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

1. 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.

2. The following misprints have been corrected:

"Fawke's" corrected to "Fawkes'" (page 73) "reovered" corrected to "recovered" (page 106) "exlaims" corrected to "exclaims" (page 108) "'tis" capitalized to "'Tis" (page 154) "readinesss" corrected to "readiness" (page 215)

3. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been retained.

THE END