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!"