners protection for her through the approaching inclement season; and then, if satisfied that these wyvern kinswomen were to be trusted, and were friendly of disposition towards them, to whisper the secret of the treasure trove in their ears, and ask leave to deposit it all within the great strongroom underground, that the wyvern house had always boasted, and of which the secret was known to very few. this was the plan that had been carried out. his reception by lady humbert, and her kindness to the lonely petronella when her pitiful story was told, quite decided cuthbert to confide the golden secret to her. she listened in amaze, but was highly pleased at being the first person to know it. she laid her hand on cuthbert's head, and spoke to him of the old saw which predicted that fortune should return to the wyverns through the daughters' sons, and declared that he was fulfilling the prophecy she had longed to live to see come true. cuthbert trusted that such indeed would be the case, but did not know whether the wyverns had any lot or share in the treasure trove. whereat the old lady smiled, and said that she laid no claim to the gold--it was none of theirs, and never would be; but still, with her hand on cuthbert's head, she declared that after herself and her sister he should reign at the cross way house, and that his share of the treasure, which in all sooth should be a large one, since but for him it might never have been found, would go to restore the fallen fortunes of the house, and to fulfil in very truth the fondly-cherished prediction. cuthbert's amazement had naturally been great; but this fair prospect held out to him had but given greater zest to his enterprise. not to a single soul in the house would lady humbert confide the secret, lest amongst themselves the faithful old servants should gossip, and rumour get abroad that the lonely house was worth attacking. in the dead of night, upon appointed dates, cuthbert brought to a certain iron-barred window the laden ass bearing his costly burden, and petronella and lady humbert themselves received the treasure and bore it piece by piece to the secret room. not a creature slept on that side of the house--not a living being knew what was passing in the dead hours of the night; and in this fashion the treasure was being brought, cuthbert descending the well, into which a little water had now filtered--enough to conceal the treasure from a passing observer if such there should chance to be--and with the assistance of their four-footed friend, drawing up as much as the patient beast could carry, and transporting it by night to this very house. "when all is done," concluded petronella--"and every load we think must surely be the last, there is so much of it--then he will forth to seek the gipsy in the forest, and tell her that the task is done. after that he will to london, to see how it fares with his cousins there, and to tell my uncle something of his tale, demanding, as i right well believe, the hand of our cousin cherry in wedlock, since he may now support a wife in all comfort and ease. when that is done he will hither again, and lady humbert will ask to her house a gathering of kinsfolk for the yuletide festival. and then the great secret will be told. the treasure will be divided between the trevlyns assembled beneath this roof; and i trow, sweet kate, that my lord culverhouse will contrive to be here, and that when the good news has been told to all, he will have small work in getting the parental blessing for those nuptials that will be celebrated anew with pomp and rejoicing, and will make thee in very truth, and without shadow of a doubt, the viscountess culverhouse." kate, laughing and quivering, clasped petronella in her arms, as she cried between laughter and tears: "and when that good hap befalls me, sweet petronella, i will warrant that philip will be in no wise behind in claiming his bride, and that thou as well as i shalt find that the recovered treasure of trevlyn has smoothed our path to wedded happiness!" chapter : how it fared with cherry. "gramercy! what next, i wonder! here's a pretty kettle of fish! i always did say that no good came of letters. i wish folks had more sense than to spend their time writing! i never get a letter but what it brings a peck of bother with it." mistress susan holt was the speaker. she held in her hand a piece of paper which she was eying with many a scornful sniff. it had been left at the bridge house by a courier riding through to westminster from the south country, and martin holt had called his sister down to his business parlour to open and read the missive. he now looked up from his books with a pardonable curiosity to say: "well, sister susan, letters do not trouble thee oft. and what may be the news in this one? and from whom comes it?" "from prudence dyson." "prudence at the cross way house? and what says she? it is long since we had news of her." "so long that i had almost forgot where she was: and i marvel she should trouble us thus. thy daughters are not serving wenches, martin. what can prudence be thinking of?" martin smiled slightly. it seemed to him that beneath his sister's iron rule his daughters did little but toil after the fashion of serving wenches from morning to night. as for susan herself, she worked harder than any servant she had ever had beneath her sway. "what says the letter?" he asked briefly; "what is the matter that angers thee?" "i am not angry," answered susan sharply. "i trust i know my duty better as a christian than to be angered over trifles. i am but surprised at such a request. prudence dyson asks if i can spare one of my nieces and thy daughters to dwell for a while at cross way house, to help her with her duties there." martin holt did not appear to see anything very unreasonable or extraordinary in that request. "what has caused her to wish it?" he asked quietly. "is she in any way ill or disabled?" "it is not that; it is that there be two young ladies of gentle birth dwelling now beneath lady humbert's care. prudence desires to give them all due tendance and service; but as thou knowest, martin, the household purse there is not deep, and prudence strives might and main to do all she can to save her kind mistress from needless cost. she is striving now to attend herself upon all four ladies; and she says that the young maidens are very kindly and gentle and helpful. but she likes not to see them wait upon themselves, and she knows that my lady humbert would wish them to have all needful service. wherefore she asks if thou couldst spare a daughter to go thither for a while to help her by waiting on the young damsels. and i--" "well, and wherefore not?" said martin, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "prudence is a good woman, and my dead wife loved her best of all her family. i know that lady humbert is a woman into whose house any father might trust his daughter without a fear. as for the question of serving wenches, i trow the wench who goes will have an easier time than the sisters who abide at home. susan, i think it only right to help prudence in this matter; i can see no reason against so doing." susan seldom opposed the master of the house, but she looked a little sour and displeased. "we shall have christmas upon us right soon; we can ill spare any hands then," she said. "o--ho! so it is the thought of thine own pies and stuffed meats that weighs with thee!" said martin with a laugh. "then i will tell thee what i will do. i will send cherry, whom thou art ever chiding for being useless to thee. she shall go to wait upon the two young madams and help good prudence at the cross way house, and thou shalt keep thy two useful nieces at home with thee." susan's brow cleared somewhat, but she made a movement of her bony shoulders indicative of scorn. "cherry may go with all my heart, for she is idler and more useless than ever, and does naught from morning to night but sit at the window, watching the folks in the street, and turning from red to pale and pale to red as though she were a bride looking for the arrival of her bridegroom. i have no patience with such ways. i knew no good would come of always spoiling the child. i can do naught with her now; she heeds not a word i say. ofttimes she does not even know that i am speaking to her. she may go, and welcome! but i misdoubt me that prudence will thank thee for the loan. much good and much service she will get out of keren happuch!" martin holt looked thoughtfully at his sister. "that is partly why i am glad the child should go. i too have seen a change in her. methinks she is feeling the long hot summer in the city. there be many that have told me that she is not looking as she should do. this idleness shows something of indisposition, i take it. doubtless she will receive benefit from a change of air and occupation. she loves to be in the open air, and at the cross way house there will be gardens and pleasaunces and orchards where she may perchance be suffered to wander at will. prudence will be kind to her, and i shall send her gladly." susan again made her peculiar gesture, as much as to say that she washed her hands of responsibility in the matter. "she is thy daughter--do as thou wilt, martin; but i warn thee that no good will come of it. going amongst ladies will make her think herself a finer lady than ever: and now as it is she will scarce deign to soil her dainty hands with anything coarser than the making of light pastry. thou wilt spoil her for a city man's wife; and i know not how abraham dyson will take it. prudence is his sister, to be sure, and it is to do her a kindness; but jacob wants a useful wife--and, as i understood, they were resolved not to delay the marriage beyond christmas. rachel has been six months wed, and the house wants a mistress who can move about and look to things." martin was looking very thoughtful. he did not reply for a while, and then he said slowly: "send the child to me, susan; i will speak to her of this myself." "ay, thou hadst best do so, for i might as well speak to the walls as to keren happuch," said mistress susan as she went on her way up the stairs, by no means pleased at the easy fashion in which her brother took this matter. susan loved a grand fuss and talk and discussion over every trifle in the day's round, and this was more than a trifle. her tongue was as active as her hands, and she would talk by the hour as she worked, until those about her grew weary of the very sound of her voice. martin holt, who was fully alive to his sister's many virtues and valuable qualities, did find her something of a trial also, and it never struck him as at all inexplicable that the self willed and impetuous little cherry should often be at loggerheads with her aunt. as she stole down the staircase and stood before him with a wondering, questioning look in her big eyes, he eyed her keenly, and could not but see that some of the bloom had faded from her cheeks, and that she had in some way changed during the past months. "cherry," he said, taking her small hand in his and speaking in an unwontedly gentle way, "has thy aunt told thee wherefore i want thee?" "no, father; she said that thou wouldst tell me." "and so i will; but tell me first if there is aught amiss with thee. i have missed thy laugh of late, and thou hast lost some of thy roses. does aught ail thee, child?" sudden tears welled up in cherry's eyes; her lip began to tremble. "i know not, i know not," she answered, with a little sob. "it only seems sometimes as though i could not bear the life any longer; it is all so drear, so dull, so dead! one day like another--always the same. sometimes i think the narrow house will stifle me! o father, chide me not; i have struggled against the feeling, but the life is killing me! i know not how to bear it--alone." the last word was almost a whisper, and escaped martin's ears. he was regarding his child with a thoughtful and perplexed countenance. he fancied that he was somewhat in the position of a mother hen who sees its foster brood of ducklings take to the water for the first time. he did not understand this outburst in the least. cherry's restless discontent was an enigma to him. but he saw that it was real, and that it was a source of trouble and suffering to herself; and he wisely resolved neither to rebuke nor condemn her, but simply to treat it as the symptom of a malady of the body which might be cured by a few months' change and relaxation. the child was half frightened at her own boldness, and stood trembling before him, her aunt would have boxed her ears and sent her to bed for such a confession; but her father only looked at her as though he were trying to read her very soul, and cherry instinctively dropped her eyes, as if fearful that another secret would be read there--a secret which she kept locked up closely in her breast, and would not for the world that any other should know. "cherry," said martin holt, speaking slowly and quietly, "i know not what to think of thy words, save that thy disordered fancies come from a disordered health. thou hast been looking less robust than i like to see thee; wherefore i think it well that thou shouldest have some change in thy life, and see if that will cure thee. thy good aunt prudence dyson, a younger sister of thy mother, has sent to ask me if i will spare her one of my daughters to help wait upon some young madams staying with my lady humbert. thou hast not been brought up to such duties, but thou hast quick hands and eyes, and, i trust, a willing heart, and i have resolved to send thee. thou wilt be in the country, and the change will doubtless be good for thee. i shall look to receive thee back restored to thine old self again. the cross way house stands south from this by some seventeen miles, and is not very far away from the forest of which cuthbert used to talk, and trevlyn chase where his kinsfolk live. thou mayest hear somewhat of him there, for methinks the ladies wyvern are in some sort his kinsfolk, too. i marvel that all these months have gone by without a word or a sign from him. thou canst ask if aught has been heard of him. i trust no mishap has befallen the lad. he promised us news of himself ere now." had the room been less dim and dark, martin might have seen the sudden alternations of red and white in cherry's cheek as these last words were spoken; but the twilight was drawing in apace, and she kept her face down bent. but her heart was beating fast with throbs of gladness as well as astonishment. the idea of being sent away from home to the house of strangers was something fearful, but the last clause had given her food for eager anticipation. where would she not go for news of cuthbert, for whom she was now pining, and pining all the more sadly because she might speak to none of her anxiety and trouble? cuthbert had said he should be some months away; but she had looked for him at michaelmas, and now october was speeding along, and yet there was no sign. cherry had all a london girl's terror of the forests and their perils. she remembered how he had spoken of danger when last he had ridden through, and how nearly the terrible old gipsy had fulfilled her vow of vengeance by wreaking it upon his head. might she not have found him and have slain him when he lived hidden away in the forest? might not his search for the lost treasure have led him into many deadly perils? if living and free, why had he not written or appeared to her by this time? could it be--oh, could it be--that he had forgotten her, and was keeping purposely away? almost sooner would she believe him dead; but either fear filled her with dread and dismay. and now a new throb of hope was in her heart. once near the forest and what might she not hear or see? might she not even find him herself? in her ignorance and inexperience anything seemed possible if only she might escape from the trammels of city life, and from the argus eye of her aunt susan. "and am i to go and help my aunt prudence, father?" "yes; i think it is but right and kind that thou shouldst do so. thou art willing thyself?--and wilt thou be docile and teachable?" "i will strive in all things to please her." "that is well. i shall trust thee to do credit to thy name." "and when am i to go, father?" "so soon as i can find escort for thee; and that methinks will not be long, since the house stands directly on the road betwixt london and southampton. thou hadst best look to thy clothes and such things as thou mayest need there; for i would not lose a chance of sending thee safely guarded. i shall to abraham dyson this very evening, to ask what business is doing by road with southampton just now." "and how long shall i be away, father?" "nay, child, that i know not. prudence makes no mention of that. haply, i take it, a matter of three months or so, since had the ladies been leaving shortly she would scarce have sent so urgently for thee. thou wilt not be home for thy christmas, i fear; but thou wilt be in a good and a godly house, with thine own aunt to watch over thee; and i trow that thou wilt so act and comport thyself as to bring credit and not disgrace upon the name thou bearest." "i will try, good father," answered cherry with great meekness; and her father kissed her and bid her begone, for that he was about to go forth and talk to abraham dyson on this matter. cherry went up to her room feeling bewildered, half frightened, and yet elated and pleased. something had come to break at last the long monotony of the life which she felt was crushing the spirit out of her. she was going to a place where it seemed that she must surely have news of cuthbert, and where, if she did not pass him on the road, she would certainly be nearer to him. her sisters, greatly astonished, could scarcely believe their ears when told that cherry was really going away; and keziah hung over her with wistful eyes, assisting her to get her clothes ready, and wondering what the house would seem like without its rebellious and most attractive member. "methinks it will be duller than ever," she said. "jacob will scarce care to come if thou art gone." "jacob! why, i trow he will but come the more," answered cherry, with a saucy gleam in her eye as she looked in kezzie's grave face. "he will come to thee for comfort, my sister, and i trow that thou wilt give it him in full measure." keziah's grave face lighted up somewhat. "thinkest thou that? indeed i would gladly try. jacob is a good lad and a kind one. i marvel thou dost not treat him better, cherry." "i like jacob; he is very good. we are great friends," answered cherry hastily, "but--" there she broke off and busied herself over her trunk, saying as she leaned so far into it that her face could not be seen, "kezzie, if cuthbert should come back, thou wilt tell him where i have gone. tell him i am with his kinsfolk, and ask him if he goes that way to pay a visit to them." "i will," answered keziah, who had her own ideas about cuthbert's sudden and entire disappearance; "but i fear me we shall see cuthbert no more. he--" "why sayest thou so? what dost thou know? what dost thou mean, keziah? hast thou heard aught of him?" "bless the child--no--" answered keziah hastily "how should i know aught of him? but, cherry, my sweet sister, be not angry with me if i say it. cuthbert is a trevlyn, for all that our aunt was his mother. he is of rank above ours. he may have made friends in his own walk in life. he may repent him of the friendships he made at the bridge house. be not wroth with me for saying it, but men before him have gone forth and returned not to those who looked for them. but if he comes i will tell him--i will tell him all. only do not too greatly count upon it. i grieve so lest thou shouldest be disappointed." cherry said nothing. she would not even by a word seem to doubt cuthbert's fidelity. keziah, if she did not know how matters stood betwixt them, knew enough to have a very shrewd suspicion of it. she had been in some sort cherry's confidante. both the sisters had some knowledge of each other's secret. the next evening, just before it grew dark, as cherry was sitting alone in the upper parlour, exempt from household toil that she might get her own wardrobe ready, and now having laid her needle aside because she could no longer see, the door opened, and the tall, loose figure of jacob dyson appeared framed against the dark background of the staircase behind, and the girl sprang to her feet with a little exclamation of pleasure and welcome. "i thought that thou wouldst come to see me, jacob. thou hast heard that i am going away?" "ay, i have heard it. art thou glad to be going, cherry?" "yes, verily i am. i am sick at heart for news of him, and perchance i may get it where i be going. i shall be near his home and his kinsfolk." jacob had sat down, and was turning his cap round and round in those large red hands that were such an offence to the girl. after a few moments of silence he looked up and said: "cherry, hast thou ever thought of the things thou hast said to me--of the promise thou hast given?" she bent her head low, and the whispered "yes," was barely audible. "thou wilt not go back from thy word?" she raised her head suddenly and said: "no, jacob, i will not go back from my word. thou hast been very good and kind and patient; and if in time to come it should be proved that cuthbert is dead, or has wed another and been false to me, then i will say naught against thee, but will do as my father saith, and strive to make thee a good wife. but i have never promised to love thee as a wife should love her husband. thou must not expect that of me, jacob." she lifted her eyes to his with a look that sent a quick thrill through him. he put out one of his hands and took hers, saying in very gentle tone, though his gestures were slightly uncouth: "i will only strive might and main to win thy love, sweetheart. methinks if thy heart were once free again thou mightest learn the lesson." she shook her head and answered very low: "thou couldst learn to love again, good jacob; but i--never. i would that thou couldst look around thee, and find a good and useful wife whom thy mother would welcome; who would love thee well, and whom thou couldst love without let. there be such--i am well assured of it. as for me, even though some day thou shouldst gain my hand, my heart can never be thine." jacob looked at her with a wistful, dog-like devotion, and heaved a heavy sigh. that unselfish and faithful youth was going through a rather hard probation, such as so often falls upon the best and warmest hearted of earth's sons, who have been denied those outward graces that charm the fancy and take the eye. he had long since divined the secret of the attachment betwixt cuthbert and cherry; and when urged by his father to press his own suit, had been backward in so doing. on cuthbert's disappearance he had one day spoken openly to cherry of his suspicions, and she had frankly told him all, begging him to keep their secret, and to hold off his own suit until cuthbert's quest should be over, and he could come to claim her as his own. truth to tell, jacob had little belief in the finding of the lost treasure; but he did believe in cuthbert, whom he loved only second to cherry, and whom he would any day have set before himself. he made cherry a promise that it should be as she desired; that he would give her time to test cuthbert's sincerity before he spoke another word of marriage with her. but he also timidly asked in return for the sacrifice he was making, and as a reward for his championship, that if cuthbert should never return, if harm should befall him in the forest, or if some other maiden should win his heart and hand, that then cherry should become his wife, and let him try to comfort her by his own devoted and life-long love. cherry had given the promise without overmuch persuasion. what good would life be to her without cuthbert? she had argued. if she could make any one else happy, she might as well do it as not. jacob was very good. he would be kind to her and patient with her, whilst her aunt susan would be just the reverse. life under such conditions, beneath that unsympathetic rule, would be well-nigh unendurable. it would be better for her own sake to wed jacob and escape from it all. and when the promise had been given, it seemed so little likely that she would be called upon to fulfil it! even now she scarcely contemplated it seriously, for her heart was filled with hope. was she herself not going towards the forest and cuthbert? surely she would hear somewhat of him there! "i shall ask none other woman to be my wife until i know that thou canst never be mine, cherry," answered jacob, with gentle obstinacy. "i shall never wish aught of ill to cuthbert. thou knowest that i would stand betwixt him and peril an i might. but till he stands at thy side and claims thee as his own, i will not give thee up. i can bide my time--i can wait and watch." she looked at him with suddenly dilating eyes, as though a qualm of fear had smitten her. "but, jacob, if he were to come hither when i be gone, thou wouldst not hinder him from finding me; thou wouldst not do him any ill turn that we might be kept apart? that would not be fair; it would be an ill thing. it would be--" she stopped suddenly short, for jacob had risen, and seemed to stand towering above her, with something majestic in his air that she had certainly never observed there before. "cherry! for what dost thou take me?" he asked, his voice quivering with an emotion that showed him to be deeply moved. "hast thou so vile an opinion of the man thou mayest some day call thy husband, the man who bears the name of thy dead mother, that thou canst think such evil thoughts of him? no, cherry, i will not hinder him from finding thee. i will in no wise stand between you. i will aid him with all that is in my power to find thee. if peril should menace him and i could stand betwixt him and it, i would do so gladly. i would lay down my life for him, if by so doing thou and he might one day be happy. dost think that i prize my life so high, since i may not win the crown that would make its happiness? if i may not live for thee, cherry, methinks i would sooner die for thee, if by so doing i might win thee happiness and love. i love thee and i love cuthbert. i ask nothing better than that i may in some sort serve and save you twain." and with a gesture of rugged dignity of which cherry was keenly aware, and which raised jacob to an altogether different level in her mind, he held out his hand as if to seal the compact, and without waiting for her broken words of explanation and apology, turned and walked out of the room. two days later cherry started forth upon her travels. her father went part of the way with her, and left her but seven miles from the end of her journey. she was escorted by a body of merchants and their servants, who were transporting some merchandise to southampton, and were a goodly company in themselves for fear of assault from the robbers of the road. as they had quantities of valuables with them, they intended to travel only during the daylight hours, and after leaving cherry at the cross way house, would put up for the night at the nearest town on the southern side of the forest. how cherry's heart beat as her fellow travellers pointed out the wall and chimneys of her destination, and the whole party reined up at the door! the cross way house was well known to travellers as being one of the regular landmarks along the road. it was a hospitable mansion for any wayfarers in distress, and its mistress was held in high repute, and had never yet been molested or threatened by the highway bands, who might have been troublesome to the members of any household whose walls abutted so close upon the road. lady humbert was reaping the reward for the renowned kindness of heart of the whole wyvern family towards all the lowly, the unfortunate, and the oppressed; and though many a fugitive fleeing from the robbers had found shelter within her walls, these had proved as safe shelter as the walls of any ancient sanctuary; for once within lady humbert's gates and not even the most hated and hunted foe need fear further molestation. cherry had heard some such words as these as the party had jogged onwards together; and now she found herself standing timidly at the back entrance of the house, her box beside her, and one of her uncle's friends at her side. when the door was opened and her guardian spoke her name and errand, she was quickly made welcome to enter, and after saying a hasty goodbye to the kindly merchant, found herself traversing several long stone passages, till she was finally ushered into a low parlour, where an elderly woman sat brewing over the fire some concoction which looked like one of mistress susan's compounds of berries and spice. "sure it is my good aunt, prudence dyson," said cherry, as the woman looked quickly round. "methinks i should have guessed that anywhere, thou art so like to my uncle." the woman came forward and saluted her niece gravely and kindly. "thou art martin holt's daughter? what is thy name, child? i could scarce make it out from susan's letter, for she is no scholar, as she ofttimes says. i am right glad to welcome thee, and i trust thou comest to us with a willing heart?" "a right willing heart," answered the girl, smiling bravely, despite the strangeness of her surroundings; for there was something home-like and comforting in the aspect of her aunt and in the sound of her voice. "i was glad my father's choice lighted on me, and i will strive to please in all i do. my name is cherry--at least that is how i am always called. and who are the ladies upon whom i am to wait?" "the one whom thou wilt chiefly serve is mistress kate trevlyn, a daughter of sir richard trevlyn of the chase. i know not if thou knowest aught of the family, but most like thou art aware that thy aunt bridget made a luckless marriage with one nicholas trevlyn, whereby she cast herself adrift from all her family. why, child, what a colour thou hast! what dost thou know of this matter?" "i know my cousin cuthbert trevlyn," answered cherry, trying to speak naturally, though her heart beat wildly all the while. "he came to us a year ago, and remained beneath my father's roof till the summer had well-nigh come. from him we learned much of the family; and right glad am i to think that i may serve mistress kate, who was a kind friend to him in times past. my cousin cuthbert was much beloved by all our house whilst he remained beneath our roof. we have not heard of him this many a day. dost thou know aught of him, my aunt?" prudence dyson gave her niece a quick, sharp glance, and then answered a little evasively: "thou must ask that question of mistress kate, my dear, if she will please to talk with thee. she may have had news of him belike. as for us of this household, we hear but little of what happens in the world beyond. we are all growing old together." had it not been for the earnestness with which they were talking, the aunt and niece might have heard a light footfall down the passage. the door was softly pushed open, and a clear voice asked: "is mistress dowsabel's hot posset ready, dyson? she has asked for it more than once." both women started and turned round, and cherry uttered a little involuntary cry, whilst the name "cuthbert" sprang to her lips so fast that she was not sure that she had not uttered it aloud. her eyes were fixed upon the face of the dark-eyed girl who had brought the message. "i will take it at once," said dyson, hastily lifting it from the fire. "i crave my lady's pardon for being late with it; but my niece from london has but just arrived, and i was hindered for the moment. "cherry, wait here till i return, and then i will speak more with thee." dyson hurried away with the posset, and the two girls stood gazing at each other, a light of welcome and amaze in both their eyes. "cherry! did she call thee cherry? and from london, too? and kate bath ofttimes said that--oh, why waste words?" cried the girl, breaking off quickly. "tell me, art thou martin holt's daughter? art thou my brother cuthbert's cherry?" "thy brother? then thou art petronella!" cried cherry, in a maze of bewilderment; and even as she spoke the name she felt petronella's arms about her, and they were laughing and kissing, questioning and exclaiming, all in the most incoherent fashion, yet contriving to make each other understand some fragments of their respective stories, till at last petronella drew herself away and laid her hand on cherry's arm, saying as she did so: "but remember that here i am ellen wyvern, and not even good dyson knows more than that. be on thy guard, good coz, and only speak familiarly to me in secret. o cherry, how i have longed to see thee--cuthbert's cherry, of whom i have heard so much! and how comest thou hither? has he sent thee?" "he? i have not seen him these six months past. petronella, sweet cousin, give me good news of him." "why, so i can--the very best. he has found the treasure. it is safely lodged here. and he has gone forth into the forest again, first to tell the tale to the gipsy queen, who has been his friend through all, and then to return to london to thy father's house to seek his cherry once again, and claim her hand before all the world." chapter : the gipsy's warning. "thy task is done, and it is well done. but now get thee from the forest with all speed, for there is peril to thee here." so said joanna, standing before cuthbert in the pixies' dell, her hand upon the low stone wall, her tall figure drawn up to its full height. she had been looking thoughtfully down into the sparkling water, which was now filling the well as of old, whilst cuthbert told his tale with graphic power. an expression of calm triumph was on her face as she heard how the long-lost hoard was lying safely stored within the house of the wyverns--a house sacred to the gipsies and safe from any raids of robbers, such was the esteem in which that name was held. she looked like one whose task is done, who feels a heavy load lifted from the mind; but the glance fixed upon cuthbert's eager face was also one of gravity and meaning. "the forest is no place for thee now," she said; "get thee hence as fast as thou canst." "and wherefore so?" asked cuthbert, surprised. "methought the peril ceased with the death of--" "hush!" said the gipsy, almost sternly; "bethink thee that there may be listeners even now about us in these thick bushes, and guard thy words with caution. remember the strange links that bind together those of the wild gipsy blood; and remember that long robin lies in his bloody grave not far from here." she lowered her voice as she spoke, and cuthbert instinctively followed her example. "but no man knows that." "how canst thou tell?" "none saw the deed. it was done in the dead of night. ere morning came he was laid below the earth. thou thyself knew not what had befallen him till i spoke the word." he looked at her as if in momentary distrust; but the calm gaze and the noble countenance of the gipsy seemed to reassure him. joanna, who had read his thought, smiled slightly. "nay, boy, thou needst not fear treachery from joanna, and the gipsy queen will give thee all protection in her power. have i not told thee that upon me, when i received that title, was laid the charge of seeing the stolen treasure restored to the house of trevlyn? to thy courage and resolve and perseverance and skill belongs it that this charge is now fulfilled. thou needst not fear that any ill will or lack of caution on joanna's part will cause evil to light upon thy head. but there are others with whom thou mayest have to reckon. there is miriam, to whom long robin was as the apple of the eye." "yet he was not her husband (he is no aged man), and he can scarce have been her son." "no matter. as i have told thee ere this, there be strange bonds betwixt us of the gipsy blood, binding closer and firmer than ever ties of kinship do. miriam loved yon man with a love passing all others. she has missed him these many weeks. she is frantic with anxious grief. she is convinced that some ill has befallen him. she is rousing to anger and vengeance the whole tribe. they have vowed that they will find robin, whether he be dead or alive, and that if dead they will avenge them on his murderer. already suspicion has fallen upon thee. dost think thy many journeys through the forest have passed unnoted by us?" "i have never seen a soul; i had not known myself watched." "luckily for thee thou hast not been watched, else would little of the treasure have been placed in safe keeping. thou hast reaped the benefit robin hoped to reap himself alone when he surrounded this dell as with a barrier that no man might pass. even the most daring spirits of our tribe dare not come here; and miriam, who bids them scour the forest in all other directions, fears to tell them to come hither, albeit i well know she will shortly search the spot herself if robin come not soon. then she will find the grave; it will not escape her eyes. first she will think the lost treasure lies there, for i am convinced that robin never told her the full secret. then when she looks farther, she will find what that grave really contains; and thou hadst best be far away ere that day comes. thou hast been seen. thy journeyings in the forest have provoked wonder and curiosity. let miriam once learn that robin lies there, and the whole truth will flash upon her; and then look thou to thyself!" these words were spoken with such significance that cuthbert experienced an involuntary qualm of fear. "i thank thee for the warning," he said; "i will avail myself of thy kind counsel. i had thought of journeying to london ere this. there, it may be, i shall be hidden from their malice." "thou wilt be safer there than here," answered the gipsy quietly; "i will not say thou wilt be truly safe in any spot if miriam's ire be once roused against thee. she has a wondrous fierce spirit, and she has influence with our people second only to mine. and then there hung about long robin a mysterious charm. men loved him not--they feared and distrusted him; and yet, were it to be known that he had met his death by violence, miriam would have but small trouble in stirring up the hearts of a score of stout fellows vowed to vengeance. in the forest thou wilt have small chance of thy life." "perchance they will follow me to london," said cuthbert; "if so, it will be small use to fly." "in london our folks have fears for themselves," answered the gipsy queen. "half of them are outlawed; the other half lie beneath the suspicion of sorcery, which in these days is almost worse. they may hover about the dens of the city, but they will fear to molest thee elsewhere. thou must take heed how thou venturest beyond the city walls, for tyrrel and his men may be lurking beyond on the watch." "methought tyrrel and miriam were no such friends," said cuthbert, recollecting the night when he had been brought to the mill. "will he take up her quarrel?" "if she can make him believe that robin had the secret of the lost treasure, and that thou didst force the secret from him ere thou laidest him in his grave, he will take up the quarrel in right good earnest, and rest not till he has learned where the treasure has been hid. we of the gipsy tribe have as little believed in that hid treasure as the house of trevlyn, hence its safety all these years. but let miriam once tell what she knows--which is something, i warrant--and there may be many who will then believe that the secret was in robin's keeping. they will be certain sure that thou wouldst not have killed the man until thou hadst made sure of the treasure. it would be acting like the fabled yokel who killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. wherefore be gone. hide thyself in london town. in a few weeks or months the chase may be over; but for the time being beware of the forest!" "i will," answered cuthbert. "i thank thee for thy good counsel. i will be speedily gone." joanna stood looking reflectively at him. "thou wouldst he safest within the walls that shelter the treasure--with thy kinsfolk of the house of wyvern." "nay, but i must first go to london," answered cuthbert quickly; "i have been long absent. my kinsfolk there will be looking for news of me. and perchance my presence in the house of my kinswomen might imperil them. i would not be a cause of danger to them." "thou art a bold and true-hearted lad," answered joanna; "and it may be well that for the nonce thou shouldest keep away from the cross way house. thy presence there might awaken suspicion; though i scarce believe that any lust of gold would drive our people to attack that house. go then to london, and lose thyself there awhile. presently thou mayest return and see how thy sister fareth; but not too soon--not too soon!" cuthbert started. "my sister!" he said; "how knowest thou that?" joanna smiled her lofty smile. "ask a gipsy how she knoweth what takes place within the limits of her domain! tush, boy! thinkest thou that i do not know all that passes in the forest? thy sister has done well to find a shelter there. she is safer at the cross way house than in this dell with thee." "if she is safe i can well look to myself," answered cuthbert, with the confidence of youth and strength. "to be warned where the peril lies is half the battle. i will be cautious--i will be wary; and having naught to keep me in the forest, i will start for london town this very day." "ay, do so, and without an hour's delay. old miriam is raging like a fury. tyrrel may at any moment return, and i trow she will rouse him to bitter enmity towards thee. fly, before any strive to stay thee. and when thou hast reached the city, go once again to esther. tell her that the deed is done, the treasure found, that it lies in the house of the wyverns, and that the luck has come back to the house, as was always said, through the daughters' sons." "i will," answered cuthbert; and bidding a farewell to the gipsy, to whose protection and goodwill he owed so much, he left the dell and made his way rapidly through the forest, till he struck the road which would lead him to london. he would not turn out of the direct way to go to the cross way house, though he would gladly have seen his sister and kate and his aged kinswomen again. he did not wish them to know of the peril which might threaten his own path, nor did he desire to draw attention to that house by directing his steps thither in broad daylight. plainly his presence in the forest had already excited remark. he had been seen far oftener than he had known. if he did not linger, but pursued his way to london without delay, he might reach it by nightfall, and that was no small inducement to him. petronella knew that he was bound thither; she would not reckon on seeing him again. and there was cherry at the other end. the thought of seeing her again that very day drew him onwards like a magnet. during these long weeks of search and hard toil, the thought of cherry had been the best sweetener of his labour. he had talked of her with his sister, he had dreamed of her when he lay down to sleep at night, and now he was on his way to see her, to tell her all the tale, and ask her at her father's hand. the thought was sweet to intoxication, and his eager anticipation seemed to put wings to his feet. how different were his feelings as he drew near to the great city this second time! it was just about a year since he had entered it for the first time, a stranger, homeless, well-nigh penniless, and very uncertain of the reception he should receive from his kinsfolk on the bridge. now he stepped towards the region of shining lights with all confidence and joy. he was rich past his wildest hopes, for the treasure had proved to be far greater than even his fondest dreams had credited; and he knew that when division was made, it would be no niggard portion that would fall to the share of the finder. he had won for himself such goodwill from his kinsfolk as would stand him in good stead in days to come. he had enlarged his scholarship, made for himself a number of friends of all degrees, and, above all, had won the love of his cousin cherry, and a position which would enable him speedily to ask her at her father's hands. he would fulfil his boyish promise made last yuletide, when he vowed her that the day should come when she should no longer pine for the innocent gaieties and luxuries of wealth, but should herself be a lady of some degree, and should have her house and her horses and servants, and a bright and happy future with the husband of her choice. now he had set foot upon the bridge, and was eagerly traversing the familiar roadway, as the short daylight faded and the lights from the houses shone out brighter and brighter in the gloom. his uncle's house was almost in sight. his heart was beating high with anticipation and delight, when a hand was laid suddenly upon his shoulder, and he turned to find himself face to face with anthony cole. he was about to exclaim in words of pleasure and welcome, when his attention was arrested by the strange expression upon the thin, eager face--an expression so strange that it checked the commonplace words of greeting that sprang naturally to cuthbert's lips, and he waited in silence for what anthony should say. "thou hast come! it is well," said the latter, in tones that were little above a whisper. "methought that thou wouldst not be absent at such a time. well doth it behove every true son of the church to rally round her at such a moment. i felt assured that thou wouldst be here. others beside me have been watching for thee. it is well. keep thine own counsel; be wary, be discreet. and now go. it boots not that we be seen talking together thus. when thou hast fitting opportunity, come secretly to my house; thou wilt be welcome there." and half pushing cuthbert from him before the bewildered youth had time to speak a single word, the printer disappeared within his own door, and cuthbert was left to make his way to his uncle's house. "beshrew me if i know what master anthony means!" said cuthbert to himself. "i trow there be matters stirring in london town of which we in the country know nothing. how strange it is that one can hardly set foot in this great seething city without hearing words of mystery--without feeling oneself enwrapped in its strange atmosphere of doubt and perplexity. something is doubtless astir of which i know naught; but at my uncle's house i shall hear all." the shutters were just being put up at martin holt's as cuthbert stepped across the threshold. the servant uttered a cry of astonishment as he saw his master's nephew, and martin himself came forward from the little room behind. "bless me, is it thou, cuthbert?" he exclaimed in surprise. "well, boy, thou art welcome since thou art come, though we had almost begun to think thou hadst forgot us and thy promise to return. come upstairs and greet thy aunt and cousins. hast thou seen aught of cherry, as thou comest from the south?" cuthbert stepped back a pace, and some of the light went out of his face. "cherry!" he stammered, taken aback. "how should i have seen her? is she not here?" "not for a matter of four days. she is helping her aunt, prudence dyson at the cross way house, to wait upon some guests the ladies are entertaining. methought if you had come that way you might have chanced upon her." a keen thrill of disappointment ran through cuthbert's frame. to think how near he had been to cherry and had never guessed it! if only he had called at the cross way house that day! "i have not been there for the matter of a week. i was last at trevlyn chase; but mine uncle and his son have gone to london, as i heard. i had hoped to find cherry here." "well, thou wilt find all but her. go up, go up! thou wilt need refreshment after thy journey, and thou shalt hear the news as we sup. thine old room shall be made ready for thee. i am glad to see thy face again, boy; and would hear thy story anon." cuthbert received a warmer welcome than he had looked for from the aunt and cousins upstairs. perhaps they were all missing the brightness that had left them when cherry went. perhaps the vacant place at the board day by day was an offence to the conservative eye of mistress susan. but whatever was the cause, there was no denying the cordiality of the reception accorded to him; and after the lonely life of the forest, and all his wanderings there, his strange resting places, and many hours of watching, toil, and anxious fear, it seemed pleasant indeed to be sitting at this hospitable board, warmed by the friendly glow of the fire, and discussing the savoury viands that always adorned a table of mistress susan's spreading, and which did indeed taste well after the hardy and sometimes scanty fare he had known in the forest. but his open-air life had done him good in many ways. his uncle smiled, and told him he had grown to be a very son of anak, and that he was as brown as a gipsy; whilst his cousins looked at him with furtive admiration, and keziah could almost have wept that cherry was not there to welcome him. cuthbert, however, quickly got over his disappointment on this score, and after swallowing a few sighs, was content to think that it might indeed be best so. cherry would learn where he was from petronella, and would hear from her that his heart was still her own, and that success had crowned his search after the lost treasure. he could go to seek her shortly, when the gipsy tribe should have drawn away from that part of the forest into the quarters they preferred during the winter months. were she to be here, he must surely betray himself, and should have to speak immediately to martin holt of his desire to make cherry his wife. somehow, when face to face with his uncle, he felt less confident of winning his sanction for this step than he had done when away from him in the forest. there it had seemed perfectly simple so long as he could show the father that he had the means to keep a wife in comfort. now he began to wonder if this would be enough. hints were dropped by both the holts regarding cherry's approaching marriage with jacob dyson. mistress susan openly regretted her absence from home as hindering that ceremony; and although martin holt spoke with more reticence, it was plain he was still cherishing the hope of the match when his wilful youngest should be a little older. it might be that cherry's absence at this time was fortunate rather than the reverse. cuthbert, at any rate, was relieved from the necessity for immediate action; and when he had spoken a little of himself, his kinsfolk, and the visits he had paid during his wanderings in the forest (keeping the real object of those wanderings quite out of the talk), he turned his conversation to other matters, and asked what was passing in london, and what was chiefly stirring men's minds. "marry it is the opening of parliament that is the chiefest thing," said martin holt. "it is said in the city that his majesty loves not his good parliament; and truly it looks like it, since he has put off its opening so many a time. first it was to have been last february, then not till the third of this present month. now it is again prolongued till the fifth of november next; but i trow his majesty will scarce dare to postpone again. his people like not those rulers who fear to meet those who are chosen by them to debate on matters of the state. it looks not well for the sovereign to fear to meet his people." cuthbert, who knew little about such matters, asked many questions about parliament and its assemblies. his uncle answered him freely and fully, and explained to him exactly the site of the building where the great body assembled. "thou canst take the wherry thou used to love so well, and row thyself to westminster one of these days, and look well at the parliament houses," said martin holt. "it is a grand spectacle to see the king come in state to open the assembly. thou mayest see that sight, too, an thou purposest to stay with us so long." "i would gladly do so," answered cuthbert, who remembered that he was bidden not to return to the forest too quickly. he knew that, now he was safely away, joanna would allow all search to be made after him there, and that it would soon be ascertained that he had fled. but whilst that search was going on, he was safest in london, and was glad enough of the opportunity of seeing any gay pageant. as he lay in his narrow bed that night, enjoying the comfort of it after his chilly nook in the tree, which had been his best shelter of late, and somewhat disturbed by the noises that from time to time arose from the street below, he recalled to mind the strange greeting he had received from anthony cole, and wondered anew at his mysterious words. and then his fancy somehow strayed to the great parliament houses of which his uncle had spoken. he remembered that strange dark journey across the river from lambeth and the lonely house there to westminster and its lofty palaces. he recalled the locality of the house he had entered, where catesby and his friends were assembled at some strange toil, and the terrified aspect these men all wore when some unexpected sound had smitten upon their ears. he recalled the sudden fierce grip of catesby's hand upon his arm before he recognized the face of the stranger within their midst. he recollected the threats he had striven to speak binding him to the silence he was so willing to promise. what did it all mean? what could it mean? lying in the dark, and turning the matter over and over in his mind, cuthbert began to feel some fearful and sinister suspicions. the month when all this had happened had been early in the year; was it january, or early february? he could scarce remember, but he knew it was one or the other. and had not his uncle said that parliament was to have met in february? now that it was about to meet soon again, had not anthony spoken words implying that some muster of friends was looked for in london; and had not anthony and his son always regarded him in the light of a friend and ally? cuthbert was by this time aware that he had but little love left for the creed in which he had been reared. it seemed to him that all, or at any rate far the greater part, of what was precious in that creed was equally open to him in the church established in the land, together with the liberty to read the scriptures for himself, and to exercise his own freedom of conscience as no priest of the romish church would ever let him exercise it. with him there had been no wild revulsion of feeling, no sense of tearing and rending away from one faith to join himself to another. his own convictions had been of gradual growth, and he still felt and would always feel a certain loving loyalty towards the church of his childhood. still, he was increasingly convinced of the fact that it was not within that fold that he himself could ever find true peace and conviction of soul; and though no ardent theologian, and by no means given over to controversy and dogmatism, he had reached a steady conclusion as to his own faith, and one that was little likely to be shaken. at the same time he was kindly disposed to those of his countrymen who were still beneath the papal yoke, and were suffering for their old allegiance. he honoured their constancy, and felt even a boyish sense of shame in having, as it were, deserted the weaker side when it was in trouble and undergoing persecution. he felt a qualm of uneasiness when he thought of this, and would gladly have shared the perils if he could have shared the convictions of those who had striven to make him their friend. cuthbert was a little in advance of his times in the facility with which he set aside matters of opinion in the choosing of his friends. those were days in which men were seldom able to do this. they still divided themselves into opposing camps, and hated not only the opinions embraced by their rivals, but the rivals themselves, without any discrimination at all. to be intimate and friendly with those of hostile opinions was far more rare then than it has since become; and cuthbert, who possessed that faculty, was liable to be greatly misunderstood, and to run into perils of which he little dreamed. thinking of those things he had seen that strange night led him to wonder more and more what it could all mean; and, accordingly, upon the morrow the first visit he paid was to anthony cole on the bridge, hoping that through him this curiosity might be in some way satisfied. cuthbert took the privilege accorded him in old times, and walked through the house and up the narrow staircase without pausing in the shop below. it was still early, and business had not yet begun. the house was very silent; but he heard low-toned voices above, and pursued his way towards them. as he did so a door, the existence of which had never been discovered by him before, though he thought the house was well known by him from attic to basement, suddenly opened from the staircase, and a head appeared for a single instant, and was as suddenly withdrawn. the door closed sharply, and he heard the click as of a spring falling back to its place. he passed his hand across his eyes as he exclaimed beneath his breath: "sure that was father urban--" but he began to feel doubtful as to his right to come and go in this house at will, and was about to descend the stairs quietly again, when a door opened from above, and some one came hastily down the stairs. cuthbert fancied he saw the gleam of some weapon in the hand of the advancing figure, and felt that he had better be upon his guard. "cuthbert trevlyn!" exclaimed a familiar voice, and a hand was slipped beneath the doublet, and there was no further gleam of cold steel. "i am right glad to welcome thee. it is well for friends to muster at such a time. comest thou with news?" walter cole was the speaker. his face too wore something of the look which cuthbert had observed on the father's the previous evening--an expression of strained expectancy, as if with long waiting mind and spirit had alike grown worn and over anxious. the bright eyes scanned his face eagerly. cuthbert felt half ashamed of his ignorance of and indifference to the burning questions of the day. "i have heard naught, i know naught. i have been living the life of the forests these past months," he answered, following walter into a small room where they had often worked together. "i have heard no word of what was passing in the world; i come to learn that here." the eagerness faded from walter's face. he spoke much more quietly. "belike thou wert right to hide and live thus obscure; many of our leaders have done the like. it is ofttimes the best and the safest plan. but the time is at hand, and we must rally around them now. when the hour has struck and when the deed is done, then will it be for us to work--then will our hour of toil come. east and west, north and south, must we spur forth with the tidings. the whole nation must hear it and be roused. the blow must be struck whilst the iron is hot. thus and only thus can we be secure of the promised victory." walter spoke quietly, yet with an undercurrent of deep enthusiasm that struck an answering chord in cuthbert's heart. all true and deep feeling moved him to sympathy. his friend was talking in riddles to him; but he felt the earnestness and devotion of the man, and his sympathy was at once aroused. "what hour? what blow? what deed?" he asked wonderingly. "i know not of what thou speakest." walter drew his brows together and regarded him with an expression of intense and wondering scrutiny. when he spoke it was in a different tone, as though he were carefully weighing his every word, as though he were a little uncertain of the ground on which he stood. there was something of evasive vagueness in his tone, whilst his eyes were fixed on cuthbert's face as though he would read his very soul. "methought thou knewest how cruelly we suffered, and that we trust some stroke of kind fortune's wheel may ere long make life something better for us. the king meets his parliament soon. then is the time when men's grievances may be discussed, and when there is hope for all that wiser and more merciful laws may be passed. we have gathered together at this time to see what may be done. we are resolved, as thou must surely know, not to suffer like this for ever. half the people of the realm be with us. it were strange if nothing could be accomplished. cuthbert trevlyn, answer me this: thou dost wish us well; thou art not a false friend--one who would deceive and betray?" "never, never, never!" answered cuthbert, with all the heat of youth and generous feeling. "i would never betray those who have trusted me, not though they were my foes. and i too hate and abominate these iniquitous laws that persecute men's bodies for what they hold with their minds and souls. i have suffered persecution myself. i know how bitter a thing it is. i would have every man free to believe that which his conscience approves. i would join with any who would implore the king to show mercy and clemency to his persecuted subjects." walter's face relaxed; he looked relieved and pleased. "methought that we could trust thee, cuthbert. thou art a trevlyn; it must needs be thou art stanch. i am right glad that thou art here. there may be work yet for thee to do. thou wilt abide in thine uncle's house until--" "until parliament opens at least," answered cuthbert quickly. "i have said as much to him, i would fain be there then and see it all. and my presence in the forest is known by foes; it is no place for me longer." then breaking off, for he had not meant to say so much, and had no wish to be further questioned on the subject, he asked in a low tone: "sure it was father urban whose face i saw on the stairs but now?" "hist! silence!" whispered walter, with a glance enforcing caution; "do not breathe that name even within these walls. he is here at risk of his life; but at such a moment he will not be away. a warrant is out against him. he may not venture abroad by night or day. but he can be useful in a thousand ways, for he knows more than any other man of some matters appertaining to the state. and if our hopes be realized, then he will emerge from his prison and rove the country from end to end. he has friends in every place. to him we shall look for guidance in a hundred ways." walter's eyes glowed. he looked like one to whom triumph is a certainty--one who anticipates success and already tastes the sweets thereof. cuthbert was growing uncomfortable. he felt as though he were hearing more than he ought to do. true, the coles had talked in very much this fashion all through the dark days of the previous winter when he had been so much with them. they were always looking for a day of release, always dwelling on the bright prospects of the future. but some instinct told cuthbert that there was a difference now in the fashion of their talk, and he was made uncomfortable by it though he scarce knew why. he rose to go. "i have but just returned. i have many visits to pay. i will come again anon," he said. "ay, but come not too openly. let us not be seen consorting together. and as thou walkest the street, keep thine eyes and thine ears open and attent, and learn ever what men say and think. if thou hearest aught of moment, bring it to us. every whisper may be of value. and now farewell. come not again by day, but slip in by the door in the archway when all be wrapped in gloom. so it is safest." cuthbert drew a deep breath of relief when he stood once again in the fresh air. he walked rapidly through the familiar sunny streets and strove to forget the impression made upon him by the recent interview. "plots, plots, plots!" he muttered--"nothing but dark plots, and the hope that things will thus be set right. i misdoubt me if it will ever be by such means. poor souls! i pity them with all my heart; but i like not their ways. they are not the ways of truth, of uprightness, of equity. methinks i had better hold aloof and have no dealings with them. they seem to think because i like them--the men themselves--and mislike these persecutions even as they do, that i am one with them and understand their ways and their deeds. but i do not, i do not, and i think not that i ever shall. i will go mine own way, and they must go theirs. it were best not to meddle too much in strange matters. now i will go and seek honest jacob. from him methinks i shall get as warm a welcome, but a welcome that is not tinged with these mysteries and dark words." chapter : whispers abroad. "have naught to do with them, cuthbert! i like them not." "yet they be good men, and stanch and true. thou hast said so thyself a score of times in my hearing, good jacob. why should i avoid them now? what have they done amiss?" jacob passed his large hand across his face, and looked at cuthbert with an expression of perplexity. "they are papists," he said at last, in a slightly vague and inconclusive fashion. cuthbert laughed aloud. "why, that i know well; and i am not scared by the name, as some of your puritan folk seem to be. papists, after all, are fellow men--and fellow christians too, if it comes to that. it was a christian act of theirs to take to their home that hunted priest whom we rescued that foggy night, jacob. many would have made much ado ere they had opened their doors to one in such plight. thou canst not deny that there was true christian charity in that act." "nay, nay, i would not try to deny it," answered jacob, in his calm, lethargic way, still regarding cuthbert with a look of admiration and curiosity, somewhat as a savage regards a white man, scarce knowing from moment to moment what his acts will be. "yet for all that i would warn thee to keep away from that house. men whisper that there be strange doings there. i know not the truth of what is spoken. but we walk in slippery places; it were well to take heed to our steps." cuthbert returned jacob's look with one equally tinged with curiosity. "nay now, speak more openly. what dost thou mean, good jacob? what do men say anent these coles?" jacob glanced round and instinctively lowered his voice. "it is not of the coles alone that they speak; it is of the whole faction of the papists. i know not what is said or what is known in high places; but this i know, that there be strange whispers abroad." cuthbert's eyes lighted. a slight thrill ran through him. he recalled the words recently spoken to him by his whilom friends. but all he said was: "verily men are ever whispering. it was the same cry when i was here a year agone, and no great thing has happened; wherefore this new fear?" jacob shook his head. his answer was spoken in a slow, ponderous fashion. "men will speak and whisper; yet the world wags on as before, and men well-nigh cease to listen or heed. but mark my word, cuthbert, there be no smoke where there is not fire; and these papists, who are for ever plotting, plotting, plotting, will one day spring some strange thing upon the world. there be so many cries of 'wolf!' that folks begin to smile and say the real wolf will never come. but that follows not. i like not this ever-restless secret scheming and gathering together in dark corners. it is not for their religion that i hate and distrust the papists. i know little about matters of controversy. i meddle not in things too high for me. but i hate them for their subtlety, their deceitful ways, their lying, and their fraud. thou knowest how they schemed and plotted the death of good queen bess; we citizens of london find it hard to forgive them that! we love not the son of this same mary stuart, whom of old the papists strove to give us for our queen; yet he is our lawful king, accepted by the nation as our sovereign; and failing him i know not whom we might choose to reign over us. wherefore say i, down with these schemers and plotters! if men wish their grievances redressed, let them work in the light and not in the dark. we protestants know that it is bible law that evil must never be done that good may come; but the papists hold that they may do never so many crimes and evil deeds if they may but win some point of theirs at last. thou dost not hold such false doctrine, i trow, cuthbert? thou art a soul above such false seeming." cuthbert drew his brows together in a thoughtful reverie. "i trow thou hast the right of it, jacob," he answered. "i love not dark scheming, nor love i these endless plots. yet in these days of oppression it must be hard for men to act openly. if they be driven to secret methods, the fault is less theirs than that of their rulers." "there be faults on both sides, i doubt not," answered jacob, with calm toleration. "but two evils make not one good; and the puritans who suffer in like fashion do not plot to overthrow their rulers." "how knowest thou that the papists do?" asked cuthbert quickly. "it has always been their way," answered jacob; "and though i know but little of the meaning of the sinister whispers i hear, we have but to look back to former days to see how it has ever been. think of the two plots of this very reign, the 'bye' and the 'main'! what was their object but the subversion of the present rulers? what they have tried before they will try again; and we who live beside this great river, and mingle with those who come from beyond the seas, do see and hear many things that others would not know. there have been comings and goings of late that i have not liked. it may be that mine eyes have played me false, but methought one dark night i saw a figure strangely like father urban land at the wharf, and he was incontinently joined by walter cole, who took him hastily and secretly away." cuthbert started slightly, and jacob continued: "and yet when i whispered a question to walter a few days later concerning the priest, of whose welfare i have asked from time to time since i had a hand in his rescue, he told me that he was still beyond the seas, and that it was not like he would ever set foot on english soil again." cuthbert was silent. but he presently asked a question. "but who is this father urban? and why should his appearance mean aught, or disturb thee?" "father urban is a jesuit, and one of those they call seminary priests, and all such are held in detestation and suspicion above all other papists. when men lay hands on them they show them scant mercy. it is a saying in this land that when treason and murder and wickedness is abroad, a seminary priest is sure to be the leading spirit. when those two last plots were hatching, this father urban was in the country. he has returned now, and many men are looking abroad with fear, wondering how soon the calm will be interrupted. i like it not; i like it not; and i caution thee to keep away from yon house, and to have no dealings with the papists. they be treacherous friends as well as wily foes. it were best and safest for thee to keep away from all such. thou art not one of them; why shouldest thou consort with them?" "i do not consort with them," answered cuthbert; "but i have none of thy hatred for the name, and these men have been kind and friendly to me. i owe much to the lessons anthony cole has taught me. i have no knowledge of their secrets, but i cannot see why i may not speak a friendly word with them; even my uncle does that." "ay, but he goes not to their house--and his name is not trevlyn." "but what of that? the trevlyns are now a stanch family, in favour with the king and his counsellors." "ay, but the name is not forgotten in many quarters as belonging to a race of persecuting papists. it takes long for old memories to die out. thou hadst better take heed, cuthbert. a whisper against thee would soon spread and take root. i prithee meddle not in such matters, lest some ill befall thee!" cuthbert thanked honest jacob for his goodwill and for his warning, but he could not see that it was needed. he was but an obscure youth, of no note in the world. he had no dealings with any of those plots of which men were whispering, and he could not see how any act of his could raise suspicion of any sort against him. he was growing intensely curious about the seething fire beneath the outer crust of quietness and security. if some great plot were hatching, if some great upheaval were at hand, why might not he scent out something beforehand? why might not he discover what was baffling the sagacity of others? he had no wish to be a spy or an informer; he had too much generous sympathy with the oppressed for that. but he was intensely curious about it all, and he felt as though his youth and obscurity would be his best protection if he chose to make some investigations on his own account. the old eager thirst for knowledge was coming upon him. the old love of adventure, which had run him into many perils already, had not been quenched by his recent experiences. success had crowned his labours in the forest; why should that success desert him now? and then the thought came to him that he might by chance discover something which might be of use to his own kinsmen. he knew that sir richard trevlyn and his son philip--petronella's lover--were in london. might it not be possible that they had better be elsewhere at such a time? jacob's words about the trevlyns might perchance be true. he had heard his uncle say the same before. if any possible peril should be menacing them, how gladly would he find it out and warn them in time! it began to appear to the youth in the light of a duty to pursue his investigation, and it was just such a task as best appealed to his ardent and fiery temperament. but he scarce knew what the first step had better be; so he gave up the day following to seeking out lord culverhouse, and learning from him what was the feeling in high quarters. culverhouse greeted him warmly, and at once begged him to ride out with him into the pleasant regions where the parks now stand, which were then much larger, and only just taking any semblance of park, being more like fields with rides running across them. each succeeding king did something for the improvement of this region, though the open ground became considerably diminished as stately buildings grew up around it. "cuthbert," said the viscount, when they had left the busy streets and were practically alone and out of earshot of any chance passers by, "dost thou know that the matter of our secret wedding is now known?" "i heard so from mistress kate, who has been sent away from home in disgrace, but is bearing her captivity cheerfully, with my sister for her companion." culverhouse was eager to hear everything cuthbert could tell him, and was delighted that his lady love was happy in her honourable captivity. when he had asked every question he could think of, he went on with his own side of the story. "there was a fine coil when sir richard brought the news, and i was rated more soundly than i have been since i was a little lad and lost my father's best falcon through letting it loose when the falconer was not by to whistle it back. there has been a mighty talking and arguing as to whether such wedlock as ours be lawful, and no man seems rightly to know. that we must be wed again in more orderly fashion all agree, if we are to live together as man and wife; but none will dare to say that we may break the pledge we gave each to the other that day. my father talked at first of moving some high court to set us free; but my mother shook her head and said that vows so solemnly spoken before god and in his name might never rightly be annulled by man. she was grieved and as angered as she knows how to be at our hot-headed rashness, and spoke to me words which hurt me more than my father's ratings. yet she holds steadfastly to this--that we are betrothed too firmly to be parted; and what she holds she can generally make my father hold, for he thinks much of her piety and true discernment." "so that thou art out of thy trouble for the nonce?" culverhouse laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "i say not that, for they tell us it will be many years ere we can hope to be wed again in due form; and waiting is weary work." "and why should you wait?" culverhouse laughed again. "that is soon answered. my father has always told me that i must wed a lady of wealth if i am to wed young. our estates are encumbered. we have more state to keep up than we well know how to manage. we have had troubles and losses even as the trevlyns have. i have known this well. i cannot complain of my father. nevertheless i chose my kate without any dowry before all the world beside, and i am prepared to abide by my choice. but we shall have to wait; we shall have to possess our souls in patience. they all tell us that; and i gainsay them not. i am young. i have friends in high places. i will win a name for myself, and a fortune too, ere my head be gray. alas for the old days of chivalry, when men might ride forth to fame and glory, and win both that and wealth in a few short years! those bright days are gone for ever. still methinks i will conquer fate yet!" culverhouse looked as though fitted indeed for some career of chivalrous daring. he and cuthbert would gladly have ridden forth together upon some knightly quest; but the days for such things had gone by, as both recognized with a sigh. still there was brightness in cuthbert's eyes as he said: "mistress kate will spend her christmas at the cross way house, and i trow that others of the trevlyns will do the like. if thou wilt be one of the party there upon that day, i doubt not that there will be a welcome for thee; and perchance thou wilt find then that thy nuptials need not be so long postponed. a golden key may be found which will unlock many doors." culverhouse looked quickly and eagerly at his companion, but could ask no more even had he wished, as they were at that moment joined by two friends of his, young men about the court, who at once began to talk of the approaching opening of parliament and the grand show that would accompany the act. the king's love for fine dress, fine pageants, and fine shows, of which he was the sun and centre (in his own opinion at least), was well known by this time. these young sprigs of the nobility amused themselves by making game freely of his majesty behind his back, ridiculing his vanity, mimicking his ungainly action, especially upon horseback (though he considered himself a most finished and accomplished rider), and describing to culverhouse the fine new robes he had ordered for the occasion, and which were to surpass in grandeur anything he had ever worn before. "folks talked of the vanity of our good queen bess, and called her mighty extravagant; but beshrew me if she were half as vain or extravagant as our noble king jamie! it is a marvel he cannot see how ten-fold uglier he makes his ugly person by trapping himself out in all such frippery and gorgeous apparel." so the young men chatted on in lightsome fashion, and cuthbert, who listened to every word, could not gather that the smallest uneasiness had penetrated the minds of those who moved in these high places. culverhouse talked with equal gaiety and security. certainly he had no suspicion of coming ill. the mutterings of discontent the seething of the troubled waters, the undefined apprehensions of many of the classes of the people, were apparently unknown and unheeded here. all was sunshine and brightness in the region of palaces. but if these youths had entertained any secret misgivings, they would have discussed them freely together. culverhouse kept cuthbert to dinner, and he was kindly received by the earl's family. lady andover even remembered to ask after cherry, and won cuthbert's heart by so doing. she questioned him in private about the marriage in the church porch, of which he had been witness, and plainly all he told her only went to strengthen her conviction that the matter had gone too far to admit of any drawing back without some breach of faith that was akin to sacrilege. after the meal, which seemed stately and long to cuthbert, culverhouse asked him would he like to see the houses of parliament, where the king would shortly meet his lords and commons. cuthbert eagerly assented, and the two youths spent some time in wandering about the stately buildings, to which culverhouse could obtain easy admittance; the viscount explaining to his companion where the king sat and where his immediate counsellors, to all of which cuthbert listened with marked attention. there were several attendants and ushers within the building, and culverhouse told him that orders had been given to keep strict watch over the building both by night and day. "the king is not like our good queen--heaven rest her soul!" said the viscount, laughing. "he does not trust his people. he is always in fear of some mischance either through accident or design. well may the great shakespeare have said: 'uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!' albeit the king would do better to have a little more courage." this was the first word cuthbert had heard of any uneasiness in high quarters, and he asked with some eagerness: "meanest thou that the king fears some evil to himself at this time?" "no; i have heard naught of that. the country seems unwontedly quiet. it is the fear which never leaves him--the fear that makes him wear a doublet so thickly quilted that it would suffice to turn the sharpest blade, even as a suit of chain mail. he is always dreading assassination. that is why he wills such close watch to be kept, lest haply any evil-disposed person might find hiding within the walls and spring upon him unawares. methinks it is an unkingly fear, but there it be, and he carries it ever with him. the queen had none such--nor had she need; and as thou knowest, when once an assassin did approach her when she was alone in her garden, the glance of her eye kept him cowed and at bay till her gentlemen could hasten to her side. she was a queen in very truth! i would we had more of her like!" culverhouse spoke out aloud, careless of being overheard, for he was but speaking the thoughts of the whole nation. cuthbert echoed his wish with all sincerity; and still looking round and about him with keen interest, went through a certain mental calculation which caused him at last to ask: "and what buildings lie around or beneath this?" "i know not exactly how that may be. there is a house close beside this where methinks i have heard that master thomas percy dwells, the steward to my lord of northumberland. i know not what lies beneath; it may be some sort of cellar. "dost thou know, fellow, whether there be cellars beneath this place?" culverhouse spoke to a man-at-arms who appeared to be on duty there, and who had for some moments been regarding cuthbert with close scrutiny, and had now drawn slowly near them. cuthbert was vaguely aware that the man's face was in some way familiar to him, but he had no recollection where he had seen him before. "master thomas percy has rented the cellar beneath, where his coals be stored," answered the man carelessly; and cuthbert, who had asked the question rather haphazard and without exactly knowing why, moved away to examine a piece of fine carving close at hand. whilst he was doing this he knew that the man-at-arms asked culverhouse a question, to which the latter gave ready reply, and he heard the name of trevlyn pass his lips. at the moment he heeded this little, but the remembrance came back to him later. as he passed out he noted that the man still continued to gaze after him, as though wishful to read his face by heart. he was standing beside a companion warder then, pointing out, as it seemed, the visitor to the other fellow. was it only fancy, or did cuthbert really hear the name of father urban pass in a whisper between them? puzzled, and even a shade uneasy, he followed culverhouse to the outer door, a flash of memory seemed then to recall to him the faces of these two men. had he not seen them keeping watch at the wharf for father urban that day so long ago? he was almost certain it had been so. but what of that? how could they possibly connect him with the fugitive priest? it would soon be dusk now, so the comrades said adieu to each other and went their several ways. cuthbert had come as far as the strand by boat, and had only to drop down and find it there; but somehow he felt more disposed to linger about these solemn old buildings, and try to piece together the things he had seen and heard. hardly knowing what he was doing, he wandered round the great pile till he came to the narrow entry he had once traversed, leading up from the river to the door of the house where he had seen catesby and his companions at their mysterious toil. the house looked dark as night now. not a single gleam penetrated the gloom. already the last of the twilight had faded into night, but no ray of any kind shone from any of the casements. cuthbert stood looking thoughtfully up at the house, hardly knowing why he did so, his fancy running riot in his excited brain and conjuring up all manner of fantastic visions, when suddenly and silently the door opened. a gleam of light from behind showed in relief the figure of a tall man muffled in a cloak, a soft felt hat being drawn over the brow and effectually concealing the features; but one glance sufficed to convince cuthbert that this cloaked and muffled individual was none other than the same tall dark man who had produced the holy water blessed by the pope and had had it sprinkled around the spot where those mysterious men were at work in percy's house. filled with a burning curiosity that rendered him impervious to the thought of personal risk, cuthbert first shrank into a dark recess, and then with hushed and noiseless footfall followed the tall figure in its walk. the cloaked man walked quietly, but without any appearance of fear. he skirted round the great block of buildings of which the houses of parliament were composed, until he reached a door in the rear of that building, within a deep arch sunk a little way below the level of the ground, and this door he opened, but closed it after him, and locked it on the inside. unable to follow further, cuthbert put his ear to the keyhole, and heard distinctly the sound of footsteps descending stone stairs till the sound changed to the unbarring of a lower door, and then all was silence. cuthbert looked keenly around him, and soon made out that these steps must certainly lead down to the cellar beneath the parliament houses of which he had recently heard. that other cellar he had visited so many months before was close at hand--close to these great buildings; and this tall dark man seemed to have some mysterious connection with both. what could it all mean? what did it mean? cuthbert felt as though he were on the eve of some strange discovery, but what that discovery could be he could not guess. he was aroused from his reverie by the sound of approaching footfalls along the roadway, and he hastily stood upright and walked onwards to meet the advancing pedestrian. the man carried a light which he flashed in cuthbert's face, and the youth saw that it was one of the men-at-arms on guard over these buildings. "what are you doing here?" asked the man civilly, though in slightly peremptory fashion. "i did not know that this road was anything but public," answered cuthbert, with careless boldness. "i have walked in london streets before now, no man interfering with me." "have a care how and where you walk at night," returned the man, passing by without further comment. "there be many perils abroad in the streets--more than perchance you wot of." cuthbert thanked him for the hint, and went on his way. he would have liked well enough to linger till the tall man emerged again, but he saw that to do so would only excite suspicion. although it was quite dark by this time, it was not really late; for it was the last day of october save one, and masses of heavy cloud obscured the sky. now and again a ray of moonlight glinted through these ragged masses, but for the rest it was profoundly dark in the narrow streets, and only a little lighter on the open river. the tide was running in fast, with a strong cold easterly wind. cuthbert saw that it would be hard work to row against it. "better wait for the ebb; it will not be long in coming now," he said to himself as he noted the height of the tide; and stepping into his boat, he pulled idly out into midstream, as being a safer place of waiting than the dark wharf, to find himself drifting up with the strong current, which he did not care to try to stem. "beware of the dark-flowing river!" spoke a voice within him; "beware of the black cellar!" he started, for it almost seemed as though some one had spoken the words in his ear, and a little thrill of fear ran through him. but all was silent save for the wash of the current as it bore him rapidly onwards, and he knew that the voice was one in his own head. upwards and upwards he drifted; was it by his own will, or not? he did not himself know, he could not have said. he only knew that a spell seemed upon him, that an intense desire had seized him to look once again upon that lonely house beside the river bank. he had no wish to try to obtain entrance there. he felt that he was treading the dark mazes of some unhallowed plot. but this very suspicion only increased his burning curiosity; and surely there could no harm come of one look at that dark and lonely place. no volition of his own was needed to carry him onwards; wind and tide did all that. he had merely to keep his place and steer his little bark up the wide river. he saw against the sky the great pile of westminster. he had drifted almost across the river by that time. he was seated in the bow of the boat, just dipping an oar from time to time as it slipped along beneath the trees. and now the moon shone out for a few minutes clear and bright. it did not shine upon his own craft, gliding so stealthily beneath the bare trees that fringed the wall of the very house he had come to see; but it did gleam upon another wherry out in midstream, rowed by a strong man wrapped in a cloak, and directed straight for the same spot. cuthbert started, and caught hold of a bough of a weeping willow, bringing his boat to a standstill in a place where the shadow was blackest. he had no wish to be found in this strange position. he would remain hidden until this other boat had landed at the steps. he would be hidden well where he was. he had better be perfectly silent, and so remain. a sound of voices above his head warned him that he was not the only watcher, and for a moment he feared that, silent as had been his movements, his presence had been discovered. but some one spoke in anxious accents, and in that voice he recognized the clear and mellow tones of robert catesby. he was speaking in a low voice to some companion. "if he comes not within a short while, i shall hold that all is lost. i fear me we did wrong to send him. that letter--that letter--that luckless letter! who can have been the writer?" "tresham, i fear me without doubt, albeit he denied it with such steadfast boldness. would to heaven that fickle hound had never been admitted to our counsels! that was thy doing, catesby." "ay, and terribly do i repent me of it, winter. i upbraid myself as bitterly as any can upbraid me for the folly. but hark--listen! i hear the plash of oars. see, there is a boat! it is he--it is fawkes! i know him by his height and his strong action. heaven be praised! all cannot yet be lost! move upwards yet a few paces, and we will speak to him here alone before we take him within doors to the others. "guido fawkes! good guy, is that verily thou?" "verily and in truth, my masters. has the time seemed long?" "terribly long. how foundest thou all?" "all well--all as i left it weeks ago. there has been no soul within. gunpowder, faggots, iron bars, and stones--all are as before; and above, the coal and faggots carefully concealing all. why this anxiety and fear, catesby? it was not wont to be so with thee." "no; but i have something of terrible import to reveal to thee, good guy. and first i must ask thy pardon for thus exposing thee to peril as this day i did. i sent thee on this mission of inspection; but i ought first to have told thee that we are in fear and trembling lest we have been betrayed!" "betrayed!" echoed fawkes with a fierce oath, "and by whom?" "that we know not. but some days since, my lord mounteagle received a mysterious warning bidding him absent himself from this meeting of parliament, for that a blow should then be struck, no man seeing who dealt it. wherefore we fear--" "mounteagle!" cried fawkes, interrupting fiercely; "then the traitor is yon false hound tresham!" "so we all thought till we charged him with it, and had he blenched or shrunk our daggers should have been buried in his heart!" answered winter in low, fierce accents; "but he swore he knew naught of it, and that with so bold a front and so open an air that for very doubt of his guilt we could not smite him. there may be other traitors in the camp. there was that lad thou, or thy fool of a servant, catesby, once brought amongst us. i liked it not then. he should not have been let go without solemn oath taken on pain of death. trevlyn, methinks, was the name. i hear he has been seen in london again of late. why does he haunt us? what does he suspect?" "tush! thou art dreaming. trevlyn! why, that is a good name, and the lad knows nothing, and is, moreover, stanch. "guido, thou hast not said that thou dost pardon us for sending thee on so perilous an errand this day." "thou needst not repent, catesby. i should have adventured myself the same had i known all. i have sworn myself to this task, and i go not back to mine own country till all be accomplished." chapter : peril for trevlyn. cuthbert stood at the door of the narrow house in budge row, seeking speech of the wise woman. it was a blustering night--the first night in november. the wind howled and shrieked round the corners of the streets; the rain pattered down and splashed the garments of the few pedestrians who had braved the storm. it was but seven of the clock, yet budge row was dark and quiet as though midnight had settled down upon the city. scarce any gleams of light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, and only the sound of a distant watchman's cry broke the silence of the night. cuthbert had once before sought this house, but had knocked in vain for admittance. either the wise woman was from home, or else she had no intention of receiving visitors. since then his mind had been engrossed by other matters, and he had not thought again of joanna's charge concerning esther. but recent mysterious occurrences had made him desirous not only of telling her his own tale, but of seeking information from her; and here he stood in the wind and rain making request for admittance. softly and silently the door swung open at last, and he saw before him the dark passage he had traversed a year before with cherry, the dim light from above just guiding his steps as he moved. the same juggleries were repeated as on that occasion. the outer door swung back and bolted itself behind him. the invisible light wavered and flickered and showed him his way. the black cat appeared ready to dispute his entrance into the room till he had dropped his coin into the box; and when he entered the dim place where the wise woman ensconced herself, he saw her as before, seated behind the lamp which shed its light upon him, but left her face in deep shadow. all was precisely as it had been upon a former occasion--all but his reception by the wise woman herself. that, however, was altogether different; for the moment she saw who her visitor was, she rose suddenly from her chair and exclaimed in excited tones: "cuthbert trevlyn, why hast thou not come hither sooner?" "i did, but could not find thee." she made an impatient exclamation. "and thou wert content not to find me, and came not again and yet again! foolish boy! did not joanna warn thee to seek me out and tell me all? i know well that she did. she is loyal and true. and so, boy, the lost treasure is found, and is safe beneath the roof of that house which shelters the honoured heads of the wyverns?" "yes, it is all there." the old woman flung up her arms with a gesture of triumph. "i knew it: i knew it i knew that the prophecy would fulfil itself, for all miriam's spite and long robin's greed. boy, thou hast done well, thou hast done very well. but thou hast been more bold than secret. thou art suspected. miriam has been here. she is raging like a lioness robbed of her whelps. she loved yon fierce man who called himself long robin, yet was neither husband of hers, still less her son, with a love more wild and fierce than thou wilt ever understand. she vows that she will be revenged. she vows that the trevlyns shall yet smart. she suspects not thee alone, but all who bear the name. boy, boy, why didst thou not seek me earlier?" cuthbert made no response. he was looking in amaze at this old woman, who had now come forth from her nook behind the table, and was speaking to him without any assumption of prophetic power, but as one anxious human creature to another. he saw in her a strange likeness to old miriam, and to the dark gipsy queen; but he marvelled at the excitement she evinced, and the eager intensity of her gaze. it was so different from her aspect when last he had seen her, so much more natural and full of human concern and anxiety. "i have looked for thee day by day. i said in my heart, surely thou wouldst come quickly. and now, in lieu of seeking safety and counsel, thou hast been running blindly into those very perils of which i warned thee long ago. as if it were not enough to have tyrrel and all his crew, with old miriam at their back, resolved to hunt thee down and wrest the treasure from thee!" cuthbert started and looked intently at her. "miriam! tyrrel! what can they know?" "miriam can piece together facts as well as i," answered esther in rapid tones; "and thou oughtest by this to know what power that gives to those who possess the gift. in brief, i will tell thee what i myself have learned from her and others. she missed long robin, waited for his return till despair took the place of expectation. she knew that one of two things had happened--either that he had made off with the treasure, or that he had been done to death in the forest by some secret foe. burning with fear and fury, she caused search to be made. the grave was found where the body lay. rage filled the hearts of all the tribe, for the strange old man was venerated and feared, albeit he was not greatly beloved; and as thou knowest, amongst our people an injury done to one is avenged by all. thou hadst been seen in the forest, seen moving to and fro in mysterious fashion. many had wondered what thy business was, but none had interfered; for thou wast known to be under the protection of joanna, and the word of the queen is sacred. but now that may serve no longer to protect thee. miriam has declared aloud that robin was the keeper of the long-lost treasure, that he was hoarding it up in some secret spot, ready to divide it amongst the whole tribe when the moment should have come. in fervid words she described the golden hoard--the hoard which i know well that evil man meant to make all his own when the time came that he might escape from the jealous watch kept upon him by miriam. he was but waiting for her death, which may not be far distant, since she is subject to strange seizures of the heart which defy all our skill in curing. then would he have fled, and taken all the treasure with him. he would have shared the spoil with none, as miriam well knows. but she is using her power and her half knowledge of the secret for her own ends, and one of those ends is--" the old woman paused, looking straight at cuthbert, who regarded her fixedly, and now asked in a low voice: "is what?" "the destruction of the house of trevlyn, root and branch." a gleam of angry defiance shone in his eyes. "still that mad hatred? but why should we fear her? let her do her worst!" esther raised a warning hand. "peace, boy!" she said; "be not so full of recklessness and scorn. miriam is an adversary not to be despised. miriam is sworn to the task of vengeance upon thy house. she will not let this fresh deed of thine pass without striving might and main to fulfil that vengeance which thou hast now made void." "made void?" "ay, by the finding of the treasure. she is assured that this is what thou hast done. she has persuaded tyrrel and his band of it, and all are resolved to find it for themselves. she is acting with the craftiness of her nature. she has persuaded them that all the trevlyns are in the golden secret. wherefore vengeance is not directed against thee alone, but against all who bear thy name--sir richard and his son, who are in this city now." cuthbert drew his brows together in a frown. "they know naught of it," he said hastily. "that may be; but they are trevlyns, and that is enough for miriam. it is not the gold she covets; it is vengeance upon all who bear that name. she stirs the avarice and cupidity of others, that they may do the work she wishes done. and she works in other dark ways, too. she has tools which few suspect, and she uses them for her own ends without scruple. and thou, foolish boy, blind and self willed as thou art, unheeding my warnings, hast played into her hands; and now others as well as thyself may be brought into sore peril through thine own foolhardy recklessness." the old woman's eyes were gleaming brightly. they were fixed upon cuthbert with keen intensity. he felt himself change colour beneath their glance, and he answered with some uneasiness: "what hast thou to chide me with? wherein have i been guilty of recklessness that may be hurtful to others?" "did i not charge thee to beware the dark-flowing river; to avoid the black cellar; to have no dealings with strange men; to have the courage to say nay to what was asked of thee? hast. thou avoided these perils? no! thou hast been led on by thy reckless hardihood and insensate curiosity. hast thou said no to what has been asked of thee! no! thou hast ever done the things required of thee, making excuse to forget warnings and disobey those who have counselled thee for thy good. and what has come of it? verily, that the name of trevlyn has been whispered amongst the names of traitors suspected of foul crimes, and that thine own kindred now stand in dire peril from thine own defiant hardihood." cuthbert started and made a step forward. "woman, what meanest thou?" he asked with breathless eagerness. "i understand not the meaning of thy words." esther continued to gaze at him with her bright keen eyes. "understandest thou not that there be on foot at this very moment a vile plot for the destruction at one blow of the king, the nobles, and the whole house of his peers--a plot to blow them all into the air at the moment of their assembly upon the fifth day of this month?" cuthbert recoiled in horror. a sudden illumination came upon him. he put together chance words dropped, expressions used, things he had seen as well as what he had heard, and his face grew pale with conflicting emotions and his extreme bewilderment. "what?" he gasped; "is that what it means? is that the hideous deed to be done? great heavens protect us from such men, if it has come to that! "how knowest thou this thing?" he added, turning almost fiercely upon the old woman, who was still regarding him steadily. "if it be as thou sayest, sure such a fearful secret would be held sacred from all." esther smiled her strange smile. "secrets known to many have a wondrous fashion of leaking out. and, moreover, the wise woman has means thou knowest naught of for learning the things concealed from the world. cuthbert trevlyn, look back, search thy memory, and thou wilt surely know that i have spoken naught but the truth. if thou art not one of them, thou knowest their dark secrets; thou canst not deny it!" again he recoiled from her. "i know their secrets! i one of them! woman, dost thou believe this vile thing of me? "no, i believe it not. i know that thou hast but let thyself be led into dire peril through that foolish, generous weakness of youth and thy trevlyn blood, against which i have warned thee--and warned thee in vain. but dost thou think thou canst despise the warnings of the wise woman and escape deadly peril? cuthbert trevlyn, listen to me and heed me well. this thing is known--is known in high places. the king and his counsellors have had intelligence thereof. the deed of darkness will be frustrated, and heads will fall beneath the axe of the executioner. already whispers are going abroad--already the guilty ones are watched and spied upon; and with the guilty there are those suspected who know naught of this vile deed. shall i say more, or can thine own quick wits supply the rest?" cuthbert had turned a little pale. his eyes were fixed upon this woman's face. "tell me all," he said hoarsely. "what dost thou mean by these dark sayings?" "i mean," she answered, in clear low tones, "that there is peril for trevlyn in this thing. thine own rashness, miriam's spite and quickness of wit to avail herself of every trifling matter that passes, the presence in london of sir richard and his son at this time, the old tradition surrounding the name of trevlyn--all are helping on the work; all are pointing in one direction. rash boy, thou hast been seen with father urban in the streets--a jesuit, a seminary priest, a man suspected of many plots and many daring acts of courage and cunning. thou art suspected to have been concerned in his escape one dark and foggy night, when thou wert on the river in thy wherry; and he must have been taken on board some such craft. thou hast been seen with others who are suspected of being mixed up in this business. thou hast appeared within the city walls when they appeared; when they were absent thou wast absent likewise. thou wouldst not heed warnings when yet there was time; thou must now take double heed to thy steps--" "thou spokest of sir richard and his son but now," cried cuthbert, interrupting hastily. "for myself, i must take the consequences of my rashness. the fault is mine, and if harm comes to me i can bear it; but if others have been imperilled through me, i should never forgive myself. tell me plainly if this has been so; keep me not in suspense! how can one word be breathed against the loyalty of a man faithful and true as sir richard, and a stanch protestant to boot?" the old woman shook her head meaningly. "a man's character and reputation and life may too easily be whispered away in these evil times. but listen to me, cuthbert trevlyn, and all may yet be well. thou hast been noted, spied upon, observed. there be those who have seen thee in strange places and strange company, and it behoves thee to look well to thyself. but for thy kinsmen, methinks that no whisper regarding them has as yet reached high quarters. as thou sayest, sir richard's loyalty is known, and men will not easily believe such ill of him. yet he were best to be gone. miriam is at work. miriam has tools that even i wot not of, and she hates the head of trevlyn's house with a bitter and undying hatred. let but this thing be known--as known it will be to all the world in a few more days--and she will leave no stone unturned to overwhelm him in the ruin that must then fall upon so many. vengeance such as that would be dear to her heart. she would weave her web right skilfully to entrap his unsuspecting steps. wherefore let him begone--let all who bear the name of trevlyn begone, and that right speedily. flight will not be thought flight now; for this thing is as yet a profound secret, and thou must not breathe a word that i have spoken to thee abroad, else thou mayest do harm of which thou little reckest. let him go speedily; and go thou likewise, and do not tarry. if thou wouldst undo the harm thy rashness has well-nigh brought to thy kinsfolk, carry them this warning, and make them listen." "that will i do right speedily," answered cuthbert, whose heart was beating high with excitement and agitation. "did harm befall them through deed of mine, i should never forgive myself." "go then," answered esther; "go, and be thou cautious and wary. remember thou hast many foes, and that the hour of peril darkens over this land. strange things will be heard and seen ere many days have passed. take heed that thou be far away from hence ere the day of reckoning comes. take heed that miriam's vow of vengeance be not accomplished, and that the house of trevlyn be drawn into the vortex!" cuthbert descended the stairs with uncertain steps, his mind in a whirl of conflicting feelings. he believed that esther was sincere in her desire for the welfare of the house of trevlyn. he trusted her, and he saw that she had in some way or another become possessed of information concerning himself of a very particular and intimate kind. this being so, it was easy to believe that she had discovered other matters of hidden import; and he was quite disposed to give her credit for dealings in magic and charms which should show her the things that were to be. the horror of the knowledge of this plot was upon him as he went forth into the streets and felt the keen air and the cold rain dashing in his face. he could not doubt the truth of esther's words. all he had seen and heard tallied too well with it to leave in his mind any room for doubt. a plot of some sort he had always suspected--he would have been foolish indeed to have come to any other conclusion; but a plot of such malignity and such diabolical scope would never have presented itself to his mind. he found it hard to believe that such a terrible thing could be menaced against the king and the nobles of the land, many amongst whom must surely be of the same faith as those conspirators who were plotting in the dark. and then the peril that menaced the trevlyns--what of that? cuthbert remembered the looks bent upon him a few days back by the men-at-arms in the parliament house. he remembered the light of the sentry flashing in his face as he turned away from the door in at which the tall man they called guido fawkes had vanished but a few moments before. he knew that he had been observed more than once with some attention as he had stepped on board his wherry, or had brought it up to the mooring place. could it be that he was really watched and suspected? it seemed like it, indeed. and what was more serious still, his kinsmen were like to fall under suspicion through his rash disregard of warnings. for himself cuthbert cared comparatively little--perhaps rather too little--for he possessed a strong dash of his father's stubbornness of disposition; and in him the trevlyn courage was intermingled with a good deal of absolute rashness and hardihood; but the thought that sir richard and his family should suffer for his sake was intolerable. that must at all cost be prevented. surely he could warn them and avert the danger. as the youth walked rapidly westward through the miry streets, he was revolving the situation rapidly in his mind, and at last he reached a conclusion which he muttered aloud as he went. "that will be the best: i will to mine uncle and philip and tell them that. it will make them hasten away at once; but i will not go with them. if i am suspected i must not be seen with them, nor seem to have dealings with them. if they leave town and i remain, none will suspect that i have warned them and sent them forth. to fly with them would at once raise such thoughts. here must i remain, and let myself be seen abroad, so will they the better escape miriam's evil intent. sir richard has friends at court. lord andover and others will speak for him if need be. i doubt me much, he being quietly gone, whether any will dare to strive to bring his name into disgrace. there be those to find who are the guilty ones. sure they may let the innocent go free. as for me, i will not flee. i would fain see the end of this matter. and perchance i might even warn master robert catesby of the peril that hangs over his head. strange how so gentle and courteous a gentleman can sell himself to a work of such devilish wickedness!" divided betwixt horror of the deed and pity for the conspirators who had been practically discovered and frustrated in their evil work, and who had doubtless persuaded themselves and been persuaded by their ghostly advisers that it was an act of virtue and justice and right, cuthbert walked on, wondering more and more at the strange vagaries of human conscience, and at the extraordinary self delusion possible to the sons of the romish faction. it was long since he had decided definitely and of resolute conviction to cast in his lot with those who held the reformed faith; but had he ever had any secret doubts and leanings towards the faith in which he had been reared, the revelations of that night would have proved enough for him. he knew--none better--that this diabolic deed was planned and executed with the full consent, approbation, and blessing of the romanist priests, and might even be known to the pope himself. sorrowful and indignant as cuthbert had often been for the persecuted romanists, and keenly as his sympathies would have been stirred had they risen in man-like fashion to claim liberty of conscience and fight boldly for the cause in which their hearts were bound up, he could regard a plot like this with nothing but loathing and horror. he wondered that men could be found willing to sell themselves to such iniquity. yet he knew, from what he had himself seen, that these were no mere hirelings bought over with money to do this thing, but that they were gentlemen, most of them of noble birth and large means, all of them actuated by motives of devotion and religious enthusiasm; and that they did not prize their own lives or regard them as in any way precious, but would gladly offer them up so that this thing might be accomplished. well, it was a mystery, and one that he could not fathom. he could only feel thankful that no compulsion lay upon him to make known what he had seen and heard. his word had been pledged to catesby and father urban, and how to have broken it he knew not. but there was no call for him even to think of this. it was not he who had discovered this strange plot. the knowledge of it was already with the king and his ministers. the conspirators themselves were half aware of this; cuthbert well remembered the words of fear concerning some letter spoken in the lonely garden at lambeth but a couple of days back. how dared they, knowing so much, pursue their dark scheme? the youth shuddered as he marvelled at them. did they believe themselves yet secure? what a fearful thing security such as that might become! cuthbert longed to warn them, yet feared to intermeddle further in such a matter. and at least his first business lay in the warning he must instantly convey to sir richard, and that without revealing more of the truth than was absolutely necessary. cuthbert was worldly wise enough to be well aware that the greatest protection his kinsmen could have against suspicion was absolute ignorance of the matter of which they stood suspected. sir richard was absent when cuthbert asked for him, but his son was at home, and the visitor was ushered into a room where philip and culverhouse were sitting together conversing by the glow of a bright fire of sea coal. he was made very welcome by his cousin, and quickly plunged into the matter in hand. "philip," he said, "i have come to ask whether the business that has brought you to town is yet accomplished." "yes, verily," answered philip, surprised. "we came to talk of kate's rash marriage with culverhouse there, and if it was such as might safely be ignored. my lord and lady of andover, however, had adjudged that their son is too far pledged to draw back, and that for the sake of the lady's honour and happiness they must be held to be solemnly betrothed. their punishment will be the long waiting ere they may truly wed; but culverhouse means to tell all his tale in the ears of the prince of wales, and he holds that the kindly youth will doubtless give him some post about his royal person that may be a stepping stone to further wealth and advancement." "my lord culverhouse need scarce do that," said cuthbert, speaking in short, abrupt sentences. "let me tell my news in a few words. the lost treasure of trevlyn is found. it is hidden in the cross way house, where mistress kate and my sister petronella are at this moment sheltering. it was thought the safest spot, for that the gipsies and the robbers of the road alike think kindly of the ladies of the wyvern family, and hold their abode sacred--" cuthbert was at this moment arrested by a storm of questions and eager exclamations, which he had some small trouble in answering or setting aside. when he had so far satisfied his eager listeners as to be able to take up the thread of what he was saying, he went on in the same quick, abrupt fashion as before. "i thought the treasure safe when i hid it there; but i have had a warning this night from one who knows well the temper of the gipsy folk. i hear that suspicion has been aroused in the tribe--that there is a resolve abroad to win it back. there is a man called tyrrel, a notable highway robber, who has vowed to regain it for himself and his men. if this be so, i fear me that even the sanctuary of the wyvern house will not suffice. in that house there are but women and a few old men--servants, little able to withstand a concerted attack. i have heard this news but tonight, and i have come straight on to tell thee, philip. if your business in london be done, why shouldst not thou and thy father return forthwith home, and abide awhile at the cross way house, to see what fares there, and to protect the household should tyrrel and his men attack? methinks that they may stand in need of the presence of kinsmen at such a time as that. i hear that ill is meant by these fierce men to all who bear the name of trevlyn. two of the women within those doors bear that name; wherefore--" but cuthbert had no need to complete his sentence; both young men had started at once to their feet. "kate in peril!" cried culverhouse, between his shut teeth; "then verily her husband must find his way to her side." "petronella at the cross way house, exposed to alarm and attack!" cried philip; "then must i be there to shelter and protect her." "we will forth this very night!" cried culverhouse. "i will to the house and get ready my servants to accompany me." "i will make all preparation here!" echoed philip, "and only await my father's return. "cuthbert, thinkest thou that they are in peril this very night? speak; tell us all!" "i trow not," answered cuthbert with some decision, knowing that his object was well accomplished and that the trevlyns would make all speed to leave london, yet scarcely himself wishing them to hurry off in the night like fugitives in fear for themselves. "i am certain sure that no immediate peril hangs over them, or i should have been more urgently warned. i would not have you hasten thus. i trow it would more alarm the ladies to be aroused by you in the middle of the night than to see you come riding thither later in the day on the morrow. surely it would be better to wait for day. the night is black and tempestuous; it will be hard to find the road. tomorrow with the first of the sunlight you may well ride forth." culverhouse and philip both saw the soundness and reasonableness of this counsel, and knew that their respective fathers would both concur in this opinion, though their own impatience chafed at the delay. "and thou--what wilt thou do thyself, cuthbert?" asked philip; "come with us to cross way house?" cuthbert hesitated a few moments, debating within himself what were best. he had been warned on the one hand to flee the forest, on the other to flee the city. if his mysterious gipsy friends were right, for him there was peril in both places. but it certainly seemed to him that his own presence and company would add to the perils of his kinsmen; and his decision was speedily taken. "i hope to join you there anon," he said; "but i have something set my heart upon seeing this grand pageant when his majesty shall open his parliament on the fifth. methinks i will stay for that, and then perchance i will forth to the cross way house." he looked keenly at both his companions as he spoke, but neither face wore the least look of any secret intelligence. he was certain that no whisper of the plot had reached their ears. "ay, do so, and come and tell us all," said culverhouse gaily. "i had thought to be there myself, but i must to my kate's side. "philip, thy father will be something loath to leave london ere that day. thinkest thou that thou canst persuade him?" "i trow i can," answered philip; and then they both turned on cuthbert, asking him for a more detailed account of his search after and his discovery of the lost treasure, hanging with eager interest on his words. it was late ere he left their lodgings, and the family at the bridge house had retired to rest. he found his way to his room; but little sleep visited his eyes that night, and the fitful dreams which came to him betwixt waking and sleeping seemed charged with ominous warnings. sir richard trevlyn heard his son's story in great surprise, but he hesitated not a moment as to the course of action they must pursue. "i would it had been brought to trevlyn chase. we have a household of men there, and could well defy these rogues of the road. but cross way house has no such defences, and it is tenanted mainly by helpless women, and we must lose no time in going to their assistance. i have heard long since of this man--tyrrel. he is a notable outlaw, and there is a price upon his head. the forest will be well freed of him if we can overthrow him. he has owed his safety again and again to his reckless riding and the alliance and good fellowship he has with the forest gipsies. it is time the whole brood were smoked out from their hiding places. they want destroying, root and branch!" sir richard found it easier to remember that the treasure had been stolen and hidden by the gipsy people than that it had been restored partly through the assistance of the woman joanna, the queen. however, there was little time for further talk. the night was already advanced, and on the morrow they were to make as early a start as was practicable. sir richard had not many servants of his own, but culverhouse could bring a good dozen men with him. unluckily the storm raged all through the earlier hours of the following day, and it was not till noon that a start could be made. however, the seventeen miles' ride could be easily made before dark, although the roads were deep in mud, and travelling in the open country was both tedious and bad. the last of the scattered hamlets had been passed. the sun glowed red before them in an angry, lowering sky. sir richard and his son and lord culverhouse paused on the brow of the ridge to look both before and behind. they had in their impatience outridden their servants, who, less well mounted, found some difficulty in spurring along the deep mire of the ill-made roads. they could but just see them on the horizon of the last ridge, coming onwards at an even jog trot, which seemed the swiftest pace they aspired to. before lay the long waste of forest--trees and heather intermixed in long stretches alternating one with the other. a good seven miles lay between them and their destination, and the sun was already nearing the horizon, and would soon dip behind it. "we must push on something faster," said culverhouse impatiently, "if we are to reach cross way house before dark." "we have already far outridden our men," said sir richard, frowning slightly as he turned his head to look over his shoulder; "and this is the worst part of the road before us." "but we are well mounted and well armed," urged culverhouse, "and if we wait for the men we shall lose the rest of the daylight. surely if there be any footpads about, the fact that we are followed by so goodly a train will serve to scare them away. and we have no valuables upon our persons. they will get cold steel and hot lead for their pains, an they venture to molest us, instead of silver or gold." "very true," said philip, who was as eager as his cousin and endued with full share of trevlyn courage and impetuosity; "we can never wait till those sluggards have come up. the fault is not theirs: they are not so well mounted as ourselves. we shall never keep our horses to their pace, try we never so hard." "forward then, and let us ride as fast as our steeds can carry us!" said sir richard with a smile; "for if we wait not for our men, the daylight is our best friend. we are all familiar with the road, and our horses likewise. forward! and all eyes keep a sharp lookout to left and right. at least we will not be set upon unawares." putting spurs to their horses very gladly, the younger men placed themselves one on each side of sir richard, and the good horses settled themselves to a steady hand gallop, which was the best and surest pace for getting over those rough muddy roads. three miles had been safely traversed. absolute solitude and silence seemed to reign throughout the woodland tracks. but the darkest of the forest still lay ahead of them, and the red ball of the sun had just dipped behind the ridge in front. "it will be dark beneath the trees," said sir richard; "have a care, lads, how you ride. "philip, thine eyes are better than mine. dost thou see aught there to the right of the road, just beneath that great oak?" philip had seen already, and his answer was quickly spoken. "they be horsemen," he said--"horsemen drawn up and, as it were, awaiting us. i fear me we shall not pass without molestation. but my counsel is not to pause, rather to gallop still on steadily, as though we saw them not. but let us be ready; and if they dare to molest us, let us with one accord discharge our pieces in their faces. that will disconcert them for a moment, and we may perchance outride them. we are but three miles and a half from cross way house. i trow we can make shift to reach its friendly shelter; and once there we shall be safe." "it is useless to pause now," answered sir richard, who was always cool and self possessed in moments of real peril. "our men are a mile behind, and to hesitate would be to lose all. a bold front is our greatest safeguard. we are all well skilled in the use of arms. be watchful and vigilant, and make you sure that every shot and every stroke will tell. we have need of all our strength, if we are attacked. but they may let us pass unmolested; they may guess that our followers are behind." culverhouse said nothing, but he set his teeth hard and his eyes flashed ominously. he had never tasted real warfare before, and it seemed to fire the blood in his veins and send it tingling through his body. each rider so shifted his carbine that it could be readily used at a moment's notice. and now they had reached the forest aisle. their good horses, still galloping freely and easily, bore them rapidly onwards. they had almost reached that silent, motionless band awaiting them with sinister quietude. in another moment they would have passed them, when, on a sudden, a voice rang out clear and sharp through the still air: "halt! stand! stand, or we fire!" "ride on and fire!" said sir richard in calm tones; and the next moment the echoes were awakened by three sharp reports of firearms and by a yell--three yells--of human rage and pain. a roar of execration and menace arose from twenty throats, and twenty blades gleamed brightly in the gathering dusk. but already the riders had passed the little band, sweeping by before they were well aware of it. and as they did so, they heard a voice exclaim, sharpened by rage and pain: "it is they--it is our foes! i knew it--i knew it! those are the trevlyn brood that we were warned would pass--the false sire and his son and nephew. after them, my men! let them not escape your vengeance! take them, or slay them, but let them not escape! they have the treasure. we will have them. the vengeance of the gipsy tribe shall be consummated! they shall not make it void. they shall give life for life--blood for blood!" "they shall! they shall! they shall not escape us. we will be avenged, and the red gold shall be our reward!" sir richard set his teeth as he heard these words, and dug his spurs into the sides of his horse, causing the noble animal, who seemed to share his master's knowledge of the deadly peril they were in, to spring forward with redoubled speed. "we must save ourselves by flight; they are six to one!" he said in low tones to his companions, who kept pace for pace at his side. "it will be a race for life; and if we are beaten, all we can do is to sell our lives as dearly as may be. it is not robbery alone, it is vengeance, the old grudge against the trevlyns. but if we can but make cross way house ere we are outridden, we may save ourselves yet." chapter : kate's courage. lady humbert had left the cross way house for a three days' visit to a sick relative who had sent an urgent message to her. mistress dowsabel remained in charge of the house and its small establishment, lessened considerably by the removal of four of the men servants who had attended their mistress on her journey. mistress dowsabel would gladly have accompanied her sister, for she was always nervous and ill at ease in her absence, but she was withheld by two considerations. in the first place, she was suffering from what was then termed a rheum, which we should call a bad cold in the head, so that the idea of a wet cold journey of some hours' duration was exceedingly unwelcome; in the second, it was not thought seemly by either sister that the young girls, their guests, should be left in the house without some guardian and protector; and mistress dowsabel therefore decided to put her fears on one side and remain in charge. "and beside, what is there to fear?" lady humbert had said, in her decisive and cheery fashion. "we are quiet and peaceable folks, and have naught to dread either at home or abroad. i shall strive to be but three nights absent; and our merry kate will uphold thy spirits, sister, till my return. thou wilt be better by the fireside than journeying in the saddle this tempestuous weather." this fact was self evident, and mistress dowsabel had no desire to leave the fireside. "i must e'en do the best i can without thee, sister," she said. "i doubt not my fears be foolish. i will strive that the girls be not affected thereby." "i trow it would be no easy matter to teach them to kate," said lady humbert with a smile. "she has all the spirit of wyvern and trevlyn combined. she will be a stanch protector for thee, dowsabel, if thou art troubled by strange noises in the wainscot, or by the barking of the dogs without." "thou thinkest me a sad coward, sister; and so perchance i am," said meek mistress dowsabel. "but if ever thou art absent from the house, i am beset by a thousand fears that assail me not at any other time. my heart is heavy as lead within me now." but lady humbert could not delay her journey on that account. she said something equivalent to "fiddle dee dee!" and hastened forward her preparations with her customary energy. kate flitted about and chattered merrily to her, having won her way by that time to a very soft spot in the heart of her ancient kinswoman. "i am glad to leave thee with thy aunt dowsabel, child," said lady humbert before she left. "ellen will read to her and see to her possets and her little fire-side comforts; but thou wilt assist her to overlook the household and servants, and cheer up her spirits and her courage if either should flag. she is strangely timid when i am not by. thou must do what thou canst to keep away her fears." "fears!" echoed kate, laughing; "why, wherefore should we fear?" "there is small cause, but dowsabel is by nature timorous, and she will lean on thee, child though thou art, when i am gone. there be certain charges i would lay upon thee. the men will be gone, all but old thomas within doors and joshua without; wherefore i will ask thee to go round the house thyself at dusk each eve, and see that all bolts and bars be securely drawn. that is andrew's work, but he will be with me. dyson and thou hadst better go together--or thou and cherry. thou wilt not be afraid of such a task?" "afraid? marry no! cherry and i will do it gladly. she is a merry-hearted lassie, and i like her well. is there aught else, my lady aunt?" lady humbert, standing beside the fire and drawing on her riding gloves, looked into kate's bright face with a thoughtful smile. "if i could trust thy discretion as i trust thy courage and sense, my giddy-pated maiden, there is one more charge i would lay upon thee." the light of laughter in kate's eyes changed suddenly to something deeper and graver. she came one step nearer and laid her hand on lady humbert's arm. "try me," she said simply. "methinks i am not so giddy as they deem me. i have thought, i have suffered, i have been forced to possess my soul in patience. try and see if i may not be trusted in this thing." lady humbert gazed a moment into the clear eyes, and then said: "i will try thee, child. it is no such heavy charge i would lay upon thee, yet it is one that thy aunt dowsabel would fear to undertake. she would fain close the doors of the cross way house against all strangers and wayfarers who come to them in the absence of the mistress; but that is not my wish. dost thou know, child, the name the cross way house has ever held with those who fare through the forest tracks?" "i have heard it spoken of as a place where none in need is ever turned away," answered kate. "ay, and so it was in those good old days when wyverns held open house here, and were beloved from far and near. alas! those good old days are passed away; for our fortunes are fallen, and we have no longer the power to entertain in such bounteous fashion. and yet i have striven, as thou hast doubtless seen, that the poor, the aged, the sick, and the needy are never turned from these doors without bite or sup to cheer their hearts and send them rejoicing on their way. strange persons come to the house from time to time; but all are admitted to such good cheer as is ours to offer, and never has my hospitality been abused. fugitives from the robbers of the road have been admitted here; yet never has this lone house been attacked. wounded robbers have sought shelter here, bleeding nigh to death, and their wounds have been dressed by these hands, and their lives saved through our ministrations. to the cry of poverty or distress the doors have ever opened, be the distressed one worthy or no. never have we had cause to regret what we have done for evil men or good. never has our hospitality been repaid by treachery or deceit." "and now?" asked kate as lady humbert paused. "now my timid sister would have the doors closed for the days that i am absent and the men with me. she says she fears for the treasure. she says there is more peril now than of old. she may be right; but i see not why the danger be greater, since none know the secret save those who are pledged to keep it, and it goes against me that the traditions of the house should be broken. can i trust thee, kate, to take my place in this? wilt thou strive to still thy aunt's fears and keep watch over all who come and go, that our doors may still open to the poor, whilst no needless terrors be inflicted on the timid women who will be forced to keep guard alone?" "i will gladly strive to do all i may," answered kate, who had been lady humbert's companion now long enough to know much of her methods. "it may well be that none will come," said lady humbert cheerfully, with a smile and a nod of approval. "these be ill days for travellers, and in the winter season few pass this way. but such as do seek shelter from the storm or from hunger or peril must not be turned away disappointed. look to it, kate. i trust that matter to thee. i shall ask thee for the account of thy stewardship on my return." and then the mistress of the house gathered her train together and set forth, riding her steady old horse as fearlessly as though she had been fifty years younger, and nodding a brisk farewell all round as she turned out of the gate upon the highway so close at hand. mistress dowsabel wept feebly for a short while, and seemed disposed to start and tremble at every sound. but petronella got a book and settled herself to read to her, whilst she forgot her fears in the intricacies of her well-beloved tapestry work. as for kate, she called to cherry, and began to set about those household duties which the mistress of the house had given into her charge, so that the timid invalid might be spared all trouble and anxiety. cherry was a very happy girl in those days. her position in that household was slightly anomalous, and at first it had been a little difficult to find the right niche for her. as the niece of dyson, who had summoned her thither to act in the capacity of lady's maid, her place would by rights have been the servants' hall and kitchen; but then, as kate had seen at once, it would scarce be right for cuthbert trevlyn's future wife to take so lowly a station as that of a serving wench. cuthbert was no longer the impecunious son of nicholas trevlyn, dependent upon his own wit and energy for the place he might hold in the world. he was the finder of that vast hoard of lost treasure, which had proved so far more valuable than the most sanguine hopes had pictured. by every rule of right and justice a large share of this treasure should come to him. he would be a man of wealth and station; and it had been openly announced by these sisters of the house of wyvern that they intended to make him their heir. they had taken a great liking to him. they had no near kindred of their own. he was the grandson of one of the wyverns, and a degree nearer them than the other trevlyns, so they were quite resolved upon this step. so when kate, with the courage and frankness inherent in her nature, had told the old ladies of cuthbert's betrothal, petronella adding all she knew of the constancy of her brother's attachment to martin holt's daughter, lady humbert recognized in a moment that it would not do to treat the girl as a mere dependent. she must be admitted to some other position, and trained for that station in life to which her marriage would entitle her. lady humbert had all the class exclusiveness of her race; but she was a large-hearted woman to boot, and had an uncommon share of common sense. she would have been glad had cuthbert's choice fallen elsewhere; but as it had not done so, and as cherry was as faithful to him as he to her, there was only one thing to be done, and that was to make the best of the matter, and strive to see the best side only. the girl must be admitted to the position of companion to petronella and kate. she must be taught the refinements of life in another station, and gradually fitted for the life that lay before her. it had been a great relief to find the girl so pretty, so gentle in her ways, so eager to please, so naturally dainty and particular. cherry had quick apprehension and ready adaptability of nature. she took to the new ways like a duck to the water. she had a sweet voice and a refined fashion of speaking. in a very short while she looked as much at home in the presence of the ladies as petronella herself. kate found indeed that the city-bred maiden was more advanced in many things than the recluse of the gate house. she set herself busily to the task of drilling both her companions in the arts of dancing, deportment, the use of the globes, and of playing upon the harpsichord; and found in both apt and eager pupils. both girls had much natural grace and a great desire to improve themselves. petronella was by nature dreamy and studious, whilst cherry was all life, brightness, and vivacity. she and kate gradually drew together, and would spend hours rambling in the extensive gardens and shrubberies behind the house, or riding out, with andrew in attendance, through some of the forest tracks. petronella, on the other hand, preferred remaining at home, reading to the elderly ladies, and being by them instructed in many matters of political and religious import. her mind was rapidly enlarging. she was unconsciously fitting herself daily more and more to be philip's wife; whilst their very differences seemed to draw the three girls more closely together, and they felt by this time like sisters as well as companions. lady humbert's absence was a matter of some excitement to kate and cherry, upon whom many small duties now devolved. the house certainly felt lonely with so many of its ordinary inhabitants absent. the great empty rooms were kept strictly locked. the gates in front of the house were likewise locked by day as well as night, and only the small door at the back was to be opened until the return of the mistress. so the timid dowsabel had decreed; and she had directed that the keys of the outer doors should be brought to her; and by day they were laid in her sight upon the chimney ledge, whilst at night they were placed beneath her pillow. kate made a wry face, but did not otherwise protest. time was passing quietly by, and there seemed little probability that their tranquillity would be disturbed. "i would fain wish for some small adventure in lady humbert's absence, just to show that she has not put her faith in us in vain!" said kate, as the girls sought their couch on the second night of the mistress's absence. "there has not been so much as a beggar to the gate. these storms of wind and rain seem to keep all within doors." "i fear me i am but a coward," answered petronella, "for i am glad when night follows day and there be naught to alarm us. perchance sitting with our aunt dowsabel so much, i learn somewhat of her fears from her." "a truce to fear!" cried kate, as she unbound her hair and tossed the heavy mane out of her eyes and over her shoulders. "would that we lived in days when women might do and dare somewhat for those they loved, or for their country! i should love to have to hold this house against a rabble of hooting foes!" "so should not i," answered petronella. "i love not strife and warfare; i am for quietude and peace," and she smiled into kate's flushed face, whilst cherry looked from one to the other, scarce knowing with which she sided. she had something of kate's daring, and dearly admired it in her; but she shared in part petronella's shrinking from strife and danger, a shrinking that to kate was inexplicable. the night came and went in quietness and peace. the day passed without any event. kate paced impatiently up and down the big hall as the sun went down in red and gold, sullen and lowering as it neared the horizon, but shining to the last. she had not been beyond the limits of the garden since lady humbert had gone. now it seemed as if a restless fit had come upon her, and grasping cherry by the arm, she cried: "let us go into the long gallery overhead and dance--dance--dance! my feet are fairly aching for some exercise. come thou and dance with me." kate's word was almost always law to cherry, though she thought it a dreary place to select just at this hour of approaching darkness. still, there would be a little light glimmering in through that long row of windows, and with kate who would be afraid? the key was in the door. the polished boards of the long ballroom lay gleaming with ghostly shimmer in the fading light. the pictures on the walls seemed to stare at the two intruders with cold displeasure. cherry shivered slightly as the chill struck her. it seemed to her as if these stately knights and dames themselves must surely come down from their frames at such an hour as this; and silently disport themselves in this long gallery. she was glad to feel kate's arm about her as she commenced circling round and round in her light and airy fashion. as the warm blood began tingling in their veins the pace grew faster and faster, and cherry's chilliness and fear alike left her. up and down, round and round, flew the light girlish feet. the exercise was delightful to both after the inaction of two long days. up and down, round and round, as though they would never tire; and as they danced the twilight changed to night, and only glimmering moonbeams fell within the row of windows, lighted the long gallery, and fell upon the flickering figures of the two girls. but their eyes had grown used to the darkness, and they heeded it not. cherry's thoughts had flown off to cuthbert, kate's to culverhouse. the rapid exercise stimulated thought, and both hearts beat high with the glowing hope of youth. when at last they paused, laughing and breathless, at the upper end of the long room, their eyes were shining brightly, there was a vivid colour in their checks. they only wished to gather breath and then on again. "it is hot--it is stifling!" cried kate, as she threw back her tumbled hair. "i must have air--air! i will open this window; we can look out such a way from it. o cherry, think--this big window looks straight out towards london! ah, why are not our eyes strong enough to see our loved ones there!" cherry laughed and blushed in the darkness, and kate's strong hand undid the bolt and latch and flung the great casement wide. the cool night air rushed in, and both girls, heated with exercise, were glad to rest their elbows on the stone mullion and lean out into the breezy night. "it is delicious!" cried kate; "it is the elixir of life!" then the girls were silent for a few moments, till they both started at the same sound. "that was a gun!" cried kate suddenly, leaning further out of the window. "listen, cherry! there again--another shot! that can only mean one thing!" "what thing?" asked cherry, growing suddenly pale with excitement and fear. "highwaymen attacking travellers!" answered her companion, standing straight up, but with her head still inclined in an attitude of keen attention. "listen, cherry, listen! is it the beating of my heart, or is that sound the galloping of horses' hoofs upon the road? hark! yes, they grow louder they come this way! down, cherry! we must rush to the gates and have them open and take them in! "cherry, listen! be calm, be quiet! run thou to old thomas and to dyson and the rest; tell them what we have heard. i must for the keys. i must have them whether our aunt wills it or no. there be no place of refuge save this for miles around. here must they find shelter from their foes. it is lady humbert's will; i must fulfil it." all the while kate spoke she was running swiftly along the boarded floor, with cherry keeping pace at her side; and as she dashed down the staircase she paused for a moment and took from the place where they hung two matchlocks, which she knew were always kept loaded, and these she laid quietly down in the hall. then she opened the parlour door, and walked boldly forward to the spot where the keys lay. possessing herself of these, she said quietly: "be not affrighted, aunt dowsabel, but there be folks in trouble on the road. they are pursued by robbers, i fear. i am about to unlock the gates, that we may draw them into safe shelter here." petronella sprang to her feet, and mistress dowsabel uttered a sharp scream of terror. "kate, i forbid it--i forbid it!" she gasped. "the gates shall not be unlocked! dost hear, child? they shall not be unlocked! we shall have the whole horde upon us, we poor unprotected women! kate, come back, come back! the keys are mine; i am mistress here! it shall not be done! girl, i will not be thus defied!" but kate was already half through the hall, where the terrified servants were mustering. she had seized up the matchlocks, and now thrust one of them into old thomas's shaking hands. "take it!" she said, "and when i am gone lock and bolt the door behind me an your lady desires it. but i will not disobey my lady humbert, and she would have done as i do now. i go to the gate and i hold it open. i draw within its shelter the pursued, and i strive to close it against the pursuers. all within these walls will be safe. "thy place is here, thomas, beside thy mistress. she will die with terror if thou leave her. i am strong enough to unbar the gates alone, and i have this weapon, which i know how to use. "hark! there be cries along the road. the pursuit draws nigh." kate flung open the great door and sprang out into the dusky darkness beyond, and petronella and cherry, casting one glance at each other, caught up a gleaming weapon from the wall, where many hung, and dashed out after her. "shut and lock the door behind us, an you fear for yourselves!" cried kate, as she led the way down the short flight of steps. "girls!" she cried, turning her flushed and resolute face upon her companions, "we three will stand together for weal or woe this night. it may be that we shall save life. we can but lose our own, come what may. are you ready to face the peril? for these gates must be unbarred." "we are ready," answered both, as they stood beside her holding her weapon, whilst her strong young hands turned the ponderous key in the lock and slipped back the heavy bolts. all this while the thundering thud of galloping horse hoofs was approaching nearer and nearer, mingling with the fierce vindictive shouts of the pursuers, that sent thrills of terror through the hearts of two of the girls, but made kate set her teeth together, and braced her nerves and muscles till they felt as if turned to steel. "girls," she said, "listen! i open this gate--so, and stand here with my weapon. as the pursued make for this house, as they most surely will, i shout to them as they near it to fling themselves from their horses and rush in. if they understand, they will do so; but there may be delay. if the pursuers are close at hand, i shall fire at the foremost, and methinks i shall not miss. my hands will be thus occupied. it must be your task to swing to and shut the gate behind the pursued. if any assailant strive to follow, strike him down without mercy. methinks a woman's arm can deal a hard blow! i trow mine could. but, above all, be it your task to guard the gate. is it understood?" "it is!" answered both girls in a breath. they looked back at the house, so close behind them that it was hard to feel afraid. the door stood ajar, and faces peered out into the darkness; but mistress dowsabel's shrill voice was still heard within, and she was plainly hindering any of the servants from going forth to the assistance of the brave girls without, terrified almost out of her wits at what might occur. the high wall hid the road from the three who stood beside the gate, but the gasping breath of the horses could now be heard, whilst the fierce cries of pursuit had changed to an ominous silence, as though not even a breath was to be wasted--every nerve being strained to the effort of the chase. it was terrible to be able to see nothing. petronella suddenly made a rush towards the wall, and finding foothold here and there in the chinks of the brick work, contrived to swing upwards her light frame till she could look over the top. "there be three pursued," she cried to those below; "and methinks the hindermost is wounded, he sways so terribly in the saddle. the pursuers are close behind; it seems well nigh as if they must come up with them. "oh, well done, good horses; oh, well done! "kate, they be close at hand; they are making for the gate as a dove to its nest!" then kate suddenly threw both doors wide and stood out in the dim moonlight. "fling yourselves from your horses, gentlemen, and come in!" she cried, in clear, penetrating tones. "there is shelter behind these walls. and the first man who dares to follow i shoot dead!" then as the foremost horseman obeyed her, flinging himself from the saddle, and staggering rather than walking within the gates, at either one of which stood one of the two girlish guardians, ready at a moment's notice to fling them together again, a quick sharp cry broke from kate's lips, together with the one word: "father!" the second horseman was now within the gates; the third was close behind. but there was a yell as of triumph, and suddenly kate's eyes flashed fire. there was the sharp report of a gun. the girl flung the smoking weapon in the face of a second assailant, and dragged within the gate the prostrate form of the third traveller. cherry and petronella banged to the iron portals in the very faces of the foremost assailants, who had recoiled for a moment before kate's blows, and drew the heavy bolts; whilst the shower of oaths and curses which arose from the rest of the band, who rode up at that moment, showed how fully they recognized their defeat. even the horses had escaped them; for the sagacious animals had recognized their locality, and had made for the yard door at the back, where joshua had admitted them without delay, glad enough to do anything to assist the hardly-beset travellers in their hour of need. the travellers had sunk down just within the gates, so breathless and exhausted that for the first few seconds they did not even know how and by whom their rescue had been effected. but the banging to of the gates, and the sullen murmurs of the highwaymen as they had drawn off, recognizing their defeat, showed those within that for the moment the peril was past. the doors were then thrown open; lights streamed forth into the darkness. sir richard trevlyn rose to his feet, passing his hand across his brow, to find his son passionately embracing the dark-eyed petronella, who clung to him, fairly sobbing in her excitement and wonder; whilst kate knelt beside the prostrate figure of culverhouse, who lay with closed eyes almost like one dead. "kate, my girl, is it to thee we owe our deliverance?" "father, is he dead--is he dead?" the cry was so full of anguish that it went to the father's heart; and disregarding the shrill welcome and asseverations of mistress dowsabel, who had just recognized, to her immense relief, that they had admitted their own kinsmen to their doors, he bent over the viscount, and lifted him in his arms. "dead! not a bit of it. dead men do not ride as he did. but he was wounded in the arm, and has been losing blood fast, and doubtless fainted the moment the strain was over. see, we will lay him here on this settle beside the fire. give him some wine, and bind up that arm, my girl. thou wilt choose to wait upon him thyself, i trow. he will soon be able to thank thee for this timely rescue. i must hear more of thy tale when i have spoken with thine aunt." all was confusion now in the house, but confusion of a pleasant and bustling kind. joshua brought news that the highwaymen had retreated in disappointment and dudgeon, but, true to their principles, without any attempt at taking vengeance upon the cross way house. sir richard was striving to soothe the agitation of the timid dowsabel, and hearing of the absence of the mistress of the house; whilst servants hurried to and fro, setting the table for supper, and vying with each other to provide comforts for the weary travellers, who had been through so much peril and hard riding. petronella sat beside philip in a deep embrasure, and had eyes and ears for him alone. kate and cherry, under the direction of dyson, bound up lord culverhouse's arm, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the colour come back into his face, and his closed eyes slowly open. when they did this they dwelt for some moments upon kate's face in a dreamy fashion, as though their owner thought himself still in some sort of a dream; but when she raised his head and put a cup to his lips, he seemed to awake with a start, and after thirstily draining the contents of the vessel, he caught her hand, exclaiming: "kate--my kate!--is it truly thou?" she gave a little cry of joy at hearing him speak in tones so like his own. he pressed the hand he held, whilst she knelt beside him and whispered softly in his ear: "it is i, indeed, thy little wife. o culverhouse--and i thought that thou hadst but come hither to die!" there was a catch in her voice that told how great had been the strain of the past minutes--greater than he could know just then. she found it hard to keep back the tears as she knelt beside him, listening whilst he whispered to her of all that had been said about that sudden marriage of theirs, and how that none would dare to call him free of his plighted word. "and so thou art in very truth my betrothed wife, sweet kate," he said, "and none may part us now. it was as i said when i bid thee come and plight thy troth. it was a pledge too solemn to be broken. my father and mother say so, and so does thy father. we may not be able to wed just yet; but if what i hear be true, sure our day of waiting need not be so very long." the colour had come back into her face now; her eyes were sparkling in their old fashion. she looked indeed the same "saucy kate" that he had known and loved ever since his early boyhood. there were steps behind them, and sir richard emerged from the room where he had been holding counsel with mistress dowsabel. he looked at the two beside the fireplace, and at that other pair in the window, both too much absorbed in each other to heed him; and with a smile upon his face he strode forward and laid his hand upon kate's shoulder. "and so, my headstrong daughter, it is to that strong will of thine, and the reckless courage i have sometimes chidden, that we owe our lives and our safety today?" he said. culverhouse looked up eagerly. "what sayest thou, sir?" he asked, whilst kate's face crimsoned over from brow to chin. "say, my lad? why, i say that but for this hardy wench of mine, who, instead of retreating behind the strong walls of the house, flung open with her own hands the iron gates to let us in, we should by this time have been in sorry plight enow, had we not all been dead men. it was she who opened those gates when all else feared to do so--she who (aided by her two companions, whom she inspired by her own courage) saved us from our foes. it was she who shot down the foremost enemies, who would else have had thy life, culverhouse, and with her own hands dragged thee, all unconscious as thou wert, within these gates. "wherefore, as to thee, boy, i owe my life (for that thou didst receive in thine arm the charge that else would have dashed out my brains), and that to her we both owe this timely rescue, methinks that no wife nor daughter could do more, and that we must let bygones be bygones and wed you so soon as may be. i will give my fatherly blessing to you twain, for you are worthy of each other, and have proved it this night. and so soon as you can win the sanction of your good parents to your nuptials, culverhouse, i will give my saucy kate to you without a doubt or a fear." chapter : "on the dark flowing river." "that is our man! seize him, bind him, and bring him before the chief!" cuthbert heard these words spoken in a clear low tone not far away; but the fog wreaths were hanging upon the river, and he could not see the speakers. instinctively he bent harder to his oar. the wherry shot at redoubled speed through the dull, gleaming water; but there were sounds astern of other plashing oars, the sound of voices low yet eager, and cuthbert felt sure he heard the name of trevlyn spoken in accents of subdued fierceness. he could hear by the sound of the oars in the rowlocks that there were many rowers in the pursuing boat. that they were in pursuit of him he could not doubt, and he set his teeth hard as he plied his oars, for he felt that the issue of this chase might mean life or death to him. esther's warning was ringing in his ears: "beware the dark-flowing river--the lone house--the black cellar!" how had he regarded that warning? he had not heeded it at all. he had let his curiosity and love of adventure conquer both prudence and caution; and now he was well aware that he was in some immediate and imminent peril. he had been warned to fly from london, but he had not obeyed that warning. this had been partly out of generosity to his kinsmen, for it seemed to him that by his presence amongst them he might be increasing the peril in which they stood, and he had been told that that was in great part due to his own rashness and hardihood. he had remained in london. this day was the very eve of that fifth of november on which the king's parliament was to assemble in state. all the city was silent and tranquil. the vague sense of expectation and excitement that cuthbert had observed amongst some of his acquaintances a few days back seemed now to have died down. was it the hush that immediately precedes the breaking of the storm cloud; or had the fearful tale whispered to him by the wise woman been but the product of her weird fancy, and all his fears and terrors groundless? this was the question which had been agitating cuthbert during the past two days; and upon this dim, foggy afternoon he had taken his wherry and resolved to find out for himself the whole truth of the matter. cuthbert had not forgotten robert catesby, or the priest to whom he always felt he owed his life. if any plot were in hand at this juncture, both these men were most certainly concerned in it. and at the lone house at lambeth he could surely get speech of catesby, or learn where he was to be found; and it seemed to cuthbert that he could not sleep another night until he had set at rest the doubts and fears crowding his mind. did he go with a view of warning catesby that the plot was discovered--that the dark secret was out? he himself scarcely knew. he was not at all sure that he believed himself in the hideous magnitude of the contemplated deed as esther had described it. remembering as he did all he had heard and seen, he could not doubt that some secret plot was afoot, but he thought it highly probable that the scope and purpose of it had been misunderstood; and there was certainly this feeling in his mind, that a timely word of warning to those concerned might serve to avert a terrible doom from any who might lie already under suspicion. he had not been able to gain speech with father urban; for although he was convinced the priest was in hiding within the house of the coles, both father and son resolutely denied this, and it seemed of late as though they distrusted cuthbert himself, and desired no more of his company. martin holt and honest jacob dyson had warned him to be cautious in his dealings with any of the romish persuasion, and cuthbert had been content to take this advice. but this last afternoon before the great day so long anticipated might surely be put to some good purpose, and the thought that those men in that lambeth house might be unwittingly remaining to be caught in a trap impelled cuthbert to strive to have speech with master robert catesby and put him on his guard, if he could not persuade him to abandon whatever rash scheme he had in his head. sympathy with the persecuted went some small way in blinding cuthbert's eyes to the terrible nature of the purposed crime. moreover, he thought it like enough that esther had heard a grossly exaggerated account of what was determined. still, what she had heard others might have heard, and nothing was too bad to find credit with those who planned and desired the ruin of all who held views different from their own. these and similar thoughts had been occupying cuthbert's mind as he bent to his oars and propelled his light wherry upstream towards the lonely house. the tide was running out, and rowing was hard work; but he was making progress steadily, and had no thought of any personal peril until the sound of voices through the fog broke upon his ear, and he realized that he himself was an object of pursuit. then the wise woman's warnings flashed across him with vivid distinctness. had she not bidden him beware of just those perils which he seemed resolved to court? why had he forgotten or disregarded her words? had they not proved words of wisdom again and again? and now here was he on the dark-flowing river alone, unarmed save for the dagger in his belt, and far from all chance of help. just behind was a boat in hot pursuit, and there were many rowers in that boat, as the sounds told him. if he could hear their oars, they could hear his. and though the twilight was creeping on, the fog seemed to be lifting. only the vapour wreaths hid him from the gaze of his foes. if these were to be dispersed his last chance was gone. the river was absolutely lonely and deserted at this time of year and at this spot. lower down, schooners and barges were moored. near to the bridge he might have had some hope of being heard had he shouted aloud for aid; here there was no such hope. he was away on the lambeth side: there were no houses and no boats of any kind. his only chance lay in reaching the shore, springing to land, and trusting to his fleetness to carry him into hiding. the lonely house could not be far away. perchance within its walls he might find a hiding place, or gain admittance within its doors. at least that was the only chance he had; and inspired by this thought he drove his light wherry swiftly through the water, and felt the keel grate against the bank almost before he was prepared for it. the pursuers were still coming on, but did not appear to be distressing themselves. probably they felt so secure of their prey that they could afford to be moderately cautious in the midst of these fog wreaths that made river travelling somewhat perilous. cuthbert shipped his oars and sprang lightly ashore, leaving the wherry to its fate. then he raced like a hunted hare along the margin of the river, and before five minutes had passed he had scrambled up and leaped the wall of this lonely river-side house, and was crouching breathless and exhausted in a thick covert upon the farther side, straining his ears for sounds of pursuit. these were not long in coming. he heard regular steps approaching the wall, and a voice said: "here are the tracks. he got over here. follow, and find him now. he is in a trap!" "am i indeed in a trap?" thought cuthbert, setting his teeth hard; "that remains to be proved!" and gliding out from the covert with that noiseless movement he had learned during his residence in the forest, he raced like a veritable shadow in the direction of the house. he had reached the building rising black and grim against the darkening sky; he had almost laid his hand upon the knocker, intending to make known his presence and his peril, and demand admittance and speech with master robert catesby, when forth from the shadows of the porch stepped a tall dark figure, and he felt a shiver of dismay run through him as a loaded pistol was levelled at his head. "it is the spy again--the spy i have sworn to sweep from our path. false trevlyn, thine hour has come!" a puff of smoke--a loud report. cuthbert had flung up his hand to shield his face, for the barrel was aimed straight at his temple. he was conscious of a sudden stinging pain in his wrist. a momentary giddiness seized him, and he stumbled and fell. a sardonic laugh seemed to ring in his ears. he thought he heard the banging of a door and the drawing of heavy bolts. probably the man who had fired was so certain of his aim that he did not even pause to see how the shot had told. "your tongue will not wag again before the morrow!" those words seemed to be ringing in cuthbert's ears, and then for a moment all was blackness and darkness, with a sense of distress and suffocation and stabs of sudden pain. when he awoke from what he first thought had been a nightmare dream, he was puzzled indeed to know where he was, and for a while believed that he was dreaming still, and that he should soon awake to find himself in his little attic chamber in the bridge house. but as his senses gradually cleared themselves he became aware that he was in no such safe or desirable spot. he was lying on some cloaks in the bow of a large boat, which was being rowed steadily and silently up stream by four stalwart men. the daylight was gone, but so too was the fog, and the moon was shining down and giving a sufficient light. in the stern of the boat sat two other men, whose faces cuthbert could dimly see, though their hats were drawn down over their brows. these faces did not seem entirely unfamiliar, yet he could not remember where it was he had seen them before. his senses were cloudy and confused. he felt giddy and exhausted. he had no disposition to try to move; but he soon found that even had he been so disposed he could have accomplished little. his feet were bound together by a cord, and his right hand was bound up and utterly powerless. he remembered the shot levelled at him in the garden of the river-side house, and felt certain that his wrist was broken. and who were these men who were carrying him away captive, and what was their motive? he imagined that they must surely be those fierce pursuers who had striven to capture him upon the river, and who had followed him into the garden where he had hoped to hide himself from their malice. doubtless they had found him as he lay in a momentary faint, and had borne him back to their boat; though what was their motive in thus capturing him, and whither they were now transporting him, he could not imagine. his mind was still confused and weak. esther's words of warning seemed to mingle with the gurgle of the water against the bows of the boat. his temples throbbed, there was burning pain in his wounded arm; but the night wind fanned his brow, and brought with it a certain sense of refreshment. hitherto there had been unbroken silence in the boat, and the rowers had steadily plied their oars without uttering a word; but now that they were out in mid river, without the smallest fear of pursuit, far away from sight or sound from the shore, they paused as by common consent, and one of them suddenly said: "now, comrades, we must settle which it is to be. are we to take him to miriam or to tyrrel?" those words told cuthbert who were his captors. he was in the hands of the gipsies or highwaymen--probably the prisoner of a mixed band who had joined together to effect his capture. as the discussion went on it became more evident that there were two parties and two factions, both anxious to possess his person, and he listened with bated breath and a beating heart to every word that passed. "i say to miriam," spoke up one swarthy fellow, with a backward look towards the prisoner in the bow. "miriam is wild to have him. she is certain sure he has killed long robin. she would give her two eyes to have vengeance on some trevlyn. why not let her have the boy, to do with as she will?" "because all she cares for is to burn him alive, as her old mother was burnt by some trevlyn long ago; and what good would that do to the rest of us? long robin was no such friend to us. if miriam's story be true, he was a treacherous fox, and deserved the fate he got. if he it was who stole and hid the treasure, and kept the secret all these years, hoping to enjoy the fruits of it alone, why, he was a knave and a villain, say i; and that old hag is little better. what do we care for her vow of vengeance? what is it to us? tyrrel, now, wants the prisoner for a purpose. this lad knows where the treasure is, and he must give up the secret to us. once we know where he found it, and if moved where he has stowed it, we shall speedily be rich for the rest of our days. you all know that the forest is getting something too hot for us. tyrrel has decreed that we must go elsewhere, where we are less known. it would be a thousand pities to go without this treasure, since it really lies beneath our hand. a curse upon long robin, say i, for keeping it hid all these years! it was a scurvy trick! and miriam was privy to it. i will raise no hand to help her. she may die with her vow unfulfilled for all i care. had she but acted fairly by us, then would we have given yon lad up to her tender mercies; but not now--not now!" a murmur of assent ran through the whole party. the only one to demur was the first speaker. "the old woman got her death blow when robin's corpse was found. she will not last many weeks more, they say. i should well like to bring her a bit of happiness at the end; and her one cry is for vengeance upon the trevlyn brood. she would well like to have yon prisoner brought bound to her, why not lead him first to tyrrel and then to miriam?" "when tyrrel has him, he will decree what is done with him, not we," said another voice. "he has no love for miriam and her insensate hate. miriam and long robin have both played us false; and tyrrel loves the dark-eyed joanna, and she will not stoop to any deed of cruelty or tyranny. he will have a care how he treats the boy over whom her mantle has once been thrown. but the secret of the gold he must and will have. we will not let him go without that." "to tyrrel then!" cried several voices with one accord. "i trow he will have scant patience with any son of the house of trevlyn, since he was so bested by those other trevlyns but two short evenings back. he will be glad enow to have this lad brought before him, for he verily feared that the whole brood had found shelter within the gates of the cross way house." cuthbert listened eagerly to these last words, which told him that his kinsmen at least had escaped peril and had found a safe shelter where the treasure lay. knowing that this was so, and that the treasure was under their safe keeping, even did these men throw aside the tradition of years and make a raid upon the home of the wyverns, his mind became somewhat calmed, although his own fate was terribly uncertain, and he might have to pay the penalty of his rashness with his life. the rowers bent to their oars once again when this knotty point had been settled. they rowed on steadily for a short time, and then out of the darkness came a sharp clear hail. "who goes there?" "friends. we have caught the quarry; we are bringing him to tyrrel." "good. he has been waiting with impatience this two hours for news. his wound doth not make him the more patient." "we bring him at least the best medicine. "easy, lads! ship your oars. catch hold of her prow, toby. so here we are safe and sound, and there is the prisoner!" cuthbert had raised his head, and supporting himself on his left elbow was gazing about him from side to side. he was still in the middle of the river; but the boat was now alongside a big barge moored in midstream, and from this barge several lights were gleaming, whilst voices were answering and asking questions, and the name of tyrrel passed continually from mouth to mouth. then the rowers in the bow came and lifted him bodily in their arms, taking care not to be needlessly rough with the broken arm that gave him considerable pain; and so soon as he was placed upon the barge, the rope that bound his feet was cut, somebody remarking that it was needless now to hobble him, since he was safely on board and beneath the eye of the whole crew. "and where is tyrrel?" asked several voices. "below in the cabin, and waiting impatiently for news. go, and take the boy with you; the sight of him will be the best medicine for him." cuthbert was led along, dazed and bewildered, but calm from a sense of his own helplessness, and perhaps from bodily weakness, too. this weakness surprised him, for he did not know how much blood he had lost, and he could not account for the way in which the lights swam before his eyes and his steps reeled, as he was taken down a dark ladder-like staircase and into a low long room with a swinging lamp suspended from the ceiling. it felt close and airless after the coldness of the night, and everything swam in a mist before his eyes; but he heard a voice not altogether unfamiliar say in authoritative accents: "let him sit down, and give him a stoup of wine;" and presently his vision cleared, and he found himself sitting at one side of a rude table opposite the highway chieftain tyrrel, whose face he well remembered. they were surrounded by a ring of stalwart men, some of whose faces were vaguely familiar to him from having been seen at the old mill a year ago from now. he noted that tyrrel's face was pale, and that his head was bandaged. it was plain that he had received recent injuries, and apparently these did not smooth his temper. his face was dark and stern, and the eyes that looked straight at cuthbert gleamed ominously beneath their heavy brows. "well, boy," he said at length, seeing cuthbert's gaze fasten upon him with inquiry and recognition, "so we meet again." cuthbert answered nothing. he did not intend to speak a needless word. he had some inkling now of the motive for his capture, but he was not going to show his hand. "cuthbert trevlyn," said tyrrel, in brief, terse sentences, "i have not brought thee here to bandy words with thee; i will to the point at once. i will tell thee why thou art here. thou art in deadly peril from without. there is a vile popish plot but recently discovered. the perpetrators and conspirators will all be seized upon the morrow. thou art held to be one of these. thou wilt be seized amongst others. innocent or guilty, it matters not. thou wilt die the traitor's death--the hideous doom of those accused of high treason. thou wilt be lucky if thou art not racked first to make thee confess what men hold (whether truly or falsely) that thou knowest. i have interposed to save thee from that fate. i have had thee pursued and brought hither to me. i can and i will save thee and hide thee till all pursuit is over. but thou must purchase my protection at a price." cuthbert listened as one in a dream. he knew that tyrrel might be speaking truth. he knew that he had received warnings before telling him he was suspected and watched. he recalled many past moments when he had felt that he had placed himself in a false position and might have laid himself open to misconstruction. but he had never thought himself in actual peril from the arm of the law. was tyrrel speaking the truth now, or was he only striving to intimidate him for his own ends? fixing his dark eyes full upon the face of the man opposite, he asked: "and what is that price?" "the secret of the trevlyn treasure," was the calm reply--"the secret thou didst learn from long robin ere thou didst lay him in his bloody grave, and which now thou holdest alone. where is the treasure, boy? speak, and all will be well. for bethink thee, if thou holdest thy peace i give thee up on the morrow to the myrmidons of the law, and the golden secret will perish with thee, none profiting thereby. tell it but to me, and by that honour which i have ever held sacred, thou shalt be released and placed in a secure hiding place till all hue and cry be past. speak, then, for thy silence can aid none--least of all thyself. tell the whole story and guide us to the treasure, and all will be well." cuthbert sat silent and motionless, turning the matter rapidly over in his mind. what should he do? would it be a lasting disgrace to yield to thoughts of personal peril, and reveal all he knew? that revelation would not place the treasure in tyrrel's hands. he might fear to assail the cross way house; and now that house might be so well guarded that it could defy attack. should he risk it? should he tell all? for a moment he was half disposed to do so; but another thought followed, and the words were checked ere they had reached his lips. what if further business had taken away sir richard and his son from the lonely house? what if, in the tumult and alarm that the news of such a plot would spread through the kingdom, the household within those walls should be left unprotected by these kinsmen, who might have occasion to make their way to their own home to see how it fared with those left there? he knew the fearless character of lady humbert. she would never keep sir richard from his wife at a time of anxiety and possible peril. they might already have left the cross way house for trevlyn chase (for lady humbert knew that the secret of the treasure lay with none but themselves, and would have no fears for that). and if in the dead of night the whole force of the gipsy folk and the highwaymen--or even these latter alone, if they could not get the gipsies to join with them--were to sweep down and attack that solitary house, what chance would its inmates have against them? none, absolutely none! the golden hoard would speedily be made away with; the treasure would be lost to trevlyn for ever, and all the golden hopes and dreams that had been centred upon it would be dispersed to the winds. should he have it always on his mind that he had sold the secret from craven fear? should he ever know peace of mind or self respect again? never! he would die first. and surely since he had no dealings in this plot, and was innocent of all thought of treason, no hurt could come to him even were he given up. surely he could prove his innocence, though with his head so confused as it now was he scarce knew how he should be able to parry and answer the questions addressed to him. perchance some knowledge of his peril would reach the ears of lord culverhouse, and he would come to his aid. at least he would not be coerced and threatened into betraying his secret. tyrrel might do his worst; he would defy him. he looked straight at the robber chief, who sat awaiting his reply with a cold smile of triumph on his face, and answered briefly: "i shall tell you nothing." a gleam of anger shone in the man's eyes. "have a care how thou answerest me. remember that thy secret will perish with thee when thou goest to the traitor's death." "it will not," answered cuthbert coolly. "there be others of my kindred that know it. the treasure will be saved for trevlyn, do what thou wilt with me." "i shall do as i have said," answered tyrrel, speaking very clearly and distinctly. "my plans are all well laid. if within two hours thou hast not altered thy mind, thou wilt be rowed ashore by my men, bound hand and foot. thou wilt then be given in custody to some good friends of ours on shore, who lie not under suspicion as we do. by them thou wilt be guarded till morning breaks, and then all london will be ringing with the news of this foul plot, and men will be ready to tear limb from limb all those who are so much as suspected to have had dealings with the false traitors who have planned all. then wilt thou, cuthbert trevlyn, whose name has already been whispered abroad as one having cognizance of this matter, be handed over to the tender mercies of the law. it will be told of thee how thou wast caught in the very garden of the house where these vile conspirators resort, and that thou didst fight like a fury to save thyself from capture. thy dealings with father urban will be remembered against thee, and many another thing beside. a traitor's death will be thine end; and thou wilt wish in vain when those dark hours come upon thee thou hadst saved thyself when yet there was time. i give thee two hours to bethink thee of these things. if thou wilt speak plainly, tell us all thou knowest, and help to place the treasure in our hands, we will save thee from the fate that awaits thee on shore. if not, we will give thee over to it; and then no power on earth can save thee." but cuthbert's mind had already been made up, and he did not waver. he knew himself innocent of all complicity in the plot, and he clung to the hope that his innocence might be proved. in no case would he purchase his freedom by a loss of self respect, by a cowardly yielding up of that very treasure it had been the dream of his life to restore to the house of trevlyn. argument and menace were alike thrown away upon him; and two hours later, bound hand and foot, as tyrrel had said, he was thrown roughly into the bottom of the wherry, and rowed downstream in dead silence, he knew not whither. chapter : jacob's devotion. "if thou wouldst save thy friend from a terrible fate, come hither to me without delay." jacob stood gazing at this scrap of parchment as one in a dream, his slow wits only taking in by degrees the meaning of the mysterious words. "thy friend," he repeated slowly, "thy friend! what friend? i have many. terrible fate! saints preserve us, what means that? can it be cuthbert who is in peril--that rash cuthbert, for ever diving into matters he had far, far better let alone, and burning his fingers for naught? can it be of him it speaks? belike it may. there have been ugly whispers abroad of late. mine uncle told me only this day that some constables came to his door asking some trivial questions anent his household, and speaking of cuthbert by name. it would be like his folly at such a moment to run his head into a noose. "but he shall not be hurt if i can help it. who is this wise woman who sends the message? methinks i have heard rachel speak of her ere now. well, i can but go visit her and hear what she would have to say. i know the house in budge row; i took rachel to the door once. for myself, i love not such hocus pocus; but if it be a matter of cuthbert's safety, i will e'en go and listen to her tale. if she wants to filch money from me for foul purposes, she will find she has come to the wrong man. i will pay for nothing till i have got my money's worth." it was already dark. jacob had been partaking of one of martin holt's hospitable suppers. cuthbert had been absent, and mistress susan had remarked with some acrimony that the young man was growing a deal too fine in his ways for them. he came and went just at pleasure; and she did not think it well to encourage him in his idleness and irregularities. martin opined that he had been amusing himself by watching the preparations for the grand doings on the morrow. the king was in london, and would open his parliament the next day. little was being talked of but that event all over london that night. and now, on reaching his home, jacob found this brief missive awaiting him, and started forth again, wondering not a little whither it would lead him. the streets were almost empty. budge row was dark and silent as the grave. yet as he looked up at the tall narrow house, a window from above was softly opened, and a low voice over his head spoke in soft, urgent accents: "hist! make no sound. wait but a moment. i will open to you." jacob waited, and almost immediately the door was cautiously opened, and a head looked round, a pair of dark eyes peering up into his face. "it is well, jacob dyson, thou hast come," said the same voice, in the lowest of low whispers. "but i may not speak with thee here. thou must come with me elsewhere. tyrrel's men are in this house, carousing in their cups. but they have ears like the wild things of the forest. i may not bring thee within the door. they think that i be gone to my chamber to sleep. they will seek me no more tonight. and before the morrow dawns our task must be accomplished." "and what is that task?" asked jacob breathlessly. "to free cuthbert trevlyn from the bonds that hold him; to save him from the power of those who will, when the morning dawns; deliver him up to the emissaries of the law as one who has taken part in the vilest plot that has ever been conceived by heart of man!" jacob started, and faced his companion, who was hurrying him along the dark streets at a rapid pace. "plot, woman! what dost thou mean?" he cried, alarmed and distrustful, and yet impelled to let her lead him whither she would, dominated by the power of her strong will. "i must know more of this matter ere i go further. i have heard fell whispers ere now, but i know not what their truth be. i am a peaceable, law-abiding citizen. i mix myself not up in such doubtful matters. speak plainly, and tell me what thou knowest, and what evil or harm threatens cuthbert trevlyn, or i vow i will go no further with thee. i will not be made a tool of; i will not walk in the dark." he stopped short, and she did the same, still holding his arm in a close clutch. they had reached one of the many city churches; the big building loomed up before them dark and tall. the wise woman drew her companion within the shelter of the deep porch. here they could speak at will; none could overhear them now. "i will tell thee all in as few words as may be. thou knowest me as the wise woman of budge row; but once i was the queen of the woodland, the queen of the gipsy tribes there, and i still hold some power over the children of the forest. they still bring me news of all that passes there. cuthbert trevlyn has found the lost treasure, and in finding it has killed one of the tribe. hatred and greed have been alike stirred up. many are bound together against him. if he cannot be snatched this night from the clutches into which he has let himself fall--oh, why would he not heed my warnings?--nothing can avail to save him. "listen, jacob dyson. tyrrel, the notable highwayman, upon whose head a price has long been set, has this night taken cuthbert trevlyn prisoner, hoping to win from him the secret of the hidden treasure which now lies in his keeping. cuthbert has refused to tell him aught; and now he purposes to strive to turn this to good account for himself by delivering him up to the officers of the law upon the morrow, as being concerned in a fearful plot that tomorrow will make the ears of all england tingle. "dost thou stare at that? hast thou indeed heard aught of it? there have been whispers abroad; but the matter hath been kept wondrous close. cuthbert trevlyn has by his hardihood, his curiosity, and his fidelity to friends, who are no true friends to him, placed himself in jeopardy. he ought to be in hiding now; for if upon the morrow the name of trevlyn gets noised abroad, there will be scant mercy shown him by the judges of this land." "cuthbert a prisoner! cuthbert delivered up to judgment!" cried jacob, aghast. "what meanest thou, woman? what hath he done?" "he bath done no evil; but he hath shown himself imprudent and reckless. he has been seen in company he ought to have fled; he has visited places against which he was warned. tyrrel knows this. tyrrel knows how to turn to his advantage everything of like nature. tyrrel will give him up at the moment when hue and cry is being made for all concerned in this matter. he will give him up, and men will bear witness where and how he was seized, where and how he has been seen before this. men's minds will be all aflame with rage and fear. the wildest tale will obtain credence, and there be nothing so wild in what they may truly say of cuthbert trevlyn. the tower gates will close upon him, and they will only open to him when he is led forth to die. have i not lived long enough to know that? if he he not saved tonight, nothing can avail to save him afterwards." jacob felt a strange thrill run through him at these words, "and why dost thou tell me this, of all men, woman? what can i do to save him?" he saw that she had raised her face as if to strive to scan the expression on his; but the darkness foiled her, neither could he see aught but the gleam of her dark eyes. "i come to thee because time presses, and i know not where else to turn. thou hast been his friend before; wilt thou play a friend's part now, even if it be fraught with peril?" jacob paused a few seconds before replying, and then said simply, "what can i do?" "i will tell thee," answered esther, speaking rapidly. "cuthbert trevlyn lies bound in a house not far away. tomorrow, so soon as the news of the plot is noised abroad, and all is in commotion to discover the conspirators, he will be delivered up to those who are searching for these; and if thou knewest as much as i, thou wouldst know that nothing then can save him. but there be yet twelve hours before this can happen, and if he can be rescued within those twelve hours, and lodged with me in my house at budge row, i will undertake to hide him so well till all hue and cry be past and over that none shall find him; and before the glad yuletide season has come to rejoice men's hearts, he shall be free to go where he will and show his face with the best of them." this and much more did the eager gipsy pour into jacob's astonished ears as he stood in the shadow of the deep porch. every detail of the capture was made known to him, the whole plot laid bare, as she had heard it from the lips of the men who had borne cuthbert ashore, and had then been so cunningly plied with heating liquor by the astute old woman that they had babbled freely of those very things that tyrrel would fain have had held secret as the grave, at least for twenty-four hours longer. jacob listened, and as he listened his mind was strangely stirred. here was his rival in deadly peril of his life; and if cuthbert were once to be removed from his path, had not cherry almost promised, in time, to be his wife? and had he not done all he knew to warn cuthbert from just those friendships and associations which had ended by placing him in this terrible peril? could anything more be looked for from him? what did this strange woman think that he could accomplish? cuthbert was truly his friend and comrade. he had proved it once by risking his life to aid and abet him. but now what could he do? and surely in these perilous times, when all men knew they must walk warily, it behoved him to take heed to his steps. "and what can i do?" he asked, as the woman paused. "art thou willing to strive to save him at some peril to thyself?" jacob paused for a full minute. a host of tumultuous feelings rushed and surged through his brain. a thousand conflicting impulses swayed him as he revolved the situation with all the rapidity of quickened thought. it was but a minute, yet it seemed like an hour to him before he placed his hand upon that of the eager woman and answered steadily: "i am willing." she clutched his hand and held it fast. "my heart did not deceive me. i knew that thou wert a true man. jacob dyson, listen to my words, and take good heed to them, and i will strive so to work that no harm shall befall thee, albeit i may not deny that thou mayest stand in some jeopardy. take and put on this long cloak that i carry beneath my arm; wrap it well about thee, and turn up its collar that it hide well thy face. pull thy hat down over thy eyes--so. and now take this ring and put it upon thy finger. i have told thee where cuthbert trevlyn is lodged this night. go to the house and ask speech of master dibbler. when thou seest him, show him that ring, and tell him that esther, the wise woman, has sent thee with it, and that she desires him to let thee have a brief interview alone with his prisoner, who has something to say to thee for me of the utmost value to all. show not thy face, show only the ring, and unless i be greatly deceived, he will take thee to the prisoner forthwith, and lock thee up together alone. the rest thou canst almost divine. thou must lose no time, but cut the cords that bind him, wrap him in this cloak--ye are much of a height--and so muffled he may well pass out in the darkness unheeded. thou must stay behind in the prison bound as he was bound. in the morning thou wilt be given over to the officers of the law; for i misdoubt me much that dibbler will ever find out the trick that has been played upon him. he never saw cuthbert trevlyn before, and i trow he has scarce observed what manner of man he is. he will deliver thee up for one cuthbert trevlyn, taken in the act of fleeing to the house where the conspirators are known to lodge. "but i trow that thy father's solid weight and esther's acuteness can soon serve to set thee at liberty. it will be an easy task to show to all the world that thou art jacob dyson, a peaceable citizen, and that thou hast been wrongly apprehended in the place of another. thou wilt be able to prove that at the hour men say they found thee in that dark garden thou wast in thy father's or thine uncle's house. thy captors will be confused, enraged, bewildered, and will have to explain how they come to be striving to pass off jacob dyson as an evil doer. i trow well we can turn the tables upon them. "art thou willing to run some small peril for the sake of serving one who has called thee friend?" and jacob, with scarce a moment's pause, replied once again, "i am willing." next day, the morning of the fifth of november, , dawned clear and still and bright. london was early astir; for was not the king to open his parliament that day? and were not hundreds of loyal subjects going to line the streets to see the procession pass? if the king were not popular, the prince of wales, prince henry, was; and a sight was a sight to the simple folk of those days, even as it is still. but before long a curious change passed over the face of the london streets. a breath--a whisper--a fleeting rumour. men's faces grew suddenly pale and grave. women uttered sharp exclamations of astonishment and fear. people pressed together into knots, asking quick questions and awaiting the answers in breathless expectancy; and presently the whispers became changed into open cries and shouts. a smothered roar as of execration and menace ran through the streets, being caught up and passed from mouth to mouth till it was surging along like a great billow on the wide atlantic sea. "a popish plot!" "down with the papists!" "blow up the whole of the parliament houses--king, lords, and commons!" "heard ye ever the like before?" "taken in the very act--with the barrels of gunpowder laid ready, and the slow match in his hand!" "a curse upon all such vile traitors!" "a curse upon the papists!" "england will never know peace till she has destroyed them root and branch!" "down with the whole brood of them--the vile scum of a vile race!" these and many like cries were passing through the crowd in great, gusty shouts. martin holt, standing at the door of his shop, was just taking in the sense of what was passing, and anxiously ruminating upon the fact that cuthbert had not been home all the night, when abraham dyson came hurrying up, his face pale with apprehension. "good master holt, hast thou heard the news?" "that the papists have tried to blow up the parliament houses? can such a thing be true?" "as true as daylight; there is no manner of doubt as to that. but i have another trouble than that, which has been happily averted. they tell me my boy has been arrested as one of the conspirators. i am about to hasten down and inquire into it. "martin, where is cuthbert?" "i have not seen him since yesterday noon. what of him? has he--the foolish, hot-headed boy--gone and run himself into like trouble?" "i know not--i know naught of him; only methought they might be together, being such friends and comrades." "they were not together yesterday. jacob supped here with us, and knew naught of cuthbert then." "supped with you last night! that is good hearing, for men say he was seen at lambeth then, where the conspirators have some house or hiding place. come thou with me, good martin, i prithee. i must take solid men to witness for my lad, and bring him safely home again. i warrant me he has had no dealings in yon foul plot! he hates the very name of popery and scheming." martin holt lost not a moment in following his friend, who was joined by several sober and wealthy merchants and citizens, all deeply indignant at the insult received by their friend in this false accusation of jacob. abraham dyson had been warned by a letter of the peril in which his son stood--a mysteriously-worded letter, but one that was evidently written by a friend. it advised that dyson and his friends should proceed at once to westminster and whitehall, where the excitement would be at its height, and there they would find jacob in custody, and would doubtless be able speedily to obtain his release, since he had been arrested under a misapprehension. whoever had written these words had plainly known the truth; for when the city men had almost fought their way through a howling and wildly excited mob, they found jacob, bound and guarded, being just led before some of the king's counsellors under the name of cuthbert trevlyn. "that man is not cuthbert trevlyn," shouted old abraham, forgetting all but the fact that he saw his son in dire and deadly peril. "this is a quiet and peaceable protestant citizen. here am i with friends ready to testify the same. this is nothing but another vile papist plot, conceived to strive to do to death good, peaceable citizens of contrary faith, while they escape the doom their traitorous villainy deserves!" this astute form of vindication roused another clamour from the crowd. there was not the smallest difficulty in proving jacob's identity, in establishing his innocence and obtaining his release. those in authority saw at once that it was one of those innumerable cases of mistaken identity, and did not even care to waste time over a close inquiry into circumstances; whilst the bystanders were raving in indignant sympathy, perfectly convinced that it was all the work of the conspirators themselves, to try to throw their own guilt upon the innocent, and by no means sure that their own turn might not come next. when jacob was free, he turned to the king's counsellors and said: "if it please you gentlemen to fall upon and make away with a notable band of outlaws and robbers, who have long made the terror of the southern roads, they be all beneath your very hand today--gathered together in an old barge not far above lambeth, where they be waiting the issue of this day's work, knowing far more about it than peaceable and well-minded men should do. tyrrel is the name of the leader, and he and the best part of his band will hold high revel there this night. they will fall an easy prey in your hands if it please you to send and take them." the crowd shouted in delight. there was no love lost between the citizens of london and those freebooters who made all travel so perilous, and the name of tyrrel was widely known and widely feared. the counsellors conferred together awhile and asked many questions of jacob, and then they released him with courteous words of regret, intimating that if good came of this hunt after the outlaws he should not lose his reward. his father lost no time in getting him safely home, and questioning him closely as to how he came to find himself in such a predicament; but all he answered was that he and cuthbert had been about a good deal together, and that they had been mistaken for one another. as for cuthbert, he was safe enough, but would remain in hiding for some few weeks. he was innocent of all complicity in the plot; but his carelessness had caused him to be suspected of some knowledge of it, and suspicion at a moment of popular frenzy was almost as fatal as actual guilt. when the real culprits had been discovered and had paid the penalty of their crime, smaller persons would be safe once more. silence and obscurity were the safest shields for the present, and to no living soul did he reveal the secret of cuthbert's hiding place. london was soon ringing with the news of the death or capture of the plotters of the gunpowder treason, as it quickly began to be called; and those interested in the matter heard with satisfaction that tyrrel and his band had been surprised, and all upon the barge had been either apprehended or slain. tyrrel had died sword in hand, as became a man of his calling, and the few who had escaped to their old haunts had warned their comrades there, who had fled the south country forthwith, and were scattered no man knew whither. only to one person did jacob presently tell the whole story of that strange night when he set out to rescue cuthbert from dire peril, and that person was his cousin keziah. the tale aroused her deepest interest, and from that moment jacob became to her a hero as well as an idol. the honest youth had never been idolized before--never in his wildest moments had he hoped to rise to the level of a hero; and there was something so wonderful in finding himself so regarded that it began to have a softening and even an elevating effect upon him, and to draw forth an answering admiration and love. the end of it was that before the yuletide season had come, he went blushing to martin holt to ask for the hand of his second daughter keziah in marriage instead of that of cherry, whose heart had from the first been given elsewhere; and it was arranged that the marriage should take place almost at once, for jacob pleaded he had waited long enough for his wife, and keziah's only wish was to please her future lord and master. chapter : yuletide at the cross way house. lady humbert had got her own way--she generally did when her mind was set upon a thing--and a large and merry party was assembled beneath the hospitable roof of the cross way house to spend the festive yuletide there together. sir richard was not sorry just at this juncture to extend his visit to these kinswomen, whose known loyalty and adhesion to the protestant cause had made the name of wyvern respected and held in high repute even at the king's court. it had been with equal satisfaction that he had married his eldest daughter cecilia to sir robert fortescue, and had allowed lord culverhouse openly to proclaim his betrothal with kate. for strange things had been happening in the world of london since the discovery of that abortive gunpowder treason; and, in the first panic, the name of trevlyn had freely been whispered abroad. sir richard's friends had trembled for him, and had counselled him to keep perfectly quiet and let the evil whisper die a natural death if it would. for two long weeks the family at the chase lived upon tenterhooks. every day they feared to hear the approach of some messenger with tidings of woe. there was terror in many hearts when a loud explosion in the middle of the night roused them all from their beds; but it was quickly seen that this explosion did not immediately concern them, and that it must have proceeded from the old gate house, which was already wrapped in flames. the servants hurried down to assist, but were too late. it was only many hours later that the charred remains of what had once been two human beings were found amongst the smoking ruins. a whisper went abroad that a certain well-known seminary priest, by name father urban, had fled from london, and had taken refuge with nicholas trevlyn. it was surmised that the two must have been preparing themselves for a siege, and that their ammunition had unexpectedly ignited and caused the catastrophe. to say that any one deplored the fate of the gloomy old man, who was supposed to be little better than a maniac, would be going altogether too far. petronella shed a few tears, but they were tears rather of relief than of sorrow; while sir richard felt that he could breathe more freely when his contumacious kinsman had ceased to live at his door. the whisper which had alarmed his friends died a natural death so soon as the real facts connected with the plot came to be known, and the number and names of the true conspirators discovered. indeed, further inquiry appeared to elicit the fact that cuthbert trevlyn had been striving to unravel and expose the plot, and that he had been shot down by one of the genuine plotters as a spy and a foe. as he had not since been seen or heard of, considerable anxiety was felt in some quarters for his safety. sir richard was causing inquiries to be made in london. cherry was beginning to go about looking pale and hollow eyed. lady humbert, who always cheerily avowed that everything would come right in time, was secretly not a little anxious, until a few days before the yuletide season, when she was called out into her own back regions to interview a strange woman who was asking for her, and found herself face to face with joanna, the gipsy queen. for a moment she scarcely knew the woman again, for she had put off her distinctive dress, and was habited like a simple countrywoman. her face, too, had lost its brilliant colouring, and her eyes were softer than of yore. she told the astonished lady humbert that her mother miriam was lately dead, that the tribe over whom she ruled had been dispersed and scattered she knew not whither, and that she had no wish to gather about her the remnants of the gipsy folk, who had long been more disposed to consort with robbers and outlaws than to submit to her sway. she was weary of the old life, and desired something more tranquil. she asked if she could serve lady humbert in the capacity of dairy woman or laundress, and was promptly answered in the affirmative. she then went on to whisper that first she must to london, and that she would bring back cuthbert trevlyn with her, and be with them again on the christmas eve. more than this she would not say; but lady humbert trusted her implicitly, and after that she went about the house with a bright face and brisk step, laughed at cherry's wistful looks, and declared that she would wait no longer for the absentee, but on christmas eve would have up out of the strongroom all the treasure hidden there, and would hand it over to its lawful owners, the trevlyns--sir richard, as head of the house, being the fittest person now to have charge of it. there was a little murmur of remonstrance, cuthbert's name being mentioned. was it fair to do anything till he returned? but some persons began to fear he never would be seen again. all were deeply interested in the treasure; and lady humbert clinched the matter by declaring that her mind was made up, and that she would do as she had said. what a wonderful sight it was as piece after piece of rich old plate, some gold, some silver, all richly chased and embossed, was brought by the servants and placed by lady humbert's direction upon the long tables in the old banqueting hall, now unused for half a century! breathless and wondering, the trevlyns stood by watching, sir richard exclaiming in delighted recognition of various family heirlooms he had often heard described, and which transcended even the fancies he had formed about them. and, besides the wonderful plate, there were jewels and gold in abundance, small coffers filled with golden coins and precious stones, sufficient for a king's ransom. kate stood clinging to culverhouse's arm, her eyes as bright as stars. it was to her the realization of a wonderful dream; and as she gazed and gazed upon the sparkling hoard, which she knew would smooth her own path in life and that of the lover of her choice, she glanced up at him with kindling glances to say: "nay, but what a splendid treasure! i never dreamed of aught like this! but oh, it seems to spoil it all not to have cuthbert! it was he who found it, when nearly all the rest of the world derided the hope of such a thing. oh, why is he not here to be with us today?" "why not, indeed?" a door at the far end of the room was thrown suddenly open. lady humbert, who had withdrawn herself for a few moments, came forward smiling and beaming, and behind her--who? petronella, who was standing at philip's side, not far away, uttered a quick, sharp cry of rapture, and flung herself into cuthbert's arms. "cuthbert!" cried kate, with a forward bound; and the next minute cuthbert was surrounded by a crowd of eager questioners, and so belaboured with greetings, inquiries, and congratulations that he himself could not get in a word, but stood looking smilingly from one to another till his eyes met the eager, wistful glance of a pair of limpid blue ones, and with a quick cry of "cherry!" he shook off the detaining clasp of all other hands, and went straight across to the spot where she stood blushing, quivering, and hardly able to believe the evidences of her senses. all made way for him smilingly, for the secret of his love was an open one now, and cherry had endeared herself to all the family by her gentleness and pretty, clinging ways. "sweetheart," he said, "i come to claim thee at last, and to claim thee with thy good father's ready consent and promised blessing. cherry, it is to jacob's devotion and generosity that we owe this happiness, for he it was who saved my life, and might well have risked his own to do so. but he thought not of that; he only thought how he might serve me, and redeem a promise he had made to thee. and now he has his reward. he was wedded to thy sister a short week back, being unwilling to wait longer. and he bids me give thee a brother's love and greeting, hoping that thou wilt find a place for a brother in thine heart, and wilt give to him a sister's love." "oh, that indeed i will! good jacob! kind jacob!" cried cherry, who, bewildered by this rush of happiness, scarce knew what she said or did; but it was enough that she had cuthbert back again safe and sound. to her the voices questioning and exclaiming and eagerly displaying to her lover the treasure he had never been able to examine and had never seen massed together, sounded like the murmur of troubled waters. she stood with cuthbert's hand in hers, gazing at him as one in a dream, and it was only when lady humbert took her hand and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek that she seemed suddenly to awake from her trance. "there, little one! i trow thou dost not half know what is in store for thee! we shall lose our merry kate, who must be transformed into the viscountess culverhouse, instead of going home chastened and repentant for her mad folly, as was once hoped, after her imprisonment here. and as for our quiet petronella, she too is to find a home of her own with master philip, whose share of this golden treasure will give him all he needs. but as for thee, little one, cross way house will still be thy home; for cuthbert will be content to abide here with us so long as we live, and reign here with thee after we are gone. "so thou wilt still be beneath the stern rule of an aunt, little one. how wilt thou like that? but thou wilt have a husband to protect thee, so that thou needest not fear too greatly. "say, pretty child, art thou content with cross way house for a home; or dost thou wish to seek for another?" cherry's answer was to put her arms timidly but lovingly about lady humbert's neck, as she answered, with a little sob of pure happiness: "with cuthbert i should be happy anywhere, and i love cross way house dearly. if you will have me, i will gladly stay and strive to be a daughter to you and mistress dowsabel. it is all like some wonderful, beautiful dream. i never thought the lost treasure of trevlyn could bring such happiness with it!" the end.