Jacob passed his large hand across his face, and looked at Cuthbert with an expression of perplexity.

"They are Papists," he said at last, in a slightly vague and inconclusive fashion.

Cuthbert laughed aloud.

"Why, that I know well; and I am not scared by the name, as some of your Puritan folk seem to be. Papists, after all, are fellow men—and fellow Christians too, if it comes to that. It was a Christian act of theirs to take to their home that hunted priest whom we rescued that foggy night, Jacob. Many would have made much ado ere they had opened their doors to one in such plight. Thou canst not deny that there was true Christian charity in that act."

"Nay, nay, I would not try to deny it," answered Jacob, in his calm, lethargic way, still regarding Cuthbert with a look of admiration and curiosity, somewhat as a savage regards a white man, scarce knowing from moment to moment what his acts will be. "Yet for all that I would warn thee to keep away from that house. Men whisper that there be strange doings there. I know not the truth of what is spoken. But we walk in slippery places; it were well to take heed to our steps."

Cuthbert returned Jacob's look with one equally tinged with curiosity.

"Nay now, speak more openly. What dost thou mean, good Jacob? What do men say anent these Coles?"

Jacob glanced round and instinctively lowered his voice.

"It is not of the Coles alone that they speak; it is of the whole faction of the Papists. I know not what is said or what is known in high places; but this I know, that there be strange whispers abroad."

Cuthbert's eyes lighted. A slight thrill ran through him. He recalled the words recently spoken to him by his whilom friends. But all he said was:

"Verily men are ever whispering. It was the same cry when I was here a year agone, and no great thing has happened; wherefore this new fear?"

Jacob shook his head. His answer was spoken in a slow, ponderous fashion.

"Men will speak and whisper; yet the world wags on as before, and men well-nigh cease to listen or heed. But mark my word, Cuthbert, there be no smoke where there is not fire; and these Papists, who are for ever plotting, plotting, plotting, will one day spring some strange thing upon the world. There be so many cries of 'Wolf!' that folks begin to smile and say the real wolf will never come. But that follows not. I like not this ever-restless secret scheming and gathering together in dark corners. It is not for their religion that I hate and distrust the Papists. I know little about matters of controversy. I meddle not in things too high for me. But I hate them for their subtlety, their deceitful ways, their lying, and their fraud. Thou knowest how they schemed and plotted the death of good Queen Bess; we citizens of London find it hard to forgive them that! We love not the son of this same Mary Stuart, whom of old the Papists strove to give us for our Queen; yet he is our lawful King, accepted by the nation as our sovereign; and failing him I know not whom we might choose to reign over us. Wherefore say I, Down with these schemers and plotters! If men wish their grievances redressed, let them work in the light and not in the dark. We Protestants know that it is Bible law that evil must never be done that good may come; but the Papists hold that they may do never so many crimes and evil deeds if they may but win some point of theirs at last. Thou dost not hold such false doctrine, I trow, Cuthbert? thou art a soul above such false seeming."

Cuthbert drew his brows together in a thoughtful reverie.

"I trow thou hast the right of it, Jacob," he answered. "I love not dark scheming, nor love I these endless plots. Yet in these days of oppression it must be hard for men to act openly. If they be driven to secret methods, the fault is less theirs than that of their rulers."

"There be faults on both sides, I doubt not," answered Jacob, with calm toleration. "But two evils make not one good; and the Puritans who suffer in like fashion do not plot to overthrow their rulers."

"How knowest thou that the Papists do?" asked Cuthbert quickly.

"It has always been their way," answered Jacob; "and though I know but little of the meaning of the sinister whispers I hear, we have but to look back to former days to see how it has ever been. Think of the two plots of this very reign, the 'Bye' and the 'Main'! What was their object but the subversion of the present rulers? What they have tried before they will try again; and we who live beside this great river, and mingle with those who come from beyond the seas, do see and hear many things that others would not know. There have been comings and goings of late that I have not liked. It may be that mine eyes have played me false, but methought one dark night I saw a figure strangely like Father Urban land at the wharf, and he was incontinently joined by Walter Cole, who took him hastily and secretly away."

Cuthbert started slightly, and Jacob continued:

"And yet when I whispered a question to Walter a few days later concerning the priest, of whose welfare I have asked from time to time since I had a hand in his rescue, he told me that he was still beyond the seas, and that it was not like he would ever set foot on English soil again."

Cuthbert was silent. But he presently asked a question.

"But who is this Father Urban? and why should his appearance mean aught, or disturb thee?"

"Father Urban is a Jesuit, and one of those they call seminary priests, and all such are held in detestation and suspicion above all other Papists. When men lay hands on them they show them scant mercy. It is a saying in this land that when treason and murder and wickedness is abroad, a seminary priest is sure to be the leading spirit. When those two last plots were hatching, this Father Urban was in the country. He has returned now, and many men are looking abroad with fear, wondering how soon the calm will be interrupted. I like it not; I like it not; and I caution thee to keep away from yon house, and to have no dealings with the Papists. They be treacherous friends as well as wily foes. It were best and safest for thee to keep away from all such. Thou art not one of them; why shouldest thou consort with them?"

"I do not consort with them," answered Cuthbert; "but I have none of thy hatred for the name, and these men have been kind and friendly to me. I owe much to the lessons Anthony Cole has taught me. I have no knowledge of their secrets, but I cannot see why I may not speak a friendly word with them; even my uncle does that."

"Ay, but he goes not to their house—and his name is not Trevlyn."

"But what of that? the Trevlyns are now a stanch family, in favour with the King and his counsellors."

"Ay, but the name is not forgotten in many quarters as belonging to a race of persecuting Papists. It takes long for old memories to die out. Thou hadst better take heed, Cuthbert. A whisper against thee would soon spread and take root. I prithee meddle not in such matters, lest some ill befall thee!"

Cuthbert thanked honest Jacob for his goodwill and for his warning, but he could not see that it was needed. He was but an obscure youth, of no note in the world. He had no dealings with any of those plots of which men were whispering, and he could not see how any act of his could raise suspicion of any sort against him. He was growing intensely curious about the seething fire beneath the outer crust of quietness and security. If some great plot were hatching, if some great upheaval were at hand, why might not he scent out something beforehand? Why might not he discover what was baffling the sagacity of others? He had no wish to be a spy or an informer; he had too much generous sympathy with the oppressed for that. But he was intensely curious about it all, and he felt as though his youth and obscurity would be his best protection if he chose to make some investigations on his own account.

The old eager thirst for knowledge was coming upon him. The old love of adventure, which had run him into many perils already, had not been quenched by his recent experiences. Success had crowned his labours in the forest; why should that success desert him now? And then the thought came to him that he might by chance discover something which might be of use to his own kinsmen. He knew that Sir Richard Trevlyn and his son Philip—Petronella's lover—were in London. Might it not be possible that they had better be elsewhere at such a time? Jacob's words about the Trevlyns might perchance be true. He had heard his uncle say the same before. If any possible peril should be menacing them, how gladly would he find it out and warn them in time! It began to appear to the youth in the light of a duty to pursue his investigation, and it was just such a task as best appealed to his ardent and fiery temperament.

But he scarce knew what the first step had better be; so he gave up the day following to seeking out Lord Culverhouse, and learning from him what was the feeling in high quarters.

Culverhouse greeted him warmly, and at once begged him to ride out with him into the pleasant regions where the parks now stand, which were then much larger, and only just taking any semblance of park, being more like fields with rides running across them. Each succeeding king did something for the improvement of this region, though the open ground became considerably diminished as stately buildings grew up around it.

"Cuthbert," said the Viscount, when they had left the busy streets and were practically alone and out of earshot of any chance passers by, "dost thou know that the matter of our secret wedding is now known?"

"I heard so from Mistress Kate, who has been sent away from home in disgrace, but is bearing her captivity cheerfully, with my sister for her companion."

Culverhouse was eager to hear everything Cuthbert could tell him, and was delighted that his lady love was happy in her honourable captivity. When he had asked every question he could think of, he went on with his own side of the story.

"There was a fine coil when Sir Richard brought the news, and I was rated more soundly than I have been since I was a little lad and lost my father's best falcon through letting it loose when the falconer was not by to whistle it back. There has been a mighty talking and arguing as to whether such wedlock as ours be lawful, and no man seems rightly to know. That we must be wed again in more orderly fashion all agree, if we are to live together as man and wife; but none will dare to say that we may break the pledge we gave each to the other that day. My father talked at first of moving some high court to set us free; but my mother shook her head and said that vows so solemnly spoken before God and in His name might never rightly be annulled by man. She was grieved and as angered as she knows how to be at our hot-headed rashness, and spoke to me words which hurt me more than my father's ratings. Yet she holds steadfastly to this—that we are betrothed too firmly to be parted; and what she holds she can generally make my father hold, for he thinks much of her piety and true discernment."

"So that thou art out of thy trouble for the nonce?"

Culverhouse laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"I say not that, for they tell us it will be many years ere we can hope to be wed again in due form; and waiting is weary work."

"And why should you wait?"

Culverhouse laughed again.

"That is soon answered. My father has always told me that I must wed a lady of wealth if I am to wed young. Our estates are encumbered. We have more state to keep up than we well know how to manage. We have had troubles and losses even as the Trevlyns have. I have known this well. I cannot complain of my father. Nevertheless I chose my Kate without any dowry before all the world beside, and I am prepared to abide by my choice. But we shall have to wait; we shall have to possess our souls in patience. They all tell us that; and I gainsay them not. I am young. I have friends in high places. I will win a name for myself, and a fortune too, ere my head be gray. Alas for the old days of chivalry, when men might ride forth to fame and glory, and win both that and wealth in a few short years! Those bright days are gone for ever. Still methinks I will conquer fate yet!"

Culverhouse looked as though fitted indeed for some career of chivalrous daring. He and Cuthbert would gladly have ridden forth together upon some knightly quest; but the days for such things had gone by, as both recognized with a sigh. Still there was brightness in Cuthbert's eyes as he said:

"Mistress Kate will spend her Christmas at the Cross Way House, and I trow that others of the Trevlyns will do the like. If thou wilt be one of the party there upon that day, I doubt not that there will be a welcome for thee; and perchance thou wilt find then that thy nuptials need not be so long postponed. A golden key may be found which will unlock many doors."

Culverhouse looked quickly and eagerly at his companion, but could ask no more even had he wished, as they were at that moment joined by two friends of his, young men about the Court, who at once began to talk of the approaching opening of Parliament and the grand show that would accompany the act.

The King's love for fine dress, fine pageants, and fine shows, of which he was the sun and centre (in his own opinion at least), was well known by this time. These young sprigs of the nobility amused themselves by making game freely of his Majesty behind his back, ridiculing his vanity, mimicking his ungainly action, especially upon horseback (though he considered himself a most finished and accomplished rider), and describing to Culverhouse the fine new robes he had ordered for the occasion, and which were to surpass in grandeur anything he had ever worn before.

"Folks talked of the vanity of our good Queen Bess, and called her mighty extravagant; but beshrew me if she were half as vain or extravagant as our noble King Jamie! It is a marvel he cannot see how ten-fold uglier he makes his ugly person by trapping himself out in all such frippery and gorgeous apparel."

So the young men chatted on in lightsome fashion, and Cuthbert, who listened to every word, could not gather that the smallest uneasiness had penetrated the minds of those who moved in these high places. Culverhouse talked with equal gaiety and security. Certainly he had no suspicion of coming ill. The mutterings of discontent the seething of the troubled waters, the undefined apprehensions of many of the classes of the people, were apparently unknown and unheeded here. All was sunshine and brightness in the region of palaces. But if these youths had entertained any secret misgivings, they would have discussed them freely together.

Culverhouse kept Cuthbert to dinner, and he was kindly received by the Earl's family. Lady Andover even remembered to ask after Cherry, and won Cuthbert's heart by so doing. She questioned him in private about the marriage in the church porch, of which he had been witness, and plainly all he told her only went to strengthen her conviction that the matter had gone too far to admit of any drawing back without some breach of faith that was akin to sacrilege.

After the meal, which seemed stately and long to Cuthbert, Culverhouse asked him would he like to see the Houses of Parliament, where the King would shortly meet his Lords and Commons. Cuthbert eagerly assented, and the two youths spent some time in wandering about the stately buildings, to which Culverhouse could obtain easy admittance; the Viscount explaining to his companion where the King sat and where his immediate counsellors, to all of which Cuthbert listened with marked attention.

There were several attendants and ushers within the building, and Culverhouse told him that orders had been given to keep strict watch over the building both by night and day.

"The King is not like our good Queen—Heaven rest her soul!" said the Viscount, laughing. "He does not trust his people. He is always in fear of some mischance either through accident or design. Well may the great Shakespeare have said: 'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!' Albeit the King would do better to have a little more courage."

This was the first word Cuthbert had heard of any uneasiness in high quarters, and he asked with some eagerness:

"Meanest thou that the King fears some evil to himself at this time?"

"No; I have heard naught of that. The country seems unwontedly quiet. It is the fear which never leaves him—the fear that makes him wear a doublet so thickly quilted that it would suffice to turn the sharpest blade, even as a suit of chain mail. He is always dreading assassination. That is why he wills such close watch to be kept, lest haply any evil-disposed person might find hiding within the walls and spring upon him unawares. Methinks it is an unkingly fear, but there it be, and he carries it ever with him. The Queen had none such—nor had she need; and as thou knowest, when once an assassin did approach her when she was alone in her garden, the glance of her eye kept him cowed and at bay till her gentlemen could hasten to her side. She was a Queen in very truth! I would we had more of her like!"

Culverhouse spoke out aloud, careless of being overheard, for he was but speaking the thoughts of the whole nation. Cuthbert echoed his wish with all sincerity; and still looking round and about him with keen interest, went through a certain mental calculation which caused him at last to ask:

"And what buildings lie around or beneath this?"

"I know not exactly how that may be. There is a house close beside this where methinks I have heard that Master Thomas Percy dwells, the steward to my Lord of Northumberland. I know not what lies beneath; it may be some sort of cellar.

"Dost thou know, fellow, whether there be cellars beneath this place?"

Culverhouse spoke to a man-at-arms who appeared to be on duty there, and who had for some moments been regarding Cuthbert with close scrutiny, and had now drawn slowly near them. Cuthbert was vaguely aware that the man's face was in some way familiar to him, but he had no recollection where he had seen him before.

"Master Thomas Percy has rented the cellar beneath, where his coals be stored," answered the man carelessly; and Cuthbert, who had asked the question rather haphazard and without exactly knowing why, moved away to examine a piece of fine carving close at hand.

Whilst he was doing this he knew that the man-at-arms asked Culverhouse a question, to which the latter gave ready reply, and he heard the name of Trevlyn pass his lips. At the moment he heeded this little, but the remembrance came back to him later.

As he passed out he noted that the man still continued to gaze after him, as though wishful to read his face by heart. He was standing beside a companion warder then, pointing out, as it seemed, the visitor to the other fellow. Was it only fancy, or did Cuthbert really hear the name of Father Urban pass in a whisper between them? Puzzled, and even a shade uneasy, he followed Culverhouse to the outer door, A flash of memory seemed then to recall to him the faces of these two men. Had he not seen them keeping watch at the wharf for Father Urban that day so long ago? He was almost certain it had been so. But what of that? How could they possibly connect him with the fugitive priest?

It would soon be dusk now, so the comrades said adieu to each other and went their several ways. Cuthbert had come as far as the Strand by boat, and had only to drop down and find it there; but somehow he felt more disposed to linger about these solemn old buildings, and try to piece together the things he had seen and heard.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, he wandered round the great pile till he came to the narrow entry he had once traversed, leading up from the river to the door of the house where he had seen Catesby and his companions at their mysterious toil. The house looked dark as night now. Not a single gleam penetrated the gloom. Already the last of the twilight had faded into night, but no ray of any kind shone from any of the casements.

Cuthbert stood looking thoughtfully up at the house, hardly knowing why he did so, his fancy running riot in his excited brain and conjuring up all manner of fantastic visions, when suddenly and silently the door opened. A gleam of light from behind showed in relief the figure of a tall man muffled in a cloak, a soft felt hat being drawn over the brow and effectually concealing the features; but one glance sufficed to convince Cuthbert that this cloaked and muffled individual was none other than the same tall dark man who had produced the holy water blessed by the Pope and had had it sprinkled around the spot where those mysterious men were at work in Percy's house. Filled with a burning curiosity that rendered him impervious to the thought of personal risk, Cuthbert first shrank into a dark recess, and then with hushed and noiseless footfall followed the tall figure in its walk.

The cloaked man walked quietly, but without any appearance of fear. He skirted round the great block of buildings of which the Houses of Parliament were composed, until he reached a door in the rear of that building, within a deep arch sunk a little way below the level of the ground, and this door he opened, but closed it after him, and locked it on the inside.

Unable to follow further, Cuthbert put his ear to the keyhole, and heard distinctly the sound of footsteps descending stone stairs till the sound changed to the unbarring of a lower door, and then all was silence.

Cuthbert looked keenly around him, and soon made out that these steps must certainly lead down to the cellar beneath the Parliament Houses of which he had recently heard. That other cellar he had visited so many months before was close at hand—close to these great buildings; and this tall dark man seemed to have some mysterious connection with both.

What could it all mean? what did it mean? Cuthbert felt as though he were on the eve of some strange discovery, but what that discovery could be he could not guess.

He was aroused from his reverie by the sound of approaching footfalls along the roadway, and he hastily stood upright and walked onwards to meet the advancing pedestrian. The man carried a light which he flashed in Cuthbert's face, and the youth saw that it was one of the men-at-arms on guard over these buildings.

"What are you doing here?" asked the man civilly, though in slightly peremptory fashion.

"I did not know that this road was anything but public," answered Cuthbert, with careless boldness. "I have walked in London streets before now, no man interfering with me."

"Have a care how and where you walk at night," returned the man, passing by without further comment. "There be many perils abroad in the streets—more than perchance you wot of."

Cuthbert thanked him for the hint, and went on his way. He would have liked well enough to linger till the tall man emerged again, but he saw that to do so would only excite suspicion.

Although it was quite dark by this time, it was not really late; for it was the last day of October save one, and masses of heavy cloud obscured the sky. Now and again a ray of moonlight glinted through these ragged masses, but for the rest it was profoundly dark in the narrow streets, and only a little lighter on the open river.

The tide was running in fast, with a strong cold easterly wind. Cuthbert saw that it would be hard work to row against it.

"Better wait for the ebb; it will not be long in coming now," he said to himself as he noted the height of the tide; and stepping into his boat, he pulled idly out into midstream, as being a safer place of waiting than the dark wharf, to find himself drifting up with the strong current, which he did not care to try to stem.

"Beware of the dark-flowing river!" spoke a voice within him; "beware of the black cellar!"

He started, for it almost seemed as though some one had spoken the words in his ear, and a little thrill of fear ran through him. But all was silent save for the wash of the current as it bore him rapidly onwards, and he knew that the voice was one in his own head.

Upwards and upwards he drifted; was it by his own will, or not? He did not himself know, he could not have said. He only knew that a spell seemed upon him, that an intense desire had seized him to look once again upon that lonely house beside the river bank. He had no wish to try to obtain entrance there. He felt that he was treading the dark mazes of some unhallowed plot. But this very suspicion only increased his burning curiosity; and surely there could no harm come of one look at that dark and lonely place.

No volition of his own was needed to carry him onwards; wind and tide did all that. He had merely to keep his place and steer his little bark up the wide river. He saw against the sky the great pile of Westminster. He had drifted almost across the river by that time. He was seated in the bow of the boat, just dipping an oar from time to time as it slipped along beneath the trees. And now the moon shone out for a few minutes clear and bright. It did not shine upon his own craft, gliding so stealthily beneath the bare trees that fringed the wall of the very house he had come to see; but it did gleam upon another wherry out in midstream, rowed by a strong man wrapped in a cloak, and directed straight for the same spot. Cuthbert started, and caught hold of a bough of a weeping willow, bringing his boat to a standstill in a place where the shadow was blackest. He had no wish to be found in this strange position. He would remain hidden until this other boat had landed at the steps. He would be hidden well where he was. He had better be perfectly silent, and so remain.

A sound of voices above his head warned him that he was not the only watcher, and for a moment he feared that, silent as had been his movements, his presence had been discovered. But some one spoke in anxious accents, and in that voice he recognized the clear and mellow tones of Robert Catesby. He was speaking in a low voice to some companion.

"If he comes not within a short while, I shall hold that all is lost. I fear me we did wrong to send him. That letter—that letter—that luckless letter! who can have been the writer?"

"Tresham, I fear me without doubt, albeit he denied it with such steadfast boldness. Would to heaven that fickle hound had never been admitted to our counsels! That was thy doing, Catesby."

"Ay, and terribly do I repent me of it, Winter. I upbraid myself as bitterly as any can upbraid me for the folly. But hark—listen! I hear the plash of oars. See, there is a boat! It is he—it is Fawkes! I know him by his height and his strong action. Heaven be praised! All cannot yet be lost! Move upwards yet a few paces, and we will speak to him here alone before we take him within doors to the others.

"Guido Fawkes! Good Guy, is that verily thou?"

"Verily and in truth, my masters. Has the time seemed long?"

"Terribly long. How foundest thou all?"

"All well—all as I left it weeks ago. There has been no soul within. Gunpowder, faggots, iron bars, and stones—all are as before; and above, the coal and faggots carefully concealing all. Why this anxiety and fear, Catesby? it was not wont to be so with thee."

"No; but I have something of terrible import to reveal to thee, good Guy. And first I must ask thy pardon for thus exposing thee to peril as this day I did. I sent thee on this mission of inspection; but I ought first to have told thee that we are in fear and trembling lest we have been betrayed!"

"Betrayed!" echoed Fawkes with a fierce oath, "and by whom?"

"That we know not. But some days since, my Lord Mounteagle received a mysterious warning bidding him absent himself from this meeting of Parliament, for that a blow should then be struck, no man seeing who dealt it. Wherefore we fear—"

"Mounteagle!" cried Fawkes, interrupting fiercely; "then the traitor is yon false hound Tresham!"

"So we all thought till we charged him with it, and had he blenched or shrunk our daggers should have been buried in his heart!" answered Winter in low, fierce accents; "but he swore he knew naught of it, and that with so bold a front and so open an air that for very doubt of his guilt we could not smite him. There may be other traitors in the camp. There was that lad thou, or thy fool of a servant, Catesby, once brought amongst us. I liked it not then. He should not have been let go without solemn oath taken on pain of death. Trevlyn, methinks, was the name. I hear he has been seen in London again of late. Why does he haunt us? what does he suspect?"

"Tush! thou art dreaming. Trevlyn! why, that is a good name, and the lad knows nothing, and is, moreover, stanch.

"Guido, thou hast not said that thou dost pardon us for sending thee on so perilous an errand this day."

"Thou needst not repent, Catesby. I should have adventured myself the same had I known all. I have sworn myself to this task, and I go not back to mine own country till all be accomplished."



Chapter 23: Peril For Trevlyn.

Cuthbert stood at the door of the narrow house in Budge Row, seeking speech of the wise woman.

It was a blustering night—the first night in November. The wind howled and shrieked round the corners of the streets; the rain pattered down and splashed the garments of the few pedestrians who had braved the storm. It was but seven of the clock, yet Budge Row was dark and quiet as though midnight had settled down upon the city. Scarce any gleams of light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, and only the sound of a distant watchman's cry broke the silence of the night.

Cuthbert had once before sought this house, but had knocked in vain for admittance. Either the wise woman was from home, or else she had no intention of receiving visitors. Since then his mind had been engrossed by other matters, and he had not thought again of Joanna's charge concerning Esther. But recent mysterious occurrences had made him desirous not only of telling her his own tale, but of seeking information from her; and here he stood in the wind and rain making request for admittance.

Softly and silently the door swung open at last, and he saw before him the dark passage he had traversed a year before with Cherry, the dim light from above just guiding his steps as he moved. The same juggleries were repeated as on that occasion. The outer door swung back and bolted itself behind him. The invisible light wavered and flickered and showed him his way. The black cat appeared ready to dispute his entrance into the room till he had dropped his coin into the box; and when he entered the dim place where the wise woman ensconced herself, he saw her as before, seated behind the lamp which shed its light upon him, but left her face in deep shadow. All was precisely as it had been upon a former occasion—all but his reception by the wise woman herself.

That, however, was altogether different; for the moment she saw who her visitor was, she rose suddenly from her chair and exclaimed in excited tones:

"Cuthbert Trevlyn, why hast thou not come hither sooner?"

"I did, but could not find thee."

She made an impatient exclamation.

"And thou wert content not to find me, and came not again and yet again! Foolish boy! Did not Joanna warn thee to seek me out and tell me all? I know well that she did. She is loyal and true. And so, boy, the lost treasure is found, and is safe beneath the roof of that house which shelters the honoured heads of the Wyverns?"

"Yes, it is all there."

The old woman flung up her arms with a gesture of triumph.

"I knew it: I knew it I knew that the prophecy would fulfil itself, for all Miriam's spite and Long Robin's greed. Boy, thou hast done well, thou hast done very well. But thou hast been more bold than secret. Thou art suspected. Miriam has been here. She is raging like a lioness robbed of her whelps. She loved yon fierce man who called himself Long Robin, yet was neither husband of hers, still less her son, with a love more wild and fierce than thou wilt ever understand. She vows that she will be revenged. She vows that the Trevlyns shall yet smart. She suspects not thee alone, but all who bear the name. Boy, boy, why didst thou not seek me earlier?"

Cuthbert made no response. He was looking in amaze at this old woman, who had now come forth from her nook behind the table, and was speaking to him without any assumption of prophetic power, but as one anxious human creature to another. He saw in her a strange likeness to old Miriam, and to the dark gipsy queen; but he marvelled at the excitement she evinced, and the eager intensity of her gaze. It was so different from her aspect when last he had seen her, so much more natural and full of human concern and anxiety.

"I have looked for thee day by day. I said in my heart, surely thou wouldst come quickly. And now, in lieu of seeking safety and counsel, thou hast been running blindly into those very perils of which I warned thee long ago. As if it were not enough to have Tyrrel and all his crew, with old Miriam at their back, resolved to hunt thee down and wrest the treasure from thee!"

Cuthbert started and looked intently at her.

"Miriam! Tyrrel! what can they know?"

"Miriam can piece together facts as well as I," answered Esther in rapid tones; "and thou oughtest by this to know what power that gives to those who possess the gift. In brief, I will tell thee what I myself have learned from her and others. She missed Long Robin, waited for his return till despair took the place of expectation. She knew that one of two things had happened—either that he had made off with the treasure, or that he had been done to death in the forest by some secret foe. Burning with fear and fury, she caused search to be made. The grave was found where the body lay. Rage filled the hearts of all the tribe, for the strange old man was venerated and feared, albeit he was not greatly beloved; and as thou knowest, amongst our people an injury done to one is avenged by all. Thou hadst been seen in the forest, seen moving to and fro in mysterious fashion. Many had wondered what thy business was, but none had interfered; for thou wast known to be under the protection of Joanna, and the word of the queen is sacred. But now that may serve no longer to protect thee. Miriam has declared aloud that Robin was the keeper of the long-lost treasure, that he was hoarding it up in some secret spot, ready to divide it amongst the whole tribe when the moment should have come. In fervid words she described the golden hoard—the hoard which I know well that evil man meant to make all his own when the time came that he might escape from the jealous watch kept upon him by Miriam. He was but waiting for her death, which may not be far distant, since she is subject to strange seizures of the heart which defy all our skill in curing. Then would he have fled, and taken all the treasure with him. He would have shared the spoil with none, as Miriam well knows. But she is using her power and her half knowledge of the secret for her own ends, and one of those ends is—"

The old woman paused, looking straight at Cuthbert, who regarded her fixedly, and now asked in a low voice:

"Is what?"

"The destruction of the house of Trevlyn, root and branch."

A gleam of angry defiance shone in his eyes.

"Still that mad hatred? But why should we fear her? Let her do her worst!"

Esther raised a warning hand.

"Peace, boy!" she said; "be not so full of recklessness and scorn. Miriam is an adversary not to be despised. Miriam is sworn to the task of vengeance upon thy house. She will not let this fresh deed of thine pass without striving might and main to fulfil that vengeance which thou hast now made void."

"Made void?"

"Ay, by the finding of the treasure. She is assured that this is what thou hast done. She has persuaded Tyrrel and his band of it, and all are resolved to find it for themselves. She is acting with the craftiness of her nature. She has persuaded them that all the Trevlyns are in the golden secret. Wherefore vengeance is not directed against thee alone, but against all who bear thy name—Sir Richard and his son, who are in this city now."

Cuthbert drew his brows together in a frown.

"They know naught of it," he said hastily.

"That may be; but they are Trevlyns, and that is enough for Miriam. It is not the gold she covets; it is vengeance upon all who bear that name. She stirs the avarice and cupidity of others, that they may do the work she wishes done. And she works in other dark ways, too. She has tools which few suspect, and she uses them for her own ends without scruple. And thou, foolish boy, blind and self willed as thou art, unheeding my warnings, hast played into her hands; and now others as well as thyself may be brought into sore peril through thine own foolhardy recklessness."

The old woman's eyes were gleaming brightly. They were fixed upon Cuthbert with keen intensity. He felt himself change colour beneath their glance, and he answered with some uneasiness:

"What hast thou to chide me with? Wherein have I been guilty of recklessness that may be hurtful to others?"

"Did I not charge thee to beware the dark-flowing river; to avoid the black cellar; to have no dealings with strange men; to have the courage to say nay to what was asked of thee? Hast. thou avoided these perils? No! thou hast been led on by thy reckless hardihood and insensate curiosity. Hast thou said no to what has been asked of thee! No! thou hast ever done the things required of thee, making excuse to forget warnings and disobey those who have counselled thee for thy good. And what has come of it? Verily, that the name of Trevlyn has been whispered amongst the names of traitors suspected of foul crimes, and that thine own kindred now stand in dire peril from thine own defiant hardihood."

Cuthbert started and made a step forward.

"Woman, what meanest thou?" he asked with breathless eagerness. "I understand not the meaning of thy words."

Esther continued to gaze at him with her bright keen eyes.

"Understandest thou not that there be on foot at this very moment a vile plot for the destruction at one blow of the King, the nobles, and the whole house of his Peers—a plot to blow them all into the air at the moment of their assembly upon the fifth day of this month?"

Cuthbert recoiled in horror. A sudden illumination came upon him. He put together chance words dropped, expressions used, things he had seen as well as what he had heard, and his face grew pale with conflicting emotions and his extreme bewilderment.

"What?" he gasped; "is that what it means? Is that the hideous deed to be done? Great Heavens protect us from such men, if it has come to that!

"How knowest thou this thing?" he added, turning almost fiercely upon the old woman, who was still regarding him steadily. "If it be as thou sayest, sure such a fearful secret would be held sacred from all."

Esther smiled her strange smile.

"Secrets known to many have a wondrous fashion of leaking out. And, moreover, the wise woman has means thou knowest naught of for learning the things concealed from the world. Cuthbert Trevlyn, look back, search thy memory, and thou wilt surely know that I have spoken naught but the truth. If thou art not one of them, thou knowest their dark secrets; thou canst not deny it!"

Again he recoiled from her.

"I know their secrets! I one of them! Woman, dost thou believe this vile thing of me?

"No, I believe it not. I know that thou hast but let thyself be led into dire peril through that foolish, generous weakness of youth and thy Trevlyn blood, against which I have warned thee—and warned thee in vain. But dost thou think thou canst despise the warnings of the wise woman and escape deadly peril? Cuthbert Trevlyn, listen to me and heed me well. This thing is known—is known in high places. The King and his counsellors have had intelligence thereof. The deed of darkness will be frustrated, and heads will fall beneath the axe of the executioner. Already whispers are going abroad—already the guilty ones are watched and spied upon; and with the guilty there are those suspected who know naught of this vile deed. Shall I say more, or can thine own quick wits supply the rest?"

Cuthbert had turned a little pale. His eyes were fixed upon this woman's face.

"Tell me all," he said hoarsely. "What dost thou mean by these dark sayings?"

"I mean," she answered, in clear low tones, "that there is peril for Trevlyn in this thing. Thine own rashness, Miriam's spite and quickness of wit to avail herself of every trifling matter that passes, the presence in London of Sir Richard and his son at this time, the old tradition surrounding the name of Trevlyn—all are helping on the work; all are pointing in one direction. Rash boy, thou hast been seen with Father Urban in the streets—a Jesuit, a seminary priest, a man suspected of many plots and many daring acts of courage and cunning. Thou art suspected to have been concerned in his escape one dark and foggy night, when thou wert on the river in thy wherry; and he must have been taken on board some such craft. Thou hast been seen with others who are suspected of being mixed up in this business. Thou hast appeared within the city walls when they appeared; when they were absent thou wast absent likewise. Thou wouldst not heed warnings when yet there was time; thou must now take double heed to thy steps—"

"Thou spokest of Sir Richard and his son but now," cried Cuthbert, interrupting hastily. "For myself, I must take the consequences of my rashness. The fault is mine, and if harm comes to me I can bear it; but if others have been imperilled through me, I should never forgive myself. Tell me plainly if this has been so; keep me not in suspense! How can one word be breathed against the loyalty of a man faithful and true as Sir Richard, and a stanch Protestant to boot?"

The old woman shook her head meaningly.

"A man's character and reputation and life may too easily be whispered away in these evil times. But listen to me, Cuthbert Trevlyn, and all may yet be well. Thou hast been noted, spied upon, observed. There be those who have seen thee in strange places and strange company, and it behoves thee to look well to thyself. But for thy kinsmen, methinks that no whisper regarding them has as yet reached high quarters. As thou sayest, Sir Richard's loyalty is known, and men will not easily believe such ill of him. Yet he were best to be gone. Miriam is at work. Miriam has tools that even I wot not of, and she hates the head of Trevlyn's house with a bitter and undying hatred. Let but this thing be known—as known it will be to all the world in a few more days—and she will leave no stone unturned to overwhelm him in the ruin that must then fall upon so many. Vengeance such as that would be dear to her heart. She would weave her web right skilfully to entrap his unsuspecting steps. Wherefore let him begone—let all who bear the name of Trevlyn begone, and that right speedily. Flight will not be thought flight now; for this thing is as yet a profound secret, and thou must not breathe a word that I have spoken to thee abroad, else thou mayest do harm of which thou little reckest. Let him go speedily; and go thou likewise, and do not tarry. If thou wouldst undo the harm thy rashness has well-nigh brought to thy kinsfolk, carry them this warning, and make them listen."

"That will I do right speedily," answered Cuthbert, whose heart was beating high with excitement and agitation. "Did harm befall them through deed of mine, I should never forgive myself."

"Go then," answered Esther; "go, and be thou cautious and wary. Remember thou hast many foes, and that the hour of peril darkens over this land. Strange things will be heard and seen ere many days have passed. Take heed that thou be far away from hence ere the day of reckoning comes. Take heed that Miriam's vow of vengeance be not accomplished, and that the house of Trevlyn be drawn into the vortex!"

Cuthbert descended the stairs with uncertain steps, his mind in a whirl of conflicting feelings. He believed that Esther was sincere in her desire for the welfare of the house of Trevlyn. He trusted her, and he saw that she had in some way or another become possessed of information concerning himself of a very particular and intimate kind. This being so, it was easy to believe that she had discovered other matters of hidden import; and he was quite disposed to give her credit for dealings in magic and charms which should show her the things that were to be.

The horror of the knowledge of this plot was upon him as he went forth into the streets and felt the keen air and the cold rain dashing in his face. He could not doubt the truth of Esther's words. All he had seen and heard tallied too well with it to leave in his mind any room for doubt. A plot of some sort he had always suspected—he would have been foolish indeed to have come to any other conclusion; but a plot of such malignity and such diabolical scope would never have presented itself to his mind. He found it hard to believe that such a terrible thing could be menaced against the King and the nobles of the land, many amongst whom must surely be of the same faith as those conspirators who were plotting in the dark.

And then the peril that menaced the Trevlyns—what of that? Cuthbert remembered the looks bent upon him a few days back by the men-at-arms in the Parliament House. He remembered the light of the sentry flashing in his face as he turned away from the door in at which the tall man they called Guido Fawkes had vanished but a few moments before. He knew that he had been observed more than once with some attention as he had stepped on board his wherry, or had brought it up to the mooring place. Could it be that he was really watched and suspected? It seemed like it, indeed. And what was more serious still, his kinsmen were like to fall under suspicion through his rash disregard of warnings.

For himself Cuthbert cared comparatively little—perhaps rather too little—for he possessed a strong dash of his father's stubbornness of disposition; and in him the Trevlyn courage was intermingled with a good deal of absolute rashness and hardihood; but the thought that Sir Richard and his family should suffer for his sake was intolerable. That must at all cost be prevented. Surely he could warn them and avert the danger.

As the youth walked rapidly westward through the miry streets, he was revolving the situation rapidly in his mind, and at last he reached a conclusion which he muttered aloud as he went.

"That will be the best: I will to mine uncle and Philip and tell them that. It will make them hasten away at once; but I will not go with them. If I am suspected I must not be seen with them, nor seem to have dealings with them. If they leave town and I remain, none will suspect that I have warned them and sent them forth. To fly with them would at once raise such thoughts. Here must I remain, and let myself be seen abroad, so will they the better escape Miriam's evil intent. Sir Richard has friends at Court. Lord Andover and others will speak for him if need be. I doubt me much, he being quietly gone, whether any will dare to strive to bring his name into disgrace. There be those to find who are the guilty ones. Sure they may let the innocent go free. As for me, I will not flee. I would fain see the end of this matter. And perchance I might even warn Master Robert Catesby of the peril that hangs over his head. Strange how so gentle and courteous a gentleman can sell himself to a work of such devilish wickedness!"

Divided betwixt horror of the deed and pity for the conspirators who had been practically discovered and frustrated in their evil work, and who had doubtless persuaded themselves and been persuaded by their ghostly advisers that it was an act of virtue and justice and right, Cuthbert walked on, wondering more and more at the strange vagaries of human conscience, and at the extraordinary self delusion possible to the sons of the Romish faction.

It was long since he had decided definitely and of resolute conviction to cast in his lot with those who held the Reformed faith; but had he ever had any secret doubts and leanings towards the faith in which he had been reared, the revelations of that night would have proved enough for him. He knew—none better—that this diabolic deed was planned and executed with the full consent, approbation, and blessing of the Romanist priests, and might even be known to the Pope himself. Sorrowful and indignant as Cuthbert had often been for the persecuted Romanists, and keenly as his sympathies would have been stirred had they risen in man-like fashion to claim liberty of conscience and fight boldly for the cause in which their hearts were bound up, he could regard a plot like this with nothing but loathing and horror. He wondered that men could be found willing to sell themselves to such iniquity. Yet he knew, from what he had himself seen, that these were no mere hirelings bought over with money to do this thing, but that they were gentlemen, most of them of noble birth and large means, all of them actuated by motives of devotion and religious enthusiasm; and that they did not prize their own lives or regard them as in any way precious, but would gladly offer them up so that this thing might be accomplished.

Well, it was a mystery, and one that he could not fathom. He could only feel thankful that no compulsion lay upon him to make known what he had seen and heard. His word had been pledged to Catesby and Father Urban, and how to have broken it he knew not. But there was no call for him even to think of this. It was not he who had discovered this strange plot. The knowledge of it was already with the King and his ministers. The conspirators themselves were half aware of this; Cuthbert well remembered the words of fear concerning some letter spoken in the lonely garden at Lambeth but a couple of days back.

How dared they, knowing so much, pursue their dark scheme? The youth shuddered as he marvelled at them. Did they believe themselves yet secure? What a fearful thing security such as that might become! Cuthbert longed to warn them, yet feared to intermeddle further in such a matter. And at least his first business lay in the warning he must instantly convey to Sir Richard, and that without revealing more of the truth than was absolutely necessary. Cuthbert was worldly wise enough to be well aware that the greatest protection his kinsmen could have against suspicion was absolute ignorance of the matter of which they stood suspected.

Sir Richard was absent when Cuthbert asked for him, but his son was at home, and the visitor was ushered into a room where Philip and Culverhouse were sitting together conversing by the glow of a bright fire of sea coal.

He was made very welcome by his cousin, and quickly plunged into the matter in hand.

"Philip," he said, "I have come to ask whether the business that has brought you to town is yet accomplished."

"Yes, verily," answered Philip, surprised. "We came to talk of Kate's rash marriage with Culverhouse there, and if it was such as might safely be ignored. My Lord and Lady of Andover, however, had adjudged that their son is too far pledged to draw back, and that for the sake of the lady's honour and happiness they must be held to be solemnly betrothed. Their punishment will be the long waiting ere they may truly wed; but Culverhouse means to tell all his tale in the ears of the Prince of Wales, and he holds that the kindly youth will doubtless give him some post about his royal person that may be a stepping stone to further wealth and advancement."

"My Lord Culverhouse need scarce do that," said Cuthbert, speaking in short, abrupt sentences. "Let me tell my news in a few words. The lost treasure of Trevlyn is found. It is hidden in the Cross Way House, where Mistress Kate and my sister Petronella are at this moment sheltering. It was thought the safest spot, for that the gipsies and the robbers of the road alike think kindly of the ladies of the Wyvern family, and hold their abode sacred—"

Cuthbert was at this moment arrested by a storm of questions and eager exclamations, which he had some small trouble in answering or setting aside. When he had so far satisfied his eager listeners as to be able to take up the thread of what he was saying, he went on in the same quick, abrupt fashion as before.

"I thought the treasure safe when I hid it there; but I have had a warning this night from one who knows well the temper of the gipsy folk. I hear that suspicion has been aroused in the tribe—that there is a resolve abroad to win it back. There is a man called Tyrrel, a notable highway robber, who has vowed to regain it for himself and his men. If this be so, I fear me that even the sanctuary of the Wyvern House will not suffice. In that house there are but women and a few old men—servants, little able to withstand a concerted attack. I have heard this news but tonight, and I have come straight on to tell thee, Philip. If your business in London be done, why shouldst not thou and thy father return forthwith home, and abide awhile at the Cross Way House, to see what fares there, and to protect the household should Tyrrel and his men attack? Methinks that they may stand in need of the presence of kinsmen at such a time as that. I hear that ill is meant by these fierce men to all who bear the name of Trevlyn. Two of the women within those doors bear that name; wherefore—"

But Cuthbert had no need to complete his sentence; both young men had started at once to their feet.

"Kate in peril!" cried Culverhouse, between his shut teeth; "then verily her husband must find his way to her side."

"Petronella at the Cross Way House, exposed to alarm and attack!" cried Philip; "then must I be there to shelter and protect her."

"We will forth this very night!" cried Culverhouse. "I will to the house and get ready my servants to accompany me."

"I will make all preparation here!" echoed Philip, "and only await my father's return.

"Cuthbert, thinkest thou that they are in peril this very night? Speak; tell us all!"

"I trow not," answered Cuthbert with some decision, knowing that his object was well accomplished and that the Trevlyns would make all speed to leave London, yet scarcely himself wishing them to hurry off in the night like fugitives in fear for themselves. "I am certain sure that no immediate peril hangs over them, or I should have been more urgently warned. I would not have you hasten thus. I trow it would more alarm the ladies to be aroused by you in the middle of the night than to see you come riding thither later in the day on the morrow. Surely it would be better to wait for day. The night is black and tempestuous; it will be hard to find the road. Tomorrow with the first of the sunlight you may well ride forth."

Culverhouse and Philip both saw the soundness and reasonableness of this counsel, and knew that their respective fathers would both concur in this opinion, though their own impatience chafed at the delay.

"And thou—what wilt thou do thyself, Cuthbert?" asked Philip; "come with us to Cross Way House?"

Cuthbert hesitated a few moments, debating within himself what were best. He had been warned on the one hand to flee the forest, on the other to flee the city. If his mysterious gipsy friends were right, for him there was peril in both places. But it certainly seemed to him that his own presence and company would add to the perils of his kinsmen; and his decision was speedily taken.

"I hope to join you there anon," he said; "but I have something set my heart upon seeing this grand pageant when his Majesty shall open his Parliament on the fifth. Methinks I will stay for that, and then perchance I will forth to the Cross Way House."

He looked keenly at both his companions as he spoke, but neither face wore the least look of any secret intelligence. He was certain that no whisper of the plot had reached their ears.

"Ay, do so, and come and tell us all," said Culverhouse gaily. "I had thought to be there myself, but I must to my Kate's side.

"Philip, thy father will be something loath to leave London ere that day. Thinkest thou that thou canst persuade him?"

"I trow I can," answered Philip; and then they both turned on Cuthbert, asking him for a more detailed account of his search after and his discovery of the lost treasure, hanging with eager interest on his words.

It was late ere he left their lodgings, and the family at the bridge house had retired to rest. He found his way to his room; but little sleep visited his eyes that night, and the fitful dreams which came to him betwixt waking and sleeping seemed charged with ominous warnings.

Sir Richard Trevlyn heard his son's story in great surprise, but he hesitated not a moment as to the course of action they must pursue.

"I would it had been brought to Trevlyn Chase. We have a household of men there, and could well defy these rogues of the road. But Cross Way House has no such defences, and it is tenanted mainly by helpless women, and we must lose no time in going to their assistance. I have heard long since of this man—Tyrrel. He is a notable outlaw, and there is a price upon his head. The forest will be well freed of him if we can overthrow him. He has owed his safety again and again to his reckless riding and the alliance and good fellowship he has with the forest gipsies. It is time the whole brood were smoked out from their hiding places. They want destroying, root and branch!"

Sir Richard found it easier to remember that the treasure had been stolen and hidden by the gipsy people than that it had been restored partly through the assistance of the woman Joanna, the queen. However, there was little time for further talk. The night was already advanced, and on the morrow they were to make as early a start as was practicable.

Sir Richard had not many servants of his own, but Culverhouse could bring a good dozen men with him. Unluckily the storm raged all through the earlier hours of the following day, and it was not till noon that a start could be made. However, the seventeen miles' ride could be easily made before dark, although the roads were deep in mud, and travelling in the open country was both tedious and bad.

The last of the scattered hamlets had been passed. The sun glowed red before them in an angry, lowering sky. Sir Richard and his son and Lord Culverhouse paused on the brow of the ridge to look both before and behind. They had in their impatience outridden their servants, who, less well mounted, found some difficulty in spurring along the deep mire of the ill-made roads. They could but just see them on the horizon of the last ridge, coming onwards at an even jog trot, which seemed the swiftest pace they aspired to.

Before lay the long waste of forest—trees and heather intermixed in long stretches alternating one with the other. A good seven miles lay between them and their destination, and the sun was already nearing the horizon, and would soon dip behind it.

"We must push on something faster," said Culverhouse impatiently, "if we are to reach Cross Way House before dark."

"We have already far outridden our men," said Sir Richard, frowning slightly as he turned his head to look over his shoulder; "and this is the worst part of the road before us."

"But we are well mounted and well armed," urged Culverhouse, "and if we wait for the men we shall lose the rest of the daylight. Surely if there be any footpads about, the fact that we are followed by so goodly a train will serve to scare them away. And we have no valuables upon our persons. They will get cold steel and hot lead for their pains, an they venture to molest us, instead of silver or gold."

"Very true," said Philip, who was as eager as his cousin and endued with full share of Trevlyn courage and impetuosity; "we can never wait till those sluggards have come up. The fault is not theirs: they are not so well mounted as ourselves. We shall never keep our horses to their pace, try we never so hard."

"Forward then, and let us ride as fast as our steeds can carry us!" said Sir Richard with a smile; "for if we wait not for our men, the daylight is our best friend. We are all familiar with the road, and our horses likewise. Forward! and all eyes keep a sharp lookout to left and right. At least we will not be set upon unawares."

Putting spurs to their horses very gladly, the younger men placed themselves one on each side of Sir Richard, and the good horses settled themselves to a steady hand gallop, which was the best and surest pace for getting over those rough muddy roads.

Three miles had been safely traversed. Absolute solitude and silence seemed to reign throughout the woodland tracks. But the darkest of the forest still lay ahead of them, and the red ball of the sun had just dipped behind the ridge in front.

"It will be dark beneath the trees," said Sir Richard; "have a care, lads, how you ride.

"Philip, thine eyes are better than mine. Dost thou see aught there to the right of the road, just beneath that great oak?"

Philip had seen already, and his answer was quickly spoken.

"They be horsemen," he said—"horsemen drawn up and, as it were, awaiting us. I fear me we shall not pass without molestation. But my counsel is not to pause, rather to gallop still on steadily, as though we saw them not. But let us be ready; and if they dare to molest us, let us with one accord discharge our pieces in their faces. That will disconcert them for a moment, and we may perchance outride them. We are but three miles and a half from Cross Way House. I trow we can make shift to reach its friendly shelter; and once there we shall be safe."

"It is useless to pause now," answered Sir Richard, who was always cool and self possessed in moments of real peril. "Our men are a mile behind, and to hesitate would be to lose all. A bold front is our greatest safeguard. We are all well skilled in the use of arms. Be watchful and vigilant, and make you sure that every shot and every stroke will tell. We have need of all our strength, if we are attacked. But they may let us pass unmolested; they may guess that our followers are behind."

Culverhouse said nothing, but he set his teeth hard and his eyes flashed ominously. He had never tasted real warfare before, and it seemed to fire the blood in his veins and send it tingling through his body. Each rider so shifted his carbine that it could be readily used at a moment's notice.

And now they had reached the forest aisle. Their good horses, still galloping freely and easily, bore them rapidly onwards. They had almost reached that silent, motionless band awaiting them with sinister quietude. In another moment they would have passed them, when, on a sudden, a voice rang out clear and sharp through the still air:

"Halt! stand! Stand, or we fire!"

"Ride on and fire!" said Sir Richard in calm tones; and the next moment the echoes were awakened by three sharp reports of firearms and by a yell—three yells—of human rage and pain. A roar of execration and menace arose from twenty throats, and twenty blades gleamed brightly in the gathering dusk. But already the riders had passed the little band, sweeping by before they were well aware of it. And as they did so, they heard a voice exclaim, sharpened by rage and pain:

"It is they—it is our foes! I knew it—I knew it! Those are the Trevlyn brood that we were warned would pass—the false sire and his son and nephew. After them, my men! Let them not escape your vengeance! Take them, or slay them, but let them not escape! They have the treasure. We will have them. The vengeance of the gipsy tribe shall be consummated! They shall not make it void. They shall give life for life—blood for blood!"

"They shall! they shall! They shall not escape us. We will be avenged, and the red gold shall be our reward!"

Sir Richard set his teeth as he heard these words, and dug his spurs into the sides of his horse, causing the noble animal, who seemed to share his master's knowledge of the deadly peril they were in, to spring forward with redoubled speed.

"We must save ourselves by flight; they are six to one!" he said in low tones to his companions, who kept pace for pace at his side. "It will be a race for life; and if we are beaten, all we can do is to sell our lives as dearly as may be. It is not robbery alone, it is vengeance, the old grudge against the Trevlyns. But if we can but make Cross Way House ere we are outridden, we may save ourselves yet."



Chapter 24: Kate's Courage.

Lady Humbert had left the Cross Way House for a three days' visit to a sick relative who had sent an urgent message to her. Mistress Dowsabel remained in charge of the house and its small establishment, lessened considerably by the removal of four of the men servants who had attended their mistress on her journey.

Mistress Dowsabel would gladly have accompanied her sister, for she was always nervous and ill at ease in her absence, but she was withheld by two considerations. In the first place, she was suffering from what was then termed a rheum, which we should call a bad cold in the head, so that the idea of a wet cold journey of some hours' duration was exceedingly unwelcome; in the second, it was not thought seemly by either sister that the young girls, their guests, should be left in the house without some guardian and protector; and Mistress Dowsabel therefore decided to put her fears on one side and remain in charge.

"And beside, what is there to fear?" Lady Humbert had said, in her decisive and cheery fashion. "We are quiet and peaceable folks, and have naught to dread either at home or abroad. I shall strive to be but three nights absent; and our merry Kate will uphold thy spirits, sister, till my return. Thou wilt be better by the fireside than journeying in the saddle this tempestuous weather."

This fact was self evident, and Mistress Dowsabel had no desire to leave the fireside.

"I must e'en do the best I can without thee, sister," she said. "I doubt not my fears be foolish. I will strive that the girls be not affected thereby."

"I trow it would be no easy matter to teach them to Kate," said Lady Humbert with a smile. "She has all the spirit of Wyvern and Trevlyn combined. She will be a stanch protector for thee, Dowsabel, if thou art troubled by strange noises in the wainscot, or by the barking of the dogs without."

"Thou thinkest me a sad coward, sister; and so perchance I am," said meek Mistress Dowsabel. "But if ever thou art absent from the house, I am beset by a thousand fears that assail me not at any other time. My heart is heavy as lead within me now."

But Lady Humbert could not delay her journey on that account. She said something equivalent to "Fiddle dee dee!" and hastened forward her preparations with her customary energy. Kate flitted about and chattered merrily to her, having won her way by that time to a very soft spot in the heart of her ancient kinswoman.

"I am glad to leave thee with thy aunt Dowsabel, child," said Lady Humbert before she left. "Ellen will read to her and see to her possets and her little fire-side comforts; but thou wilt assist her to overlook the household and servants, and cheer up her spirits and her courage if either should flag. She is strangely timid when I am not by. Thou must do what thou canst to keep away her fears."

"Fears!" echoed Kate, laughing; "why, wherefore should we fear?"

"There is small cause, but Dowsabel is by nature timorous, and she will lean on thee, child though thou art, when I am gone. There be certain charges I would lay upon thee. The men will be gone, all but old Thomas within doors and Joshua without; wherefore I will ask thee to go round the house thyself at dusk each eve, and see that all bolts and bars be securely drawn. That is Andrew's work, but he will be with me. Dyson and thou hadst better go together—or thou and Cherry. Thou wilt not be afraid of such a task?"

"Afraid? marry no! Cherry and I will do it gladly. She is a merry-hearted lassie, and I like her well. Is there aught else, my lady aunt?"

Lady Humbert, standing beside the fire and drawing on her riding gloves, looked into Kate's bright face with a thoughtful smile.

"If I could trust thy discretion as I trust thy courage and sense, my giddy-pated maiden, there is one more charge I would lay upon thee."

The light of laughter in Kate's eyes changed suddenly to something deeper and graver. She came one step nearer and laid her hand on Lady Humbert's arm.

"Try me," she said simply. "Methinks I am not so giddy as they deem me. I have thought, I have suffered, I have been forced to possess my soul in patience. Try and see if I may not be trusted in this thing."

Lady Humbert gazed a moment into the clear eyes, and then said:

"I will try thee, child. It is no such heavy charge I would lay upon thee, yet it is one that thy aunt Dowsabel would fear to undertake. She would fain close the doors of the Cross Way House against all strangers and wayfarers who come to them in the absence of the mistress; but that is not my wish. Dost thou know, child, the name the Cross Way House has ever held with those who fare through the forest tracks?"

"I have heard it spoken of as a place where none in need is ever turned away," answered Kate.

"Ay, and so it was in those good old days when Wyverns held open house here, and were beloved from far and near. Alas! those good old days are passed away; for our fortunes are fallen, and we have no longer the power to entertain in such bounteous fashion. And yet I have striven, as thou hast doubtless seen, that the poor, the aged, the sick, and the needy are never turned from these doors without bite or sup to cheer their hearts and send them rejoicing on their way. Strange persons come to the house from time to time; but all are admitted to such good cheer as is ours to offer, and never has my hospitality been abused. Fugitives from the robbers of the road have been admitted here; yet never has this lone house been attacked. Wounded robbers have sought shelter here, bleeding nigh to death, and their wounds have been dressed by these hands, and their lives saved through our ministrations. To the cry of poverty or distress the doors have ever opened, be the distressed one worthy or no. Never have we had cause to regret what we have done for evil men or good. Never has our hospitality been repaid by treachery or deceit."

"And now?" asked Kate as Lady Humbert paused.

"Now my timid sister would have the doors closed for the days that I am absent and the men with me. She says she fears for the treasure. She says there is more peril now than of old. She may be right; but I see not why the danger be greater, since none know the secret save those who are pledged to keep it, and it goes against me that the traditions of the house should be broken. Can I trust thee, Kate, to take my place in this? Wilt thou strive to still thy aunt's fears and keep watch over all who come and go, that our doors may still open to the poor, whilst no needless terrors be inflicted on the timid women who will be forced to keep guard alone?"

"I will gladly strive to do all I may," answered Kate, who had been Lady Humbert's companion now long enough to know much of her methods.

"It may well be that none will come," said Lady Humbert cheerfully, with a smile and a nod of approval. "These be ill days for travellers, and in the winter season few pass this way. But such as do seek shelter from the storm or from hunger or peril must not be turned away disappointed. Look to it, Kate. I trust that matter to thee. I shall ask thee for the account of thy stewardship on my return."

And then the mistress of the house gathered her train together and set forth, riding her steady old horse as fearlessly as though she had been fifty years younger, and nodding a brisk farewell all round as she turned out of the gate upon the highway so close at hand.

Mistress Dowsabel wept feebly for a short while, and seemed disposed to start and tremble at every sound. But Petronella got a book and settled herself to read to her, whilst she forgot her fears in the intricacies of her well-beloved tapestry work. As for Kate, she called to Cherry, and began to set about those household duties which the mistress of the house had given into her charge, so that the timid invalid might be spared all trouble and anxiety.

Cherry was a very happy girl in those days. Her position in that household was slightly anomalous, and at first it had been a little difficult to find the right niche for her. As the niece of Dyson, who had summoned her thither to act in the capacity of lady's maid, her place would by rights have been the servants' hall and kitchen; but then, as Kate had seen at once, it would scarce be right for Cuthbert Trevlyn's future wife to take so lowly a station as that of a serving wench.

Cuthbert was no longer the impecunious son of Nicholas Trevlyn, dependent upon his own wit and energy for the place he might hold in the world. He was the finder of that vast hoard of lost treasure, which had proved so far more valuable than the most sanguine hopes had pictured. By every rule of right and justice a large share of this treasure should come to him. He would be a man of wealth and station; and it had been openly announced by these sisters of the house of Wyvern that they intended to make him their heir. They had taken a great liking to him. They had no near kindred of their own. He was the grandson of one of the Wyverns, and a degree nearer them than the other Trevlyns, so they were quite resolved upon this step.

So when Kate, with the courage and frankness inherent in her nature, had told the old ladies of Cuthbert's betrothal, Petronella adding all she knew of the constancy of her brother's attachment to Martin Holt's daughter, Lady Humbert recognized in a moment that it would not do to treat the girl as a mere dependent. She must be admitted to some other position, and trained for that station in life to which her marriage would entitle her.

Lady Humbert had all the class exclusiveness of her race; but she was a large-hearted woman to boot, and had an uncommon share of common sense. She would have been glad had Cuthbert's choice fallen elsewhere; but as it had not done so, and as Cherry was as faithful to him as he to her, there was only one thing to be done, and that was to make the best of the matter, and strive to see the best side only. The girl must be admitted to the position of companion to Petronella and Kate. She must be taught the refinements of life in another station, and gradually fitted for the life that lay before her.

It had been a great relief to find the girl so pretty, so gentle in her ways, so eager to please, so naturally dainty and particular. Cherry had quick apprehension and ready adaptability of nature. She took to the new ways like a duck to the water. She had a sweet voice and a refined fashion of speaking. In a very short while she looked as much at home in the presence of the ladies as Petronella herself. Kate found indeed that the city-bred maiden was more advanced in many things than the recluse of the Gate House. She set herself busily to the task of drilling both her companions in the arts of dancing, deportment, the use of the globes, and of playing upon the harpsichord; and found in both apt and eager pupils. Both girls had much natural grace and a great desire to improve themselves. Petronella was by nature dreamy and studious, whilst Cherry was all life, brightness, and vivacity. She and Kate gradually drew together, and would spend hours rambling in the extensive gardens and shrubberies behind the house, or riding out, with Andrew in attendance, through some of the forest tracks.

Petronella, on the other hand, preferred remaining at home, reading to the elderly ladies, and being by them instructed in many matters of political and religious import. Her mind was rapidly enlarging. She was unconsciously fitting herself daily more and more to be Philip's wife; whilst their very differences seemed to draw the three girls more closely together, and they felt by this time like sisters as well as companions.

Lady Humbert's absence was a matter of some excitement to Kate and Cherry, upon whom many small duties now devolved.

The house certainly felt lonely with so many of its ordinary inhabitants absent. The great empty rooms were kept strictly locked. The gates in front of the house were likewise locked by day as well as night, and only the small door at the back was to be opened until the return of the mistress. So the timid Dowsabel had decreed; and she had directed that the keys of the outer doors should be brought to her; and by day they were laid in her sight upon the chimney ledge, whilst at night they were placed beneath her pillow. Kate made a wry face, but did not otherwise protest. Time was passing quietly by, and there seemed little probability that their tranquillity would be disturbed.

"I would fain wish for some small adventure in Lady Humbert's absence, just to show that she has not put her faith in us in vain!" said Kate, as the girls sought their couch on the second night of the mistress's absence. "There has not been so much as a beggar to the gate. These storms of wind and rain seem to keep all within doors."

"I fear me I am but a coward," answered Petronella, "for I am glad when night follows day and there be naught to alarm us. Perchance sitting with our aunt Dowsabel so much, I learn somewhat of her fears from her."

"A truce to fear!" cried Kate, as she unbound her hair and tossed the heavy mane out of her eyes and over her shoulders. "Would that we lived in days when women might do and dare somewhat for those they loved, or for their country! I should love to have to hold this house against a rabble of hooting foes!"

"So should not I," answered Petronella. "I love not strife and warfare; I am for quietude and peace," and she smiled into Kate's flushed face, whilst Cherry looked from one to the other, scarce knowing with which she sided.

She had something of Kate's daring, and dearly admired it in her; but she shared in part Petronella's shrinking from strife and danger, a shrinking that to Kate was inexplicable.

The night came and went in quietness and peace. The day passed without any event. Kate paced impatiently up and down the big hall as the sun went down in red and gold, sullen and lowering as it neared the horizon, but shining to the last. She had not been beyond the limits of the garden since Lady Humbert had gone. Now it seemed as if a restless fit had come upon her, and grasping Cherry by the arm, she cried:

"Let us go into the long gallery overhead and dance—dance—dance! My feet are fairly aching for some exercise. Come thou and dance with me."

Kate's word was almost always law to Cherry, though she thought it a dreary place to select just at this hour of approaching darkness. Still, there would be a little light glimmering in through that long row of windows, and with Kate who would be afraid?

The key was in the door. The polished boards of the long ballroom lay gleaming with ghostly shimmer in the fading light. The pictures on the walls seemed to stare at the two intruders with cold displeasure. Cherry shivered slightly as the chill struck her. It seemed to her as if these stately knights and dames themselves must surely come down from their frames at such an hour as this; and silently disport themselves in this long gallery. She was glad to feel Kate's arm about her as she commenced circling round and round in her light and airy fashion. As the warm blood began tingling in their veins the pace grew faster and faster, and Cherry's chilliness and fear alike left her. Up and down, round and round, flew the light girlish feet. The exercise was delightful to both after the inaction of two long days. Up and down, round and round, as though they would never tire; and as they danced the twilight changed to night, and only glimmering moonbeams fell within the row of windows, lighted the long gallery, and fell upon the flickering figures of the two girls.

But their eyes had grown used to the darkness, and they heeded it not. Cherry's thoughts had flown off to Cuthbert, Kate's to Culverhouse. The rapid exercise stimulated thought, and both hearts beat high with the glowing hope of youth. When at last they paused, laughing and breathless, at the upper end of the long room, their eyes were shining brightly, there was a vivid colour in their checks. They only wished to gather breath and then on again.

"It is hot—it is stifling!" cried Kate, as she threw back her tumbled hair. "I must have air—air! I will open this window; we can look out such a way from it. O Cherry, think—this big window looks straight out towards London! Ah, why are not our eyes strong enough to see our loved ones there!"

Cherry laughed and blushed in the darkness, and Kate's strong hand undid the bolt and latch and flung the great casement wide. The cool night air rushed in, and both girls, heated with exercise, were glad to rest their elbows on the stone mullion and lean out into the breezy night.

"It is delicious!" cried Kate; "it is the elixir of life!"

Then the girls were silent for a few moments, till they both started at the same sound.

"That was a gun!" cried Kate suddenly, leaning further out of the window. "Listen, Cherry! There again—another shot! That can only mean one thing!"

"What thing?" asked Cherry, growing suddenly pale with excitement and fear.

"Highwaymen attacking travellers!" answered her companion, standing straight up, but with her head still inclined in an attitude of keen attention. "Listen, Cherry, listen! Is it the beating of my heart, or is that sound the galloping of horses' hoofs upon the road? Hark! Yes, they grow louder they come this way! Down, Cherry! We must rush to the gates and have them open and take them in!

"Cherry, listen! Be calm, be quiet! Run thou to old Thomas and to Dyson and the rest; tell them what we have heard. I must for the keys. I must have them whether our aunt wills it or no. There be no place of refuge save this for miles around. Here must they find shelter from their foes. It is Lady Humbert's will; I must fulfil it."

All the while Kate spoke she was running swiftly along the boarded floor, with Cherry keeping pace at her side; and as she dashed down the staircase she paused for a moment and took from the place where they hung two matchlocks, which she knew were always kept loaded, and these she laid quietly down in the hall. Then she opened the parlour door, and walked boldly forward to the spot where the keys lay. Possessing herself of these, she said quietly:

"Be not affrighted, Aunt Dowsabel, but there be folks in trouble on the road. They are pursued by robbers, I fear. I am about to unlock the gates, that we may draw them into safe shelter here."

Petronella sprang to her feet, and Mistress Dowsabel uttered a sharp scream of terror.

"Kate, I forbid it—I forbid it!" she gasped. "The gates shall not be unlocked! Dost hear, child? They shall not be unlocked! We shall have the whole horde upon us, we poor unprotected women! Kate, come back, come back! The keys are mine; I am mistress here! It shall not be done! Girl, I will not be thus defied!"

But Kate was already half through the hall, where the terrified servants were mustering. She had seized up the matchlocks, and now thrust one of them into old Thomas's shaking hands.

"Take it!" she said, "and when I am gone lock and bolt the door behind me an your lady desires it. But I will not disobey my Lady Humbert, and she would have done as I do now. I go to the gate and I hold it open. I draw within its shelter the pursued, and I strive to close it against the pursuers. All within these walls will be safe.

"Thy place is here, Thomas, beside thy mistress. She will die with terror if thou leave her. I am strong enough to unbar the gates alone, and I have this weapon, which I know how to use.

"Hark! there be cries along the road. The pursuit draws nigh."

Kate flung open the great door and sprang out into the dusky darkness beyond, and Petronella and Cherry, casting one glance at each other, caught up a gleaming weapon from the wall, where many hung, and dashed out after her.

"Shut and lock the door behind us, an you fear for yourselves!" cried Kate, as she led the way down the short flight of steps.

"Girls!" she cried, turning her flushed and resolute face upon her companions, "we three will stand together for weal or woe this night. It may be that we shall save life. We can but lose our own, come what may. Are you ready to face the peril? for these gates must be unbarred."

"We are ready," answered both, as they stood beside her holding her weapon, whilst her strong young hands turned the ponderous key in the lock and slipped back the heavy bolts.

All this while the thundering thud of galloping horse hoofs was approaching nearer and nearer, mingling with the fierce vindictive shouts of the pursuers, that sent thrills of terror through the hearts of two of the girls, but made Kate set her teeth together, and braced her nerves and muscles till they felt as if turned to steel.

"Girls," she said, "listen! I open this gate—so, and stand here with my weapon. As the pursued make for this house, as they most surely will, I shout to them as they near it to fling themselves from their horses and rush in. If they understand, they will do so; but there may be delay. If the pursuers are close at hand, I shall fire at the foremost, and methinks I shall not miss. My hands will be thus occupied. It must be your task to swing to and shut the gate behind the pursued. If any assailant strive to follow, strike him down without mercy. Methinks a woman's arm can deal a hard blow! I trow mine could. But, above all, be it your task to guard the gate. Is it understood?"

"It is!" answered both girls in a breath.

They looked back at the house, so close behind them that it was hard to feel afraid. The door stood ajar, and faces peered out into the darkness; but Mistress Dowsabel's shrill voice was still heard within, and she was plainly hindering any of the servants from going forth to the assistance of the brave girls without, terrified almost out of her wits at what might occur.

The high wall hid the road from the three who stood beside the gate, but the gasping breath of the horses could now be heard, whilst the fierce cries of pursuit had changed to an ominous silence, as though not even a breath was to be wasted—every nerve being strained to the effort of the chase.

It was terrible to be able to see nothing. Petronella suddenly made a rush towards the wall, and finding foothold here and there in the chinks of the brick work, contrived to swing upwards her light frame till she could look over the top.

"There be three pursued," she cried to those below; "and methinks the hindermost is wounded, he sways so terribly in the saddle. The pursuers are close behind; it seems well nigh as if they must come up with them.

"Oh, well done, good horses; oh, well done!

"Kate, they be close at hand; they are making for the gate as a dove to its nest!"

Then Kate suddenly threw both doors wide and stood out in the dim moonlight.

"Fling yourselves from your horses, gentlemen, and come in!" she cried, in clear, penetrating tones. "There is shelter behind these walls. And the first man who dares to follow I shoot dead!"

Then as the foremost horseman obeyed her, flinging himself from the saddle, and staggering rather than walking within the gates, at either one of which stood one of the two girlish guardians, ready at a moment's notice to fling them together again, a quick sharp cry broke from Kate's lips, together with the one word:

"Father!"

The second horseman was now within the gates; the third was close behind. But there was a yell as of triumph, and suddenly Kate's eyes flashed fire. There was the sharp report of a gun. The girl flung the smoking weapon in the face of a second assailant, and dragged within the gate the prostrate form of the third traveller. Cherry and Petronella banged to the iron portals in the very faces of the foremost assailants, who had recoiled for a moment before Kate's blows, and drew the heavy bolts; whilst the shower of oaths and curses which arose from the rest of the band, who rode up at that moment, showed how fully they recognized their defeat.

Even the horses had escaped them; for the sagacious animals had recognized their locality, and had made for the yard door at the back, where Joshua had admitted them without delay, glad enough to do anything to assist the hardly-beset travellers in their hour of need.

The travellers had sunk down just within the gates, so breathless and exhausted that for the first few seconds they did not even know how and by whom their rescue had been effected. But the banging to of the gates, and the sullen murmurs of the highwaymen as they had drawn off, recognizing their defeat, showed those within that for the moment the peril was past. The doors were then thrown open; lights streamed forth into the darkness. Sir Richard Trevlyn rose to his feet, passing his hand across his brow, to find his son passionately embracing the dark-eyed Petronella, who clung to him, fairly sobbing in her excitement and wonder; whilst Kate knelt beside the prostrate figure of Culverhouse, who lay with closed eyes almost like one dead.

"Kate, my girl, is it to thee we owe our deliverance?"

"Father, is he dead—is he dead?"

The cry was so full of anguish that it went to the father's heart; and disregarding the shrill welcome and asseverations of Mistress Dowsabel, who had just recognized, to her immense relief, that they had admitted their own kinsmen to their doors, he bent over the Viscount, and lifted him in his arms.

"Dead! not a bit of it. Dead men do not ride as he did. But he was wounded in the arm, and has been losing blood fast, and doubtless fainted the moment the strain was over. See, we will lay him here on this settle beside the fire. Give him some wine, and bind up that arm, my girl. Thou wilt choose to wait upon him thyself, I trow. He will soon be able to thank thee for this timely rescue. I must hear more of thy tale when I have spoken with thine aunt."

All was confusion now in the house, but confusion of a pleasant and bustling kind. Joshua brought news that the highwaymen had retreated in disappointment and dudgeon, but, true to their principles, without any attempt at taking vengeance upon the Cross Way House. Sir Richard was striving to soothe the agitation of the timid Dowsabel, and hearing of the absence of the mistress of the house; whilst servants hurried to and fro, setting the table for supper, and vying with each other to provide comforts for the weary travellers, who had been through so much peril and hard riding.

Petronella sat beside Philip in a deep embrasure, and had eyes and ears for him alone. Kate and Cherry, under the direction of Dyson, bound up Lord Culverhouse's arm, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the colour come back into his face, and his closed eyes slowly open.

When they did this they dwelt for some moments upon Kate's face in a dreamy fashion, as though their owner thought himself still in some sort of a dream; but when she raised his head and put a cup to his lips, he seemed to awake with a start, and after thirstily draining the contents of the vessel, he caught her hand, exclaiming:

"Kate—my Kate!—is it truly thou?"

She gave a little cry of joy at hearing him speak in tones so like his own. He pressed the hand he held, whilst she knelt beside him and whispered softly in his ear: