"It is the wise woman's cat, her familiar spirit!" whispered the girl, in a very low voice. "Show him a piece of money; then he will let us pass. He takes toll of those who come to the wise woman. Show him the gold, and then place it within that shell. After that he will let us go in."

Cuthbert took a small piece of gold from his purse. He held it up before the formidable-looking creature, and then let it drop into a shell fixed in the outer wall of the room. He heard it fall as if through a slot, and fancied that some person within the room had taken it out and examined it. There was a slight peculiar call, and the cat, whose tail had begun to grow less, and whose snarlings had ceased at sight of the coin, now sprang suddenly backwards and vanished within the room, whilst a cracked voice was heard bidding them enter.

"That is the voice of the wise woman," said Cherry. "Come, Cuthbert, and fear nothing."

Together the pair stepped over the threshold, and again the door closed noiselessly behind them, and the bolt flew as it seemed of itself into its socket. Cuthbert did not altogether relish this locking of doors behind them as they went; but Cherry, who had been here before, did not seem to mind, and doubtless it was but prudence that had taught the old woman to carry on her arts secretly if she wished to escape imprisonment or death.

Glancing curiously round him, Cuthbert saw himself in a long, low, narrow room that was all in deep shadow save at the upper end, where a soft bright light was burning, carefully shaded at one side, and so arranged that whilst it illuminated the features of those who stood beside the table behind which the oracle sat, it left the features of the wise woman herself in the deepest shadow, a pair of small black beady eyes being at first glance the only feature Cuthbert could distinguish.

The lamp stood upon a table, and the old woman, clad from head to foot in a long black mantle, sat on the farther side. There were a few implements of her profession about her—one or two big books, a crystal bowl containing some black fluid very clear and sparkling, an ebony wand, and a dusky mirror in a silver frame. She fixed her bright bead-like eyes upon her guests as they advanced, and asked in her cracked, harsh tones:

"Who comes here?"

"Two persons desirous of testing your skill," answered Cuthbert boldly. "It is told me that you can read the future; I would ask if you can also look back into the past?"

He felt the snake-like glance bent fixedly upon him. There was a subtle fascination in those eyes, and he looked into them fixedly whether he would or no. As his eyes became used to the dimness in which the old woman sat, he saw that her face was brown and wrinkled like a fragment of ancient parchment, that her features were very sharp and wasted, and that there was something weird and witch-like in her whole aspect. He felt as though he had seen before some face that that withered one faintly resembled, but in the confusion of the moment he could put no name to it. He wanted to keep his head, and to retain his firmness and acuteness, but he was conscious of a strange whirling in his brain as the old woman continued to gaze and gaze upon him as though she would never be satisfied with her inspection.

At last she spoke again.

"And who art thou that comest so boldly to pry into the dead secrets of the past?"

"I am one Cuthbert Trevlyn, son of a house that has suffered sore vicissitudes. I come to ask the skill of the wise woman in discovering a secret long hidden from our family."

He stopped suddenly, for the woman held up her hand as if to stop him, and her voice took a strange hissing tone.

"Silence! Enough—thou hast spoken enough. Let me now tell thee the rest. I will tell thee what thou hast come to seek for. Silence! I will consult the spirits; they will tell me all."

Drawing nearer to her the crystal bowl, the old woman bent her head over it, and whispered incantations, as it seemed, over its contents. For a while there was deep silence in the room, and Cherry felt chill with excitement and wonder. This was very different from the reception she and her cousin Rachel had met. They had but been bidden to show their hands, and had then seen some cabalistic characters formed by the wise woman, from which she had told them all they wished to know. But there had been nothing half so mysterious as this, and the girl felt certain that the wise woman regarded Cuthbert and his questions with far greater interest than any she had bestowed upon the fortunes or the ailments of Rachel.

Presently there arose, as if in the far, far distance, a sound of voices faint and confused. Cherry clung to Cuthbert's arm, and looked about her with a pale, scared face, half expecting to see the room filled with disembodied spirits; but his glance never shifted from the down-bent face of the wise woman, and he half suspected that the sounds proceeded in some way from her, albeit they seemed to float about in the air round them, and to approach and die away at will.

Suddenly the old woman raised her head and spoke.

"Thy mission to me this day is to ask news of the lost treasure of Trevlyn."

Cherry started, and so did Cuthbert. There could be no doubting the old woman's power now. If she could see so much in her bowl, could she not likewise see where that lost treasure lay buried?

"Thou speakest sooth, mother," he said boldly. "It is of the lost treasure I would speak. Canst tell me if it still remains as it was when it was lost? Canst tell me the spot where it lies hid, that I may draw it thence? If thou canst lead me to it, thou shalt not lose thy reward; thou shalt be rich for life."

The youth spoke eagerly; but a curious smile crept over the old woman's face at his words.

"Foolish boy!" she said. "Seest thou not that if gold were my desire I have but to discover the place where the treasure lies to some stalwart knave sworn to do my bidding, and all would be mine? Could I not sell this golden secret to the highest bidder, an wealth was all I craved? Foolish, foolish boy—impetuous like all thy race! What hast thou to offer me that I may not obtain by one wave of this wand?"

Cuthbert was silent, wondering alike at the old woman and her words. If she was not disposed to sell her golden secret (and what she said was but too true—that the treasure would be more to her than any reward), what hope was there of her revealing it to him? He stood silent and perplexed, waiting for the old woman to speak again.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn," she said, after a long pause, "methought that the hope of finding the treasure had long since been abandoned by thy race."

"That may well be, but it has not been so abandoned by me. Whilst I have youth and health and strength, I will not give up that hope. I, the grandson of Isabel Wyvern, will not cease to strive till I have won back the lost luck that was to return to that house through the daughters' sons."

It was almost at random that Cuthbert had spoken these words, but some recollection had come over him of the story he had heard of the devotion of certain gipsy people to the family of the Wyverns, and their prognostications concerning them. This woman, with the brown and crumpled skin and the beady black eyes, was very like some of those wild gipsy folk he had seen from time to time in the forest. Was it not just possible that she might be one of their tribe, who for some reason or some physical infirmity had abandoned the wandering life, and had set up for a wise woman in the heart of the great city? Was there not some strange community of knowledge and interest amongst all these wandering people? and might she not in any case know something about the families of foe and friend, and the loss of the vast treasure one day to be restored?

As his grandmother's name passed his lips, Cuthbert was certain that he saw a flicker pass across the wise woman's face; but she bent her head again over her bowl, and for some minutes remained in deep silence. Then she looked up and scanned his face again.

"Let me see thy hand," she said.

He held it out fearlessly, and she bent over it for some time.

"It is a good hand," she said at length, "and its owner may look for prosperity in life, But he must heed one thing, and that is his own over-bold rashness. He must beware of trusting all men. He must beware of fatal fascination. He must beware of a darkly-flowing river, and the dark cellar beyond. He must have the courage to say 'nay'—the courage to fly as well as to fight. Young man, thou hast over-much curiosity. In these times of peril men must walk warily. Choose the safe path, and keep therein. Think not to play with edge tools and yet keep thy fingers unscarred."

Cuthbert felt the colour rising in his face. He felt the home thrust embodied in these words. He knew that they were a warning addressed to that side of his character which urged him to make friends on all sides, and strive to see good in all men, and to avoid joining himself to any one party in Church or State whilst in measure belonging to all. For a man of quality he knew such a course would be impossible and foolishly perilous, but he had felt secure in his own insignificance. He, however, well understood the warning, and so he marked the words about the flowing river and dark cellar, and though by no means understanding them now, he resolved that he would not forget.

But Cherry was shivering with excitement, and at last she could keep silence no longer. The wise woman had been kind to her before; surely she would not resent it if she spoke now.

"But the treasure, mother, the treasure," she urged. "Canst not thou help us there?"

The old woman shifted her bright eyes to the flushed face of the girl, and a flicker passed over her face as she repeated:

"Us—us? And what part or lot has Martin Holt's daughter in the lost treasure of Trevlyn? What, my pretty child, has thy handsome lover come so soon? and art thou looking already to be made a lady of by him?"

The girl hid her blushing face on Cuthbert's shoulder, whilst he answered with boyish straightforwardness:

"I will wed my cousin Cherry or none else. We have plighted our troth secretly, and she shall one day be my bride. If thou canst help me in this matter, it will make our lot easier; but, poor or rich, she shall be mine!"

The old woman nodded her head several times, and Cuthbert fancied that a greater benignity of expression crossed her wrinkled face.

"Brave words! brave words!" she muttered, "and a brave heart behind. Grandson to Isabel Wyvern! Ay, so it is; and there is Wyvern in that face as well as Trevlyn. For her sake—for her sake! Ay, I would do much for that.

"Boy," she said suddenly, raising her voice and speaking in her witch-like accents again, "thou hast spoken a name which is as a talisman, and though thou hast asked a hard thing, I will help thee an I can. Yet I myself know naught. It is the familiar spirits that know, and they will not always come even at my call; they will not always speak sooth at my bidding. I can but use my arts; the rest lies with them; and this is a secret that has been long-time hid."

"Ay, and the time has now come when it should be revealed," answered Cuthbert boldly. "Use what arts thou wilt! I ask the answer to my question. I would know where the lost treasure lies."

As he spoke these words the room became suddenly darkened. Around them again as they stood there seemed to float voices and whispers, though not one articulate word could either hear. In the gloom they saw nothing save the fiery eyes of the great cat, which appeared to be crouched upon the table beside its mistress. The whisperings and voices, sometimes accompanied by soft or mocking laughter, continued for the space of several moments, and appeared to be interrupted at last by the tap of the wise woman's wand upon the table, which three times repeated enforced a sudden silence.

The silence was for a moment more awe inspiring than what had gone first; but before Cherry had more time than sufficed to nip Cuthbert hard by the hand, they heard the old woman's voice, in an accent of stern command, uttering one single word:

"Speak!"

There was a brief pause, and then a sweet low voice rose in the room and seemed to float round them, whilst the words with their rhythmic cadence fell distinctly on the ears of the listening pair:

"Three times three—on a moonlight night, The oak behind, the beech to right; Three times three—over ling and moss, Robin's gain is Trevlyn's loss.

"Three times three—the war is long, Yet vengeance hums, and the back is strong; Three times three—the dell is deep, It knows its secret well to keep.

"Three times three—the bones gleam white, None dare pass by day or night; Three times three—the riddle tell! The answer lies in the pixies' well."

The voice ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

"Is that all?" asked the harsh accents of the wise woman.

"That is all the spirits choose to tell," answered the soft voice, already, as it seemed, far away; and in another moment the lamp shone forth again.

The cat leaped down from the table with a hissing sound, and the old woman was revealed in her former position, resting her two elbows on the table, her withered face supported in the palm of her hand.

"Thou hast heard?"

"Ay, but I have not understood. Canst thou read the riddle to me?"

But the old woman shook her head.

"That may not be; that thou must do for thyself. I will write down the words for thee, that thou mayest not forget; but thou, and thou alone, must find the clue."

With swift fingers she transcribed some characters on a fragment of parchment, and Cuthbert marvelled at the skill in penmanship the old woman displayed when she gave the paper into his hands. It was with a beating heart that he scanned the mysterious characters; but the old woman had risen to her feet, and motioned them away.

"Begone!" she cried, "begone! I have no more to say. Heed my warning. Beware of menaced perils. The perils of the forest are less than the perils of the city; and an open foe is better than a false friend—a friend who lures those that trust him to a common destruction, even though he himself be ready to share it. Harden thine heart—beware of thine own merciful spirit. Turn a deaf ear to the cry of the pursued. Swim with the current, and strive not to stem it. And now go! I have said my say. Thou hast fortune within thy grasp an thou hast wits to find it and hold it."

There was no disobeying the imperious gesture of the old woman. Cuthbert would fain have lingered to ask more questions, but he dared not do so. With a few brief words of thanks and farewell, he took Cherry's hand and turned away. The bolt of the door flew back; the door opened of itself again. The cat stalked on before down the dark staircase, and a faint gleam from above showed them the way down. The outer door sprang open before and closed behind them, and the next minute Cuthbert was hurrying his companion along the dark street, pulling her into the shadow of a doorway if any sounds announced the approach of any of the tavern roisterers, and so protecting her from any danger or peril till they stood at last in safety beneath Martin Holt's roof, and looked wonderingly into each other's eyes, as if questioning whether it had not all been part and parcel of a dream.

They had not been long gone; a bare hour had elapsed since they had stolen out into the darkness together. There was no fear that any other member of Martin Holt's household would be back for a considerable time. The two conspirators bent over the scrap of parchment they placed between them on the table, and pored earnestly over it together.

"What does it mean, Cuthbert? what can it mean? Canst read the words aright?"

"Ay, it is well writ. I can read it, but I know not what it means."

"Read it again to me."

He obeyed, and she forthwith began to ask a hundred questions.

"'Three times three'—that comes so many times. What can that mean, Cuthbert? it must mean something."

"Yes, doubtless, but I know not what."

"And again, 'Robin's gain is Trevlyn's loss.' Cuthbert, who may Robin be?"

"I know not: Yet stop—hold! Yes, I have it now. Not that it may be aught of import. Robin is a name a score of men may bear even in one village. But when the robbers of the road found themselves at the ruined mill where the gipsies were, I heard the leader ask, 'Where is Long Robin?'"

"And was he there?" asked Cherry eagerly.

"I know not: none answered the question, and I heeded it no more. Most like he was but some serving man they wanted to take the horses."

"Cuthbert, it seems plain that some Robin has stolen this treasure, and carried it off and hidden it. The verses must mean that!"

"Ay, I doubt it not, Cherry," answered Cuthbert, smiling; "but see you not, fair cousin, that almost any person knowing of this lost treasure and the legend of the gipsies' hate could have strung together words like these? All men hold that it may still be hidden in the forest around the Chase; but there be deep dells by the dozen, and the pixies, men say, have all fled away. And there be wells that run dry, and men find fresh ones bursting out where never water was before. These lines scarce show me more than I have known or thought before."

"But they do, they do!" cried Cherry excitedly. "They tell that it was Robin who has stolen it. Cuthbert, when thou goest to the forest next thou must find this Long Robin and see if it can be he."

The young man smiled at her credulity and enthusiasm. He was not so entirely sceptical as to some possible clue being given by these verses as he would have her believe, but he could not see any daylight yet, and wished to save her from disappointment.

"That is scarce like to be. The treasure was stolen nigh on fifty years agone, and he must have been a lusty robber who stole it then—scarce like to be living now. But we will think of this more. The wise woman must have dealings with a familiar, else how could she have known our errand? We must heed her words well; they may be words of wisdom. She knew strange things from my hand. I marvel how she could read it all there."

Cuthbert looked upon his palm and shook his head. It was all a mystery to him. But he had greater faith in the wise woman than he altogether felt prepared to admit, and as he sought his couch that night he kept saying over and over to himself the magic words he had heard.

"'Three times three—three times three!' What can that signify? In the forest perchance I shall read the riddle aright. Or perchance the gipsy queen, the dark-eyed Joanna, will aid me in the search. If I could but trust her, she might see things that I cannot in these lines. Would that the winter were past; would that the summer were about to come! The perils of the forest are to be less to me than the perils of the city. I wonder what perils menace me here. Beneath my father's roof I oft went in peril of my life; but here—why, here I feel safer than ever in my life before!"



Chapter 10: The Hunted Priest.

The two friends that Cuthbert had made of his own sex during the first weeks spent beneath his uncle's roof were the same two guests he had seen at the supper table on the evening of his arrival—Walter Cole and Jacob Dyson.

Both these men were several years older than himself, but in a short time he became exceedingly intimate with the pair, and thus obtained insight into the home life of persons belonging to the three leading parties in the realm. The Puritan element was strongly represented in Martin Holt's house, the Romanist in that of the Coles, whilst the Dysons, although springing from a Puritan stock, had been amongst those willing to conform to the laws as laid down in the late Queen's time. Both Rachel and Jacob preferred the Episcopal form of worship to any other, and openly marvelled at the taste of those who still frequented the private conventicles, where unlicensed preachers, at the risk of liberty and even life, held forth by the hour together upon their favourite doctrines and arguments.

But honest Jacob was no theologian. He did not hesitate to assert openly his ignorance of all controversy, and his opinion that it mattered uncommonly little what a man believed, so long as he led an upright life and did his duty in the world. He was "fair sick" of long-drawn arguments, the splitting of hairs, and those questions which the theologians of all parties took such keen joy in discussing—though, as nobody ever moved his opponent one whit, the disputes could only be held for the love the disputants felt for hearing themselves talk. Jacob had long since claimed for himself the right to leave the room when politics and religion came under discussion. As an only son, he had some privileges accorded him, and this was one he used without stint.

Honest Jacob had taken an immediate and great liking for Cuthbert Trevlyn from the first appearance of that youth at his uncle's house. Though himself rough and uncouth of aspect, clumsy of gait and slow of speech, he was quick to see and admire beauty and wit in others. He had picked out Cherry from amongst her sisters for those qualities of brightness and vivacity in which he felt himself so deficient, and it seemed as though he took to Cuthbert for very much the same reason.

Cuthbert was ready enough to accept the advances of this good-natured youth. He was a stranger in this great city, whilst Jacob knew it well. He was eager to hear and see and learn all he could; and though Jacob's ideas were few and his powers of observation limited, he was still able to answer a great many of the eager questions that came crowding to the lips of the stranger as they walked the streets together. And when Cuthbert accompanied Jacob to his home, Abraham Dyson could fill up all the blank in his son's story, and was secretly not a little pleased with Cuthbert's keen intelligence and ready interest.

The Dysons were merchants in a small way of business, but were thriving and thrifty folks. They and the Holts had been in close relations one with the other for more than one generation, and any relative of Martin Holt's would have been welcome at their house. Cuthbert was liked on his own account; and soon he became greatly fascinated by the river-side traffic, took the greatest interest in the vessels that came to the wharves to be unladed, and delighted in going aboard and making friends with the sailors. He quickly came to learn the name of every part of the ship, and to pick up a few ideas on the subject of navigation. Whenever a vessel came in from the New World but recently discovered, he would try to get on board and question the sailors about the wonders they had seen. Afterwards he would discourse to Jacob or to Cherry of the things he had learned, and would win more and more admiration from both by his brilliant powers of imagination and description.

So the river became, as it were, a second home to him. Abraham Dyson had more than one wherry of his own in which Cuthbert was welcome to skim about upon the broad bosom of the great river. He soon became so skillful with the rude oars or the sail, that he was a match for the hardiest waterman on the river, and more than once Cherry had been permitted to accompany Cuthbert and Jacob upon some excursion up or down stream.

And now, after many weeks of pleasant comradeship, Cuthbert found himself in the unenviable position of standing rival to his friend in the affections of Cherry, and the more he thought about it the less he liked the situation. He could not give Cherry up—that was out of the question; besides, had he renounced her twenty times over, that would not improve Jacob's case one whit. Cherry was her father's own daughter, and, with all her kittenish softness, had a very decided will of her own. She was not the sort of daughter to be bought and sold, or calmly made over like a bale of wool. She would certainly insist on having a voice in the matter, and her choice was not likely at any time to fall upon the worthy but unprepossessing Jacob.

All this Cuthbert understood with the quick apprehension of a lover; but it was very doubtful if Jacob would so see things, and Cuthbert felt as though there was something of treachery in accepting and returning his many advances of friendship whilst all the time he was secretly affianced to the girl for whose hand Jacob had made formal application, and had been formally accepted, though for the present, on account of the maiden's tender years, the matter was allowed to stand over.

With Walter Cole there was no such hindrance to friendship, and just at this juncture Cuthbert prosecuted and confirmed his intimacy at that house by constant visits there. He was greedy of information and book learning, and in this narrow dim dwelling, literally stacked with books, papers, and pamphlets of all kinds, and partially given over to the mysteries of the printing press, seldom worked save at dead of night, Cuthbert's expanding mind could revel to its full content.

He devoured every book upon which he could lay hands—history, theology, philosophy; nothing came amiss to him. He would sit by the hour watching Anthony Cole at work setting type, asking him innumerable questions about what he had been last reading, and finding the white-headed bookseller a perfect mine of information.

Controversy and the vexed topics of the day were generally avoided by common consent. The Coles had learned through bitter experience the necessity for silence and reticence. Everybody knew them for ardent and devoted sons of Rome, and they were under suspicion of issuing many of the pamphlets against the policy of the King that raised ire in the hearts of the great ones of the land. But none of these "seditious" writings had so far been traced to them, and they still lived in comparative peace, although the tranquillity somewhat resembled that of the peaceful dwellers upon the sides of a volcanic mountain, within whose crater grumblings and mutterings are heard from time to time.

Cuthbert's frequent visits, and the manifest pleasure he took in their society, were a source of pleasure to both father and son; and though they never showed this pleasure too openly, or asked him to continue his visits or help them in their night work, they did not refuse his help when offered, and sometimes would look at each other and say:

"He is drawing nearer; he is drawing nearer. Old traditions, race instincts, are telling upon him. He is too true a Trevlyn not to become a member of the true fold. His vagrant fancy is straying here and there. He is tasting the bitter-sweet fruit of knowledge and restless search after the wisdom of this world. But already he begins to turn with loathing from the cold, lifeless Puritan code. Anon he will find that the Established Church has naught to give him save the husk, from which the precious grain has been carefully extracted."

"Father Urban thinks well of him," Walter once remarked, as they discussed the youth after his departure one evening. "He has met him, I know not where, and believes that there may be work for him to do yet. We want those with us who have the single mind and honest heart, the devotion that counts not the cost. All that is written on the lad's face. If he breaks not away from us, he may become a tool in a practised hand to do a mighty work."

Cuthbert, however, went on his way all unconscious of the notice he was arousing in certain quarters. His mind was filled just now with other matters than those of religious controversy. He had become rather weary of the strife of tongues, and was glad to busy himself with the practical concerns of life that did not always land him in a dilemma or a difficulty.

Abraham Dyson was having a new sloop built for trading purposes, and both Jacob and Cuthbert took the keenest interest in the progress of the work. The sloop was to be called the Cherry Blossom when complete, and it was Abraham Dyson's plan that the christening of the vessel by Cherry herself should be the occasion of her formal betrothal to his son.

This ceremony, however, would not take place for some while yet, as at present the little vessel was only in the earlier stages of construction. Neither Jacob nor Cuthbert had heard anything about this secondary plan, but both took the greater interest in the sloop from the fact that she was to be named after Cherry.

Cuthbert visited her daily, and Jacob as often as his duties at his father's warehouse allowed him. On this particular bright February afternoon the pair had been a great part of their time on the river, skimming about in the wherry, and examining every part of the little vessel under the auspices of the master builder. Dusk had fallen upon the river before they landed, and a heavy fog beginning to rise from the water made them glad to leave it behind. They secured the wherry to the landing stage, leaving the oars in her, as they not unfrequently did when returning late, and were pursuing their way up the dark and unsavoury streets, when the sound of a distant tumult smote upon their ears, and they arrested their steps that they might listen the better.

Cuthbert's quick ears were the first to gather any sort of meaning from the discordant shouts and cries which arose.

"They are chasing some wretched fugitive!" he said in a low voice. "That is the sound of pursuit. Hark! they are coming this way. Who and what are they thus hounding on?"

Nearer and nearer came the surging sound of many voices and the hurried trampling of feet.

"Stop him—catch him—hold him!" shouted a score of hoarse voices, rolling along through the fog-laden air long before anything could be seen. "Stop him, good folks, stop him! stop the runaway priest—stop the treacherous Jesuit! He is an enemy to peace—a stirrer up of sedition and conspiracy! Down with him—to prison with him! it is not fit for such a fellow to live. Down with him—stop him!"

"A priest!" exclaimed Cuthbert between his shut teeth, a sudden gleam corning into his eyes. "Jacob, heard you that? A priest—a man of God! one man against a hundred! Canst thou stand by and see such a one hunted to death? that cannot I."

Jacob cared little for priests—indeed, he had no very good opinion of the race, and none of Cuthbert's traditional reverence; but he had all an Englishman's love of fair play, and hated the cruelty and cowardice of an angry mob as he hated anything mean and vile, and he doubled back his wrist bands and clinched his horny fists as he answered:

"I am with thee, good Cuthbert. We will stand for the weaker side. Priest or no, he shall not be hounded to death in the streets without one blow struck in his defence. But how to find him in this fog?"

"We need not fight; that were mere madness," answered Cuthbert in rapid tones. "Ours is to hurry the fugitive into the wherry, loose from shore, and out into the river; and then they may seek as they will, they can never find us. Mist! hark! the cries come nigher. If the quarry is indeed before them, it must be very nigh. Mark! I hear a gliding footfall beside the wall. Keep close to me; I go to the rescue."

Cuthbert sprang swiftly through the darkness, and in a moment he felt the gown of a priest in his hand, and heard the sound of the distressed breathing of one hunted well nigh to the verge of exhaustion. As the hunted man felt the clasp upon his robe he uttered a little short, sharp cry, and made as if he would have stopped short; but Cuthbert had him fast by the arm, and hurried him along the narrow alley towards the river, upholding him over the rough ground, and saying in short phrases: "Fear nothing from us, holy Father; we are friends. We have come to save you. Trust only to us and, believe me, in three more minutes we shall be beyond the reach of these savage pursuers. The river is before us, though we see it not, and our boat awaits us there. Once aboard, they may weary themselves in their vain efforts to catch us; they will never find us in this fog.

"Here is the water side. Have a care how you step—Jacob, hold fast the craft whilst the Father steps in. So. All is well; cast off and I will follow."

There was the sound of a light spring; the boat gave a slight lurch, and then, gliding off into the mysterious darkness of the great river, was lost to sight of shore in the wreaths of foggy vapour.

"Where is the hound? where is the caitiff miscreant? Has he thrown himself into the river? Drowning is too good for such a dog as he!" shouted angry voices on the river's bank, and through the still air the sound of trampling footsteps could be heard up and down the little wharf which formed the landing stage.

"I hear the sound of oars!" shouted one.

"He has escaped us—curse the cunning of that Papist brood!" yelled another.

"Let us get a boat and follow," counselled a third; but this was more easily said than done, as there was no other boat tied up at that landing stage, and the fog rendered navigation too difficult and dangerous to be lightly attempted. With sullen growls and many curses the mob seemed to break up and disperse; but the leaders appeared to stand in discussion for some moments after the rest had gone, and several sentences were distinctly heard by those in the boat, who thought it safer to drift with the tide awhile close to the shore than to use their oars and betray their close proximity to their foes.

"We shall know him again; and if he dares to show his face in the city, we will have him at last, even if we have to search for him in Alsatia with a band of soldiers. He has too long escaped the doom he merits, the plotter and schemer, the vile dog of a seminary priest! Once let us get him into our hands and he shall be hanged, drawn, and quartered, like those six of his fellows. No mercy for the Jesuits; it is not fit that such fellows should camber the earth. There will be no peace for this realm till we have destroyed them root and branch."

The boat had now drifted too far for the conversation to be any longer audible. Jacob gave a long, low whistle, and took to the oars. Cuthbert, who sat beside the priest in the stern, had his hand upon the tiller; and as the fog cloud lifted just a little, so that the darkness about them became hardly more than that of twilight, he looked at the silent, motionless figure beside him, and exclaimed in surprise:

"Father Urban!"

A slight smile hovered for a moment over the wan face of the priest. He lifted his thin hand and said solemnly:

"Peace be with thee, my son."

Cuthbert bent his head in reverence, and then turned again towards the Father.

"What hast thou done that they should rail at thee thus—thou the friend of the poor, the friend even of the leper? What has come to them that they turn thus against thee? Sure, but a few short weeks ago and thou didst hold back an angry crowd by the glance of thine eye."

"My son, trust not in the temper of the crowd, in the goodwill of the multitude. Was it not the same crowd who on the Sabbath shouted, 'Hosanna to the Son of David!' that on the Friday yelled, 'Crucify Him! crucify Him!' Never put faith in man, still less in the multitude that is ever swayed like a reed, and may be driven like a wave of the sea hither and thither as the wind listeth.

"And then I was not amongst mine own flock. I had—rashly, perchance—adventured myself further than I ought, for I had a message of consequence to execute, and I have not been wont to hide myself from my fellow men. But there is no knowing in these fearful times of lawlessness and savage hate what will be the temper either of rulers or people. It seems that I am known—that there is some warrant out against me. So be it. If I must flee from this city to another, holier men have done the like ere now. I would mine errand had been completed. I would I had accomplished my task. But—"

The priest's voice had been growing fainter for some moments. Cuthbert supposed it to be a natural caution on his part, lest even Jacob should hear him as he plied his oars; but as he came to this sudden stop, he felt that the slight frame collapsed in some way, and leaned heavily against him as he sat. Turning his eyes from the dim, rippling water, so little of which could be seen in the darkness and the fog, to the face of the priest, he saw that it had turned ghastly pale, and that the eyes were glazing over as if with the approach of death. Plainly the fugitive had received some bodily hurt of which he had not spoken, and the question what to do with their helpless burden became a difficult one to answer.

"My father will not receive him," said Jacob, shaking his head, as he leaned upon his oars and let the boat drift along with the tide that was carrying them towards the bridge. "He hates the priests worse than your good uncle and mine, who has something of a fellow feeling for them in these days of common persecution; and you know well what sort of a welcome we should receive from him did we arrive with a seminary priest in our arms."

"And I trow the mob would be upon us ere we had got him safe housed, and for aught we could do to stop it might tear him limb from limb in our very sight."

"Ay, there is always some rumour afoot of a new Papist plot; and whether it be true or no, the people set on to harry the priests as dogs harry the hunted hare. I know not what to do. To land with him will do neither good to him nor to us. A fine coil there would be at home if my father heard of me mixing myself up with Jesuit traitors; and Martin Holt would not be much better pleased neither."

"Martin Holt is not my father," answered Cuthbert, with a touch of haughtiness; "and let him say what he will, I must save this man's life, even if it cost me mine own. Thou knowest how he saved me that day in the dens of Whitefriars. To leave him to the mercy of the howling mob would be an act of blackest treachery; it would disgrace my manhood for ever."

"Tush, man, who asked that of thee?" answered Jacob, with something of a smile at the lad's impetuosity. "I love not a black cassock nor a tonsured head so passing well; but a man is a man, even though he be a priest, and I call shame upon those who would thus maltreat a brother man, and the more so when he is one who has visited the sick and tended the leper, and been the friend of those who have no friends in this great city. I would no sooner than thou give him up to the will of the mob; but we must bethink ourselves where he may be in safety stowed, else the mob will have him whether we will or no. All I was meaning by my words was that neither my home nor thine could be the place for him."

"I ask thy pardon, good Jacob, for my heat," answered Cuthbert humbly. "I should have known better thy good heart than to have thought such a thing of thee."

"Nay, nay; I am no hero."

"Thou art a kindly hearted and an honest man, which I misdoubt me if all the world's heroes are," answered Cuthbert quickly. "And now, Jacob, it behoves us to think. Yes, I have it. We must ask counsel of Master Anthony Cole. He would be the one to hide Father Urban if it could be done. Let me land nigh to the bridge, and go to them and tell them all; and do thou push out once more and anchor the craft beneath the pier on which their house rests. Methinks when I have taken counsel with them I can make shift to slip down the wooden shaft of that pier, and so hold parley with thee. Walter has done the like before now, and I am more agile in such feats than he; moreover, I can swim like a duck if I should chance to miss my hold, and so reach the water unawares. That will be the best, for the boat may not linger at the wharf side. We know not what news may be afoot in the city, nor that there may not be searchers bent on finding Father Urban, let him land where he may."

Whether or not Jacob relished this adventure, he was too stanch and too honest hearted to turn back now. The priest lay insensible at the bottom of the boat, his head pillowed upon the cloaks the youths had sacrificed for his better comfort. It was plainly a matter of consequence that he should soon be housed in some friendly shelter. His gray face looked ghastly in the dim moonlight which began to struggle through the fog wreaths. When Cuthbert leaped lightly ashore hard by the bridge, and Jacob sheered off again in the darkness, he felt as though he were out alone on the black river, with only a corpse for company.

"If it were but for Cherry's sake, I would do ten-fold more," he murmured, as he glanced up in the direction of the wool stapler's shop, and pictured pretty Cherry stepping backwards and forwards at her spinning wheel. "But I trow she will hear naught of it; or if she does, she will think only of Cuthbert's share. Alack! I fear me she will never think of me now. Why should she, when so proper a youth is nigh? If he should go away and leave her, perchance her heart might turn to me for comfort; but I fear me he looks every day more tenderly into her bright eyes. How could he live beneath the roof and not learn to love her? He would be scarce human, scarce flesh and blood, were he to fail in loving her; and what is my chance beside his? I might, almost as well yield her at once, and take good Kezzie instead. Kezzie would make a better housewife—my mother has told me so a hundred times; and I am fond of her, and methinks she—"

But there Jacob stopped short, blushing even in the darkness at the thought of what he had nearly said. Anchoring against the wooden piles of the bridge, and letting his fancy run riot as it would, he indulged in a shifting daydream, in which pain and a vague sense of consolation were oddly blended. He sighed a good many times, but he smiled once or twice likewise, and at last he gave himself a shake and spoke out aloud.

"At least it shall make no cloud and no bitterness betwixt us twain. He is a fine lad and a noble one, and he deserves more at Dame Fortune's hands than such a clown as I. Shall I grudge him his luck if he gets her? never a whit! There may not be more than one Cherry in the world, but there are plenty of good wives and honest maidens who will brighten a man's home for him."

Musing thus, Jacob kept his watch, and was not long in hearing strange and cautious sounds above his head. Looking up, he beheld a lithe form slipping, in something of a snake fashion, down the woodwork of the bridge, and the next moment Cuthbert sprang softly down, so deftly that the wherry only rolled a little at the shock.

"Hast thought me long? Hast been frozen with cold? I have made all the haste I could. All is planned. This is not strange work to them. See, I have brought with me this cradle of cord. We can place Father Urban within, and they will draw him up from above, that no man shall see him enter their house. All the windows be shuttered and barred by now. None will see or hear. They have harboured many a fugitive before, I take it. They had all the ropes and needful gear ready beneath their hand at a moment's notice."

Whilst he was speaking, Cuthbert was wrapping the inanimate figure in the cloaks, and placing it gently in the hammock, as we should call it, that, suspended by strong cords from above, had assisted him in his descent to the boat. Then at a given signal this hammock, with its human load, was slowly and steadily drawn upwards, with a cautious, silent skill that betokened use and experience; and as the eager watchers pushed out their boat a little further into the river, they saw the bulky object vanish at last within the dimly-lighted window of the tall, narrow house. A light was flashed for a moment from the window, and then all was wrapped in darkness.

"All is well," exclaimed Cuthbert, with an accent of relief; "and I trow that not a living soul but our two selves knows whither the priest has fled. He is safe from that savage, howling mob. Methinks I hear their cries still! It was just so they yelled and hooted round me when Father Urban came so timely to my rescue."

Mistress Susan chid Cuthbert somewhat roundly for being late for supper that night. But when he said he had been belated by the fog on the river with Jacob, the excuse was allowed to stand. Cherry was eager to know the progress making with her namesake, and no inconvenient questions were asked of Cuthbert when once her chattering tongue had been unloosed.

Cuthbert's dreams were a little troubled and uneasy that night; but he woke in good spirits, and was anxious to know the state of Father Urban. He made an early excuse for visiting the Coles' abode, and found the elder man busy over his type.

He looked up with a smile as Cuthbert appeared, but laid his fingers on his lips.

"Be cautious; he has but just sunk to sleep after a night of wakeful pain. He is anxious to see thee. He asked for thee a score of times in the night; but he must not be wakened now. Thou hast done a good deed, boy. Had Father Urban fallen a victim to yon hooting mob last eve, a deadly blow would have been dealt to the faith of this land."

"And is his sickness very sore? has he any grievous hurt?"

"He was sore knocked about and bruised ere he first wrenched himself from the officer of the law who sprang upon him with an order of arrest. Two of his ribs be broke; and that long and fearful race for his life did cause him sore pain and greater injury, so that a fever has been set up, and he has had to lose much blood to allay it. But he is quiet and at rest just now. Thou hadst better come again at sundown; he will doubtless be awake then. He has somewhat to say to thee, I know. I believe that he has some mission to entrust to thee. Thou hast a kindly heart and a strong arm. I trow thou wilt not fail him now."

Anthony Cole looked fixedly into the boy's face, and Cuthbert returned the glance unflinchingly. He was possessed by the generous feeling all young and ardent natures know of keen desire to assist further any person already indebted to them for past grace. The fact that already he had run some risk on account of Father Urban only made Cuthbert the more anxious to help him in whatever manner might best conduce to his well being and comfort. He looked full at his interlocutor, and said:

"Whatever I may with honour and right do for Father Urban shall not be lacking. I owe him my life. I can never grudge any service for him, be it great or small."

"Well spoken, my boy," answered the bookseller, with his calm, penetrating smile. "May the blessed saints long preserve untainted that true nobility of soul."

Cuthbert spent a restless day, wondering what mission the priest had for him, and whether his uncle would be angry at him for meddling in any such matters. But Martin Holt was friendly with several of the Papist families about him, notably with the Coles themselves; and Cuthbert had a growing sense of his own independence and the right to choose his own associates and his own path in life.

It was growing dusk when he stood beside the narrow bed on which Father Urban lay. The light filtered in scantily through the narrow window pane, and illumined a face lined by pain and white with exhaustion. Upon the bed lay a packet which looked like papers, and one of the priest's wasted hands lay upon it as if to guard it. As Cuthbert bent over him and spoke his name, Father Urban looked up, and a dim light crept into his eyes.

"Is it thou, my son, come at last?"

"Yes, Father. What may I do for thee?"

"Wilt thou do one small service more for me, my son?"

"Willingly, Father, if it lies within my power."

"It is well within thy power, boy. It is not the power I question, but the will. We live in dangerous days. Art willing to partake of the peril which compasses the steps of those who tread in the old ways wherein the fathers trod?"

"Try me and see," was the quiet reply.

Perhaps none could better have suited the astute reader of character. The hollow eyes lighted, and the old man bent upon Cuthbert a searching glance whilst he seemed to pause to gather strength.

"I would have thee take this packet," he said, speaking slowly and with some pain and difficulty. "There is no superscription; and sooner than let them be found by others on thy person, fling them into the river, or cut them to fragments with thy dagger; and plunge thy dagger into thine own heart sooner than be taken with them upon thee. But with caution and courage and strength (and I know that thou hast all of these) thou canst avoid this peril. What thy part is, is but this: Deliver this packet into the hand of Master Robert Catesby himself. Thou knowest him. Thou wilt make no error. Seek him not at any tavern or public place. Go to a lone house at Lambeth, with moss-grown steps down to the water's edge. Go by thine own wherry thither, and go alone. Thou canst not mistake the house. There is none like it besides. It stands upon the water, and none other building is nigh at hand; but a giant elm overshadows it, and there is a door scarce above high water level and steps that lead from it. Knock three times, thus, upon that door"—and the priest gave a curious tap, which Cuthbert repeated by imitation; "and when thou art admitted, ask for Robert Catesby, and give him the packet. That is all. Thy mission will then be done. Wilt thou do as much for me?"

Cuthbert answered, without the least hesitation:

"I will."



Chapter 11: The Lone House On The River.

"Cuthbert, do not go—ah, do not go!"

"And wherefore not, my Cherry?"

"I am afraid. I had such dreams last night. And, Cuthbert, didst thou not heed? Notedst thou not how in handing the salt at supper thy hand shook, and it was spilled? I like not such auguries; they fill my heart with fear. Do not go—ah, do not!"

Cuthbert smiled as he caressed his little love, not averse to feeling her soft arms clinging round his neck, yet quite disposed to laugh at her youthful terrors.

"But what dost thou fear, sweetheart?"

"I fear everything," she replied, with inconsequent vehemence. "I remember the stories I have heard of the wiles of the priests, and how they tempt unwary men to their destruction. What is this Father Urban to thee, that thou shouldst risk aught for him? I will not let thee go—I will not!"

"Father Urban saved my life."

"And thou hast saved his. That debt is paid in full," was the prompt response. "He saved thee at no peril to himself; thou hast saved him when it might have cost thee thy life. Thou owest him nothing—nothing! Why should he ask this further service of thee?"

Cuthbert smiled. Cherry's petulance and vehemence amused him. Her little spoiled-child tempers and exactions were beginning to have a great charm. He scarcely knew how much of the deeper fears of dawning womanhood were beginning to intermingle with the "child's" eager love of her own way. Love was gradually transforming Cherry, but the transformation was as yet scarcely seen, and the added charm of her new softness and timidity had hardly begun to be observed by those about her.

"He is sorely sick, sweetheart, and he has asked this thing of me. I have passed my word. Thou wouldst not have me go back therefrom?"

"He should not have asked thee; he had no right," flashed out Cherry, in some despite. "Why did he not ask Walter Cole? he was a fitter person than thou."

"And wherefore so?"

"Why, everybody knows him for a pestilent Papist!" answered Cherry, with a flash of her big eyes. "Nothing he did would surprise anybody. He is suspected already; whilst thou—nay, Cuthbert, wherefore dost thou laugh?"

"Marry, at the logic of thy words, sweetheart! Father Urban desires a safe and secret messenger, and thou wouldst have him employ one already suspected and watched! That were a strange way of setting to work, Why, I may come and go unquestioned. No man has suspected me of aught, and I am one of those who willingly conform to the laws. With Walter things be far different: he might be stopped and searched by any suspicious knave who saw him pushing forth into the river."

"And a good riddance, too!" cried Cherry, who was in no humour to be tolerant of the Romanists, who were, as she thought, putting her lover in peril. "I hate those plotting, secret, cunning Papists! They are like men who are always mining in the dark, working and striving in deadly secret, no man knowing what will next be heard or seen. I like not such ways. I like not that thou shouldst meddle with them. Those be treasonable papers, I doubt not. Cuthbert, it is not meet that thou shouldst have dealings with traitors!"

Cuthbert smiled, but the earnestness with which Cherry spake impressed him in spite of himself. It had been one thing to make this promise to the sick priest who trusted him, but it was a different matter to be told that he was meddling in treason. Still, what did Cherry know about it? She was but a child.

"I know that there be treasons and treacherous plots enow in the world," answered Cherry, as he put the question to her. "I hear more than men think; and since thou hast been here, Cuthbert, I have listened and heeded as I was not wont to do. All men whisper of the treachery and malice of the Papists. All men know that had they their will the King would be sent to death or imprisonment, and some other person placed upon the throne."

"I know not how that may be," answered Cuthbert slowly, "and I have no concern in such matters. All I have to do is to give these papers to one whom I know, and who has befriended me; and that must I do at all cost, for my word is pledged, and thou wouldst not have me go back from that, wouldst thou, Cherry?"

"I would not have thee run into danger," answered Cherry, sticking persistently to her point with true feminine insistence, "and I know better than thou canst do what evil haps befall them who meddle in matters too hard for them, and that they reek not of.

"Cuthbert," drawing a little nearer and speaking in a breathless whisper, "dost call to mind what the wise woman said: how thou wast to beware of the dark river—the flowing river? And yet thou wilt venture forth upon it this eve! I like it not; I like it not! I would that I could make a prisoner of thee, that thou mightest not go."

"It were sweet imprisonment to be held in such thrall," answered Cuthbert, smiling, as he loosed the clasp of the warm arms from about his neck; "but this time, sweetheart, I must needs go. I will be cautious and careful. I are too much upon the river in the wherry for any to question my coming or going. None knew aught of our rescue of the hunted priest; none but thyself knows of him nor where he lies. It is impossible that any can suspect me yet; and for the future, for thy sweet sake, I will be cautious how I adventure myself into any like peril, if peril there be."

With that Cherry had to be content, for Cuthbert was immovable where his word was pledged, and she had perforce to let him go, since he would not be stayed.

"Tell thy father that I sup tonight with Abraham Dyson," said Cuthbert, as he kissed her for the last time before he left. "It may be I shall not be home in time for the supper, and I would not be too close questioned on my return. I will go thither when I have landed once more. Good Jacob will wish for news of Father Urban."

Cuthbert was gone, Cherry looking wistfully after him. She had already begun to know something of the pain as well as of the joy of love. She felt that there was in Cuthbert's nature a strain of self devotion and heroism which frightened her whilst it enthralled her fancy. She had an instinct that he would never turn back in any quest he had undertaken for the peril he might have to face. She felt that in him she was realizing her vague ideals of knightly prowess and dauntless courage; but all the same, unless she might be at his side to share the peril, she would almost have felt happier had this fearless bravery been somewhat less.

Cuthbert meantime pursued his way with a light heart, his packet of papers securely buttoned in the breast of his doublet. The keen air of the February afternoon fanned his face. His heart was full of tender thoughts of Cherry and her sweet affection for him. How soon would it be possible, he wondered, to claim her as his own; and what would Martin Holt say to the frustration of one of his favourite schemes?

Of his present mission, and of any peril likely to accrue to him therefrom, Cuthbert thought little or nothing. He did not see how he could possibly come under suspicion simply from fulfilling the priest's request. It would have been brutal to refuse; and what harm could he do to himself or others by simply delivering a packet of papers?

He had almost promised Master Robert Catesby before this to visit him in his river-side house. Doubtless this was the very place for which he was now bound. Anything like an adventure was agreeable to one of Cuthbert's imaginative nature, and a spice of possible danger did not detract from the sense of fascination, even though he might not see wherein the danger lay.

The wherry he was wont to use lay moored near to the Three Cranes, and no one heeded or questioned him as he stepped in and pushed off into the river. A couple of soldiers were lounging upon the little wharf and watching the small craft as they came and went. They appeared to take some note of Cuthbert, as of others who passed by, but they did not speak to him, and he wondered what their business was there.

A fragment of talk between two watermen reached him as he began rowing out in the direction of the Cherry Blossom; for he did not wish to take the upstream direction till twilight should have fallen and his movements would escape unheeded, and the voices of these men as they passed him reached him clearly over the water.

"On the lookout for the runaway priest, I take it. Thou surely didst hear how he gave them the slip in the fog, just when they thought they had him safe. He had been well bruised and battered. It was a marvel how he got free. But he knew the narrow lanes well, and doubled like a hare. Doubtless he had his friends in waiting, for he slipped into some craft and eluded pursuit. But for the fog they would have made sure of him that time. They say he—"

But the rest of the sentence was lost in the distance, and Cuthbert laughed silently as he plied his oars.

"Beshrew me, but they make a mighty coil anent this good Father Urban. One would have thought they could have made shift to lay hands on him before were he so notable a miscreant. He was not in hiding when I saw him first; he appeared to go about the city fearlessly. Doubtless it is but some new panic on the part of the King. God help us all now that we be ruled over by such a poor poltroon!"

Cuthbert had caught the prevailing contempt for the foolish and feeble James that was shared by the nation in general, and London in particular.

They put up with him to avoid the horrors and confusion of a disputed succession and a possible repetition of the bloody strife of the Roses; but there was not one section of the community with whom he was popular: even the ecclesiastics of the Episcopal party despised whilst they flattered and upheld him. Cuthbert felt an access of zeal in his present mission in the thought that it would be displeasing to the unkingly mind of the King. He had seen the ungainly monarch riding through Westminster one day not long since, and the sight of his slovenly and undignified figure, trapped out in all the extravagance of an extravagant age, his clumsy seat on horseback (of which, nevertheless, he was not a little proud), and his goggle eyes and protruding tongue, filled the young man with disgust and dislike. But for the noble bearing and boyish beauty of the Prince of Wales, who rode beside his father, his disgust would have been greater; and all men were somewhat more patient with the defects of the father in prognosticating better and happier times when young Henry should succeed to the throne.

Nevertheless treasonable plottings at this juncture did not appear as fearful and horrible as they had done in the days of "good Queen Bess," who, with all her faults and follies, contrived to keep her people's affection in a marvellous fashion, as her sire had done before her. Men who would have recoiled with horror at a whisper against the Queen's Majesty, shrugged their shoulders with comparative indifference when they heard vague whispers of Popish or Puritan plots directed more or less against the person of King James. Any warm personal love and loyalty was altogether lacking to the nation, and with it was lacking the element which has always been the strongest bulwark of the sovereign's safety.

James appears to have been dimly conscious of this, always insisting on wearing heavy and cumbersome garments, quilted so strongly as to defy the thrust of a dagger. A monarch who goes about in habitual fear of assassination betrays his knowledge that he has failed to win the love or veneration of his subjects.

Cuthbert mused idly of these things as he pushed out into the middle of the river, and then eased up and looked about him to see if his movements were observed. It was beginning to grow dusk now. The sun had dipped behind the trees and buildings. The two sentries on the wharf had turned their backs upon the river, and were entering a tavern. The other wherries were all making for the shore, and the tide was running in strongly and carrying Cuthbert's boat upstream for him in the direction whither he would go.

Letting himself drift with the tide, and contenting himself with keeping the prow in the right direction, Cuthbert drifted on his way quite as fast as he cared to. He had not often been as far up the stream as this, since business always took him down towards the shipping in the mouth of the river. He had never before gone higher up than the Temple Stairs, and now as he drifted past these and saw the fine pile of Westminster rising before his eyes, he felt a thrill of admiration and awe, and turned in his seat the better to observe and admire.

Westminster was almost like another town in those days, divided from the busy walled city of London by fields and gardens and fine mansions standing in their own grounds. On the south side of the river the houses were few and far between, and save at Southwark, hardly any attempt at regular building had been made. Past the great Palace of Whitehall and Westminster, with its Parliament Houses rising majestic against the darkening sky, drifted the lonely little boat. And then Cuthbert took his oars and pulled for the southern bank; for he knew that Lambeth was not very much farther away, and he recalled to mind the directions of the priest, how to find it and know it.

Trees fringed the southern bank here, leafless at this season, but still imparting a certain dark dreariness to the scene. The hoot of an owl occasionally broke the silence, and sent light shivers through Cuthbert's frame. He was not free from superstition, and the evil-omened bird was no friend of his. He would rather not have heard its harsh note just at this time; and he could have wished that the river did not look so inky black, or that the trees did not cast such weird shadows.

But the tide ran strong beneath the overhanging bank, and Cuthbert was carried onwards without any effort of his own. There was something just a little uncanny in this swift force. It reminded Cuthbert of relentless destiny sweeping him onward whether or not he would go.

But it was too late to consider or turn back even if such had been his desire. Already he began to see white gleams as of stone work along the water's edge. The willow trees came to an end; a wall bounded the river for fifty yards or more, and then there arose before his eyes the structure of the lonely old house, guarded by its giant elms—a house seeming to be actually built upon the water itself, one door, as Cuthbert had been told, opening upon the flight of steps which at high water were almost covered.

It was well nigh high water now, and Cuthbert could bring the prow of his boat to within a foot of the door. There were rings all along the topmost step for the mooring of small craft, and he quickly made fast his wherry and stood at the iron-clamped portal.

How dark and silent and lonely the house looked, rising gaunt and dim in the uncertain light! Who would choose such a spot for a home? Surely only those whose deeds would not bear the light of day. And why that deadly silence and torpor in a house inhabited by human beings? It seemed unnatural and uncanny, and as a great white owl swept by on silent wing with a hollow note of challenge, Cuthbert felt a chill sense of coming ill creep through his veins and run down his spine; and fearful lest his resolution should desert him at the last, he raised his hand and gave the thrice-repeated knock he had been taught by Father Urban.

He doubted if the signal would be heard. He could scarcely believe that the house boasted any inhabitants, but soon he heard a heavy yet cautious tread approach the door from the other side. Some heavy bolts were drawn back, and the door was opened a little way.

"Who is there?" asked a muffled voice.

"One wishful to see Master Robert Catesby."

"Why come to this back door, then? Why not approach the house by the front way, like an honest man?"

Cuthbert was rather taken aback by this question. He answered with a touch of sharpness:

"I came the way I was bidden to come. If I am in fault, the blame lies with him who sent me."

"And who is that?"

"Father Urban."

At the sound of that name the door was cautiously opened a little further, and Cuthbert felt himself confronted by a man whose face still remained in deep shadow.

"You come from Father Urban, and with a message to Robert Catesby?"

"Not a message; a packet which methinks contains papers. I was bidden to deliver them into no hand but his, and to destroy both them and myself sooner than let them fall into alien hands."

At that the door opened wider yet, and Cuthbert could look along a dark stone passage, at the end of which glowed a light. His companion's first suspicions now appeared laid to rest.

"Come in, come in. Speak not thus aloud without, even at this dead hour of dim loneliness. Men like ourselves stand in sore need of every caution. Come in, and let me lock the door behind us. There may be spies lurking even round these walls."

"Spies!" echoed Cuthbert, as he strode along the passage towards the light. "I fear no spies; I have naught to conceal!"

But the other man was drawing the heavy bolts, and did not hear this remark. He followed Cuthbert into the great vaulted kitchen, which was illumined by a noble fire, the warmth of which was very welcome to the youth after his chilly voyage on the river. There was some cooking going on at the stove, and an appetizing odour filled the air.

Cuthbert turned his curious glance upon the custodian of this strange place, and saw a man who was evidently a gentleman, though very plainly and simply dressed, and employed at this moment in menial toil. He had a thin, worn face, and his eyes gleamed brightly under their heavy brows. He looked like one who had seen both trouble and suffering, and had grown somewhat reckless under successive miseries,

He on his side was attentively regarding Cuthbert.

"Thy name, good youth?" he asked abruptly.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn," was the unhesitating rejoinder.

The lad had not yet learned the prudence of reticence in dealing with strangers. He was neither ashamed of his errand nor of his name.

"Trevlyn—Trevlyn. It is a good name, and I have heard it before. I have heard Catesby speak of thee. So thou hast come with papers for him? Art thou indeed to be one of us?"

The question was asked almost in a whisper, accompanied by a very keen and searching glance. Cuthbert did not exactly know what to make of it.

He shook his head as he replied:

"Nay, I know naught of that. I am but a messenger from Father Urban, who was in sore straits but two days back, and well-nigh fell into the hands of his foes with these papers upon him. I had the good hap to help him to escape the peril; and as he was sore hurt, he begged of me to carry them to Master Catesby and deliver them with mine own hand. This have I come to do. He bid me seek this house, for that I should likely find him here. If he be not so, I pray you direct me where he may be found; for I have no mind to return with my task unfulfilled, nor yet to carry about with me these same papers an hour longer than need be."

"Heaven forfend!" ejaculated the custodian of the place with unfeigned anxiety. "Father Urban in peril! Father Urban sore hurt! We must know more of this business, and that without delay. Art sure he is safe for the present? Art sure he hath not fallen into the hands of the King's hirelings?"

"He is safe enow for the nonce."

"And where—where is he hidden?"

Cuthbert gave the man a keen look as he answered:

"That will I tell to none save Master Robert Catesby himself, whom I know. You, good sir, are a stranger to me, albeit, I doubt not, a very worthy gentleman."

The man's thin face lighted up with a gleam of approval.

"You are i' the right, young sir; you are i' the right of it," he said. "In these days of peril and trouble men cannot walk too warily. My name is Robert Kay, and the fate which has been your father's has been mine, too. I have been ruined and beggared for my devotion to my faith; and but for Master Robert Catesby and others who have given me assistance and employment, I might well have starved in some garret ere now. Yet I was gently born and nurtured, and mine only cause of offence was the religion which but a generation back all men in this realm honoured and loved. Well-a-day! alack-a-day! we have fallen on evil times. Yet there is still a God in the heavens above us, and our turn may come—yea, our turn may come!"

The fierce wild gesture that accompanied these words recalled to Cuthbert's mind the same sort of prediction and menace uttered by Catesby on the night of their journey together over Hammerton Heath. He felt at once a lively curiosity and a sense of awe and repulsion; but he made no remark, and Kay quickly recovered himself.

"It boots not to linger. We must to Catesby without delay. He must hear your news, young man, and must learn of you the fate of Father Urban. You will come with me to find him?"

"Very gladly, an you know where he is to be found."

A curious expression flitted across the man's face.

"Ay, that do I know well; nor is he far from here. We shall soon reach him in that wherry of yours. He is but across the river at Westminster, in the house of Thomas Percy, who has a lodging there in right of his office and stewardship to my Lord of Northumberland."

Kay glanced rather keenly into Cuthbert's face as he spoke these words, but they evoked no answering spark of intelligence, and again the mask fell, leaving the face expressionless and weary as before.

"I can take you across in my boat right well," answered Cuthbert; "and the sooner we start the better I shall be pleased, for I have a dark journey back tonight, and there be sentries on the watch along the banks who may perchance ask somewhat too curiously of my movements an I be detained late."

"Nay, then let us hurry," said Kay restlessly; "for Catesby will not be back for many hours, and we must needs find him. I will but tarry to get my cloak, and then we will to the boat."

He vanished as he spoke through an open door, and Cuthbert stood looking inquisitively about him. There were several deep recesses in this vault-like place, and in one of these were piled a large number of small barrels, the contents of which Cuthbert guessed to be wine or spirits. He was rather amused at the store thus got together, and thought that Master Kay and his companions knew how to enjoy themselves, even though they did lead lonely and troubled lives. His eyes were still fixed upon the barrels when Kay returned, and a smile hovered round the corners of his lips. The man seemed to note the glance, and looked sharply at him.

"Thou knowest the meaning of those?" he said suddenly; and Cuthbert smiled again as he answered readily:

"Ay, verily that do I."

That was all which then passed. Kay took up a lantern and led the way. Cuthbert followed, and soon the door was unbarred and barred again behind them, the wherry was pushed out into deep water, and Cuthbert's strong arms were soon propelling it across the river, Kay steering carefully, and with the air of a man well used to the transit.

He cautioned quietness as they neared the shore, but in the little creek where the boat was pushed up not a living thing was seen. Another boat somewhat larger in build was already in the creek, and there was a post to which craft could he made fast whilst the owners landed. Kay dexterously performed this office, and taking Cuthbert by the arm, bid him muffle his face in the collar of his cloak, and walk cautiously and with circumspection. They quickly reached the great block of buildings of which the Houses of Parliament formed the most conspicuous feature; and diving down a narrow entry, Kay paused suddenly before a low-browed door, and gave the peculiar knock Cuthbert had learned from the priest.

The door was quickly opened, and a rough head thrust forth.

"Who goes there?"

"It is I, good Bates—I and a gentleman—one of us—come on business that brooks no delay with Master Robert Catesby. Go summon thy master, good knave, without delay. It is needful this gentleman speak with him at once."

Kay had been leading Cuthbert along a passage with the familiarity of a friend of the house, whilst the serving man barred the door, and answered somewhat gruffly, as though disturbed by the interruption:

"Nay, if he is one of us, let him seek the master below. He is there, and hard at work, and will not be best pleased at being called away. I have but just come up myself. I am weary as a hunted hare and thirsty as a fish in a desert. Find my master thyself, Master Kay; I am no servant of thine."

Kay appeared in no way astonished at this rough answer. He went on before without any remark, and Cuthbert, not knowing what else to do, followed. Presently they reached the head of a long flight of stairs that seemed to descend into the very heart of the earth, and from below there arose strange hollow sounds—the sound of blows steadily struck upon some hard substance; it seemed as though they were struck upon the very rock itself.

Greatly amazed, and wondering not a little what it could mean, Cuthbert paused at the head of this long flight, and saw his companion prepare to descend; but just at that moment the sound of blows ceased. A cry and confusion of voices arose, as if the speakers were somewhere in the heart of the earth; and almost immediately there dashed up the stairs a man with stained garments, bloodshot eyes, and a white, scared face, crying out in fearful terror:

"The bell! the bell! the tolling bell! God and the Holy Saints protect us! It is our death knell—our death knell!"

Kay seized the man by the arm.

"What ails you, man? what is it?" he asked, quickly and sternly; but at that moment the pale face of Robert Catesby appeared, and he was followed by a tall bearded man of very soldierly bearing, who said, in calm, authoritative accents:

"I have here some holy water, blessed by the Pope himself. If we do but sprinkle the walls with that and bid the daring fiend cease, all will be well. It is no work of God; it is a work of the devil, striving to turn us aside from our laudable and righteous purpose. Prove me if it be not so. If yon booming bell sounds again after this holy water has been sprinkled, then will I own that it is God fighting against us; but if it cease after this has been sprinkled, then shall we know that heaven is on our side and only the powers of darkness against us."

"So be it," answered Catesby, quickly and decisively; "thou shalt make trial of it, good Guido. I trow we shall learn by that token that God is on our side."

All this Cuthbert saw and heard, as he stood in the shadow at the top of the stairs consumed by a burning curiosity. Something had occurred of such overwhelming interest as to obliterate even from Kay's mind for the moment the errand on which he had come, and his presence in the house at this moment awoke no question amongst the men assembled there, who were plainly otherwise engrossed. All vanished again down the stairs, and Cuthbert stole after them with cautious footfalls, too eager to discover what could be so moving them to consider what he was doing.

It was easy to track, by their voices and the light they carried, the men who had preceded him. The long flight of stairs terminated in a long stone passage, deadly cold; and this led in turn to a great cellar, at the far end of which a group of seven men was assembled. They appeared to be standing round the entrance to a small tunnel, and this tunnel they had plainly been making themselves; for a number of tools for boring and picking lay about, and the faces, hands, and clothes of the assembled party plainly indicated the nature of their toil, albeit from their speech and bearing it was plain that all were gentlemen.

Robert Catesby was sprinkling the walls of this tunnel with some water, using words of supplication and exorcism, and his companions stood bare headed around him. A great hush fell upon all as this ceremony ceased, and all seemed to listen intently.

"There is no sound; the devil hath taken flight. I knew how it would be!" spoke the tall dark man exultantly. "And now, comrades, to work again, for we have heard the last of our knell tonight. No powers of darkness can stand before the charm of His Holiness's power."

With an air of relief and alacrity the gentlemen seized their tools, and again the hollow or ringing sounds commenced to sound in that dim place; but Kay had plucked Robert Catesby by the sleeve, and was whispering some words in his ear.

Catesby turned quickly round, made a few strides towards the staircase, and then catching sight of Cuthbert, stopped short, and seized Kay by the arm.

"Fool!" he cried, in a low, hissing tone, "what possessed you to bring him here? We are undone!"

"Nay, but he knows; he is one of us."

"He is not; it is a lie! If he said so, he is a foul spy!"

And then striding up to Cuthbert with eyes that gleamed murderously, he looked into the youth's face, and suddenly the fury died out of his own.

"Why, it is Cuthbert Trevlyn! Good luck to you, good youth! I had feared I know not what. But thou art stanch and true; thou art a chip of the old block. If it had to be some one, better thee than any other. Boy, thou hast seen a sight tonight that must have awakened thy curiosity. Swear to secrecy—swear to reveal nothing—and I will tell thee all."

"Nay, tell me nothing," answered Cuthbert firmly; "I love not mysteries. I would fain forget all I have heard and seen. Let me tell thee of Father Urban—let me give thee his letters; but tell me naught in return. I will not know—I will not."

Cuthbert spoke with sudden vehemence. He and Catesby were mounting the stairs together. As they reached the dim vestibule above, Catesby took him by the arm and looked him searchingly in the face, as he said:

"Maybe thou art in the right. It may be better so. But thou must swear one thing ere thou goest hence, and that is—to reveal to no living soul what thou hast seen this night. Know, boy, that if thou wilt not swear this—"

But Cuthbert shook himself free, and looked proudly at his interlocutor.

"Nay, threaten me not, good Master Catesby, else I may be moved to defy thee and thy power. For the goodwill I bear thee, and for that I loathe and abhor those craven souls who will betray their fellow men to prison and death, I will give thee my word of honour to hold sacred all that I have seen and heard in this house this night. I know not what it means, nor do I desire to know. Be it for good or be it for ill, it is thy secret, not mine, and with me it is safe. But I will not be threatened nor coerced—no, not by any man. What I will not give for friendship and brotherly love, no man shall wrest from me through fear."

Catesby looked at the lad with his flashing eyes and proudly-held head, and a smile illuminated his features. Whether or not his companions would have been satisfied with this pledge, he himself was content, and with a kindly grip of the hand he said:

"Enough, boy, enough! I like thy spirit, and I ask thy pardon for dreaming of treating thee in any unworthy fashion. And now let us talk of Father Urban and what has befallen him; and give to me these papers of which thou hast been such a careful custodian."

An hour later, Cuthbert's wherry floated out into midstream once more, and swiftly sped along the dark water, propelled by a pair of strong young arms. Could any have seen the rower's face, it would have been seen to be grave and rather pale. The lights of the bridge beginning to gleam ahead of him as he looked over his shoulder, Cuthbert muttered to himself:

"This has been a strange night's work, and there be more in all than I can rightly understand. Pray Heaven I be not further entangled in such mysteries and secrets! Well did the wise woman bid me beware of underground cellars. Would I had never been into that ill place this night!"



Chapter 12: May Day In The Forest.

"Canst put up with my company, good Cuthbert? for I have a mind to travel with thee."

Cuthbert turned quickly as these words fell upon his ear, and found himself face to face with a gay-looking youth dressed all in forester's green, whom at first he took for a stranger, till the young man with a laugh removed his wide-brimmed hat, so that the evening light fell full upon his handsome boyish face; and Cuthbert exclaimed, with a start of surprise:

"Verily, it is Lord Culverhouse!"

"And thy very good cousin, Cuthbert Trevlyn," said the Viscount, as he linked his arm within that of his would-be comrade. "So let there be no more ceremony betwixt thee and me; for we are both bent upon a merry time in the forest, and we will fare forth thither together as brothers and friends."

"With all my heart," answered Cuthbert warmly; for he loved companionship, and greatly liked what he had seen of Kate's cousin and lover, the gay and handsome Lord Culverhouse. He had been once or twice recently to the great house in the Strand, generally rowing himself up to the garden steps, and sometimes taking the Viscount upon the river with him. In this way they had struck up a certain friendliness and intimacy; and Cuthbert had spoken to Lord Culverhouse of his proposed visit to the forest on May Day, although without explaining to him the real and chief object of that journey. Culverhouse had not at the time expressed any desire to accompany him, though he had asked a good many questions respecting the forest and the forest fetes held upon that day. Cuthbert had observed an unwonted animation in his eyes as he had done so; but nothing in the young nobleman's manner had prepared him for this freak on his part, and he had actually failed at the first moment to recognize this fanciful figure in its smart forester's dress when first saluted by the wearer. But he was glad enough of the meeting, and the proposition of travelling in company was very welcome, though he still had one qualm to set at rest.

"I only go on foot, my lord. Doubtless you have a horse in waiting, and will soon outride me."

"A horse! not I. I have neither beast nor man in waiting. I travel alone and on foot, and for the nonce am no more Lord Culverhouse, but only Rupert de Grey—thy trusty comrade Rupert—and a would-be follower of bold Robin Hood, did he but hold his court with his merry, merry men in the free forest now. See, I wear his livery. I feel as free as air. I marvel I never thought of such a masquerade before. We will have a right merry time this joyous springtide. How long dost thou purpose to remain in the greenwood thyself?"

"I know not," answered Cuthbert, as the pair strode southward together, quickly leaving behind the last houses of London, and striking away in the direction of the forest whither both were bound. It was the last day in April: the soft south wind was blowing in their faces, the trees were beginning to hang out their tassels of tender green, the hawthorn was bursting into bloom and filling the air with its fragrance. It was, in fact, the eve of one of those old-fashioned May Days which seem utterly to have gone by now, and all nature was rejoicing in the sweet exaltation of the happy springtide, full of the promises of the golden summer to come.

Cuthbert's heart swelled with delight as he looked about him and felt that the strife and bustle of the great city were at last shaken off. In spite of the spell exercised upon him by the life of London, he had for some weeks been pining like a caged bird for the freedom of the country again, the vault of the sky alone above him, the songs of the birds in his ears. The spring had brought to him yearnings and desires which he scarcely understood, and latterly he had been counting the days which must pass ere he should find himself in the forest once again.

In his uncle's house matters were growing a little strained. Martin Holt undoubtedly suspected something of the matter betwixt him and Cherry, and as plainly disapproved. He looked upon Cherry as promised to her cousin Jacob, and doubtless he thought the steady, plodding, slow-witted son of the house of Dyson a far safer husband for his feather-brained youngest than handsome Cuthbert Trevlyn, with his gentler birth, his quick and keen intelligence, and his versatile, inquiring mind, which was always inclining him to meddle in matters better left alone, and to judge for himself with an independence that was perilous in times like these. Not that Martin Holt was himself averse to independence of judgment, rather the reverse; but he knew the dangers besetting the path of those who were resolved to think and judge for themselves, and he would fain have seen his youngest and dearest child safely made over to the care of one who would be content to go through life without asking troublesome questions or intermeddling with matters of danger and difficulty, and would conform to all laws, civil and religious, without a qualm, recognizing the King's will as supreme in all matters, temporal and spiritual, without a doubt or a scruple. Cherry would be safe with Jacob, that was Martin's feeling, whilst with Cuthbert he could have no such security. Cuthbert had still his way to make in the world, and it had not yet appeared that he would be of any use in business matters. He was clever with his pen. He was a good scholar, and had been able to make himself useful to his uncle in a number of small matters where his quickness and sharp wits had room to work. He was also of no small use in the matter of the building and fitting up of the new sloop, in which he took such keen interest. He would go over every bit of the work, comparing it with what he saw in other vessels, and learning quickly to distinguish good workmanship from bad. He became so ready of resource and suggestion when any small difficulty occurred, that both Martin Holt and Abraham Dyson learned to think exceedingly well of his abilities, and employed him largely in matters where quickness of observation and apprehension was wanted. But for all that, and despite the fact that he had earned some considerable sum of money (as he reckoned it) during the winter and spring months, he had shown no great desire to settle himself down to any steady occupation or trade, and neither of the elder men saw any opening for him that should give him regular and permanent occupation.

"He has too much of the gay gallant about him for my taste," Abraham would say. "He is more Trevlyn than Holt; and some folks say more Wyvern than Trevlyn. Be that as it may, he is a gentleman to the fingertips; and one might as well try to tame an eagle as set him down to the round of work that comes natural to lads like Jacob."

And Martin Holt would nod assent, feeling that there was something about his sister's son that would never assimilate with the life of a merchant tradesman. He liked his nephew, and thought well of him in many ways; but he was not sorry to receive his request for leave to revisit his old haunts and his own kindred when the long spring days were upon the world; and he bid the lad please himself for the future, and return or not as he best liked. There was the gold to be given up to him when he should make formal claim for it. Martin had satisfied himself by now that he was worthy to be intrusted with it; but Cuthbert intended Petronella to have the bulk of that, so that she might wed Philip, if they were both inclined that way. As for himself, he was still bent on finding the lost treasure of Trevlyn, and he had vowed the whole of the long summer to the search, resolved that he would find it, be the perils and perplexities what they might.

So that although he saw by his uncle's manner that he was not especially anxious to see him back soon, and shrewdly guessed that this was in part on Cherry's account, he did not let the matter distress him. When good Jacob had had his turn, and had failed in winning Cherry's hand, and when he himself should return laden with the treasure which should enable him to place his little love in a nest in all ways worthy of her, surely then his uncle would give her up to him without opposition. This was how he spoke to Cherry, comforting her as the hour for his departure drew near, and vowing eternal constancy and unchanging love. He was beginning to feel that he was doing his cause more harm than good by lingering on, unable to declare himself, yet betraying himself, as he often felt, in a hundred little nameless ways. It would be better for all when the wrench was finally made; and neither he nor Cherry doubted for a moment that he would be successful in his search, and would come riding up at last to the house on the bridge, the gayest of gay gallants, to claim Cherry in the sight of all, lifting her upon his horse, and riding away with her in the fashion of the bold knights of old, whose deeds of prowess they both so greatly admired.

It was this brilliant prospect of glory to come which consoled Cherry and reconciled her to the parting of the present. Hard as it would be to live without Cuthbert, she would strive to do so in the thought that he would come again ere long and take her away for ever from the life which was becoming odious to her, she scarce knew why. So they had parted in hope as well as in sorrow, and Cuthbert felt all his elasticity of spirit returning to him as he strode along by his unexpected comrade's side.

"I know not how long I shall be absent from London," he said in answer to Culverhouse's question. "There be many things depending on that. I have set myself a task, and I know not how long a time it will take to accomplish. And you, my good lord, how goes it with you? Are you about to visit Trevlyn Chase, as you will be thus near, and see your kinsfolks there?"

"Call me not good lord, call me Rupert, as I have bidden thee before!" was the quick response, as a flush dyed for the moment the smooth fair cheek of the Viscount. "Cuthbert, since we are to travel together, I must needs tell thee my secret. I am not bound for Trevlyn Chase. My father has forbidden me for the nonce to visit there, not for any ill will he bears our kinsfolk, but—but that—"

"But that he fears the bright eyes of Mistress Kate, and hopes by keeping you apart to help thee to forget? Is it not so, Rupert?"

"Marry, thou hast well guessed. Or has it been no guess? Hast thou heard aught?"

"My cousin Kate herself told me somewhat of it," answered Cuthbert; "but she laughed to scorn the artifice. She is not made of the stuff that forgets."

"Heaven's blessing be upon her for a true-hearted maiden!" cried Culverhouse, with a lover's easily-stirred enthusiasm. "Cuthbert, since thou knowest so much, thou shalt know more. I have made shift to write to Kate about this purpose of mine to visit the forest glades on blithe May Day; and she has sent me a little missive, fresh and sweet and dainty like herself, to tell me that she will ride forth herself into the forest that day, and giving the slip to her sisters or servants, or any who may accompany her, will meet me without fail in a certain dell that doubtless I shall find from the directions she gives. There is a giant yew tree in the midst that would hide six men in its hollow trunk, and a laughing streamlet circles well-nigh round it. She tells me it has got the name of Oberon's Horseshoe."

"I know the place well," answered Cuthbert. "I can guide thee thither. So Mistress Kate will meet thee there! It is like her. She has a daring spirit. I would I could help her to her dowry."

"Her dowry! thou!" echoed Culverhouse in surprise; and then as they walked onwards through the dewy night, Cuthbert could not but tell a little of his purpose to the comrade who had intrusted him with his own secret; and Culverhouse listened with the greatest interest, albeit without quite the same sanguine hope of success that Cuthbert himself entertained. Still, he was of opinion that a patient search and inquiry instituted by an obscure lad like Cuthbert, used to rough ways and the life of the forest, would be more likely to succeed than one set on foot by any person better known. If the old tradition were true that the gipsies had hidden the gold again in spite, it was possible that after this lapse of time the old hatred would have died out, and that somebody might be willing to betray the precious secret for a sufficient reward. At any rate Cuthbert's idea of living in the forest and cultivating and studying these strange folk was amply worth a trial. If his quest succeeded, the whole Trevlyn family would be once more wealthy and prosperous; if not, no harm would have been done, and the youth would have enjoyed his free life and new experiences after the winter spent in the confinement of the great city.

The travellers walked on through the twilight and until long after moonrise. They had put a good twelve miles between them and London before they talked of halting. They had no intention of seeking shelter for the night in any wayside hostelry. A hollow tree would give them all the cover they needed, and both had brought with them such supply of provision as would render them independent of chance hospitality for twenty-four hours at least.

Cuthbert's quick eyes soon sought out the sort of resting place they desired—a great oak, into whose hollowed trunk the dead leaves had drifted, and were now piled up into a soft heap. Lying luxuriously upon this easy couch, the two travellers took such refreshment as each needed; and as Cuthbert saw in the distance before them the bold outlines of the high ground, part of which went by the name of Hammerton Heath, he recounted to his companion his adventure there the November previous, and by what means he had saved his purse from the hands of the robbers.

Culverhouse listened to the story, and when it was done he said:

"Take heed, good Cuthbert, that thou dost not meet with a worse mischance than the loss of thy purse. I would sooner have mine filched from me by freebooters than owe aught to Robert Catesby that could give him any claim upon me."

Cuthbert looked up quickly. Since that night when he had delivered the papers to Catesby, and had seen and heard so much that was mysterious, he had gradually let the strange incident slip from his memory. Nothing had occurred to recall it, or to render him in any wise uneasy. He had seen nothing of Catesby or his companions. Father Urban had said that they had all dispersed into the country. He himself shortly took leave of the Coles, and was taken off by a boat on a dark night to reach a vessel about to start for Spain. The whole incident seemed more like a dream than a reality now; and Cuthbert's vague sense of uneasiness had by this time died quite away.

"What dost thou mean?" he asked, as the Viscount's words fell on his ear.

"No more than this, that yon Catesby is a dangerous man. I know naught against him, save that he is a Papist of the type I like not—a plotting, designing, desperate type, that ofttimes injure themselves far more than they injure others, yet too often drag their friends and those who trust them to destruction with them—and all for some wild and foolish design which they have not the wits to carry through, and against which Heaven itself fights to its overthrow. Have no dealings with this same Catesby, good Cuthbert; thou wilt rue it an thou dost."

"I am not like to see him again," answered Cuthbert slowly. "He is gone I know not whither. If men look thus darkly upon him, doubtless he will not adventure himself in London again."

"I know not how that may be. My father hath heard disquieting rumours of late, and the name of Robert Catesby is mingled in all of them. However, he speaks little to me of matters of state. Men in high places are for ever hearing whispers and rumours, and it boots not to give over-much credence to every idle tale. Only, what thou spakest of this Catesby recalled the matter to my mind. He is a man to fear, to avoid. He has a way with him that wins men's hearts; yet it is but the fatal fascination of the glittering snake, that snares the fluttering bird to its destruction. So, at least, I have heard."