"It is I, indeed, thy little wife. O Culverhouse—and I thought that thou hadst but come hither to die!"

There was a catch in her voice that told how great had been the strain of the past minutes—greater than he could know just then. She found it hard to keep back the tears as she knelt beside him, listening whilst he whispered to her of all that had been said about that sudden marriage of theirs, and how that none would dare to call him free of his plighted word.

"And so thou art in very truth my betrothed wife, sweet Kate," he said, "and none may part us now. It was as I said when I bid thee come and plight thy troth. It was a pledge too solemn to be broken. My father and mother say so, and so does thy father. We may not be able to wed just yet; but if what I hear be true, sure our day of waiting need not be so very long."

The colour had come back into her face now; her eyes were sparkling in their old fashion. She looked indeed the same "saucy Kate" that he had known and loved ever since his early boyhood.

There were steps behind them, and Sir Richard emerged from the room where he had been holding counsel with Mistress Dowsabel. He looked at the two beside the fireplace, and at that other pair in the window, both too much absorbed in each other to heed him; and with a smile upon his face he strode forward and laid his hand upon Kate's shoulder.

"And so, my headstrong daughter, it is to that strong will of thine, and the reckless courage I have sometimes chidden, that we owe our lives and our safety today?" he said.

Culverhouse looked up eagerly.

"What sayest thou, sir?" he asked, whilst Kate's face crimsoned over from brow to chin.

"Say, my lad? why, I say that but for this hardy wench of mine, who, instead of retreating behind the strong walls of the house, flung open with her own hands the iron gates to let us in, we should by this time have been in sorry plight enow, had we not all been dead men. It was she who opened those gates when all else feared to do so—she who (aided by her two companions, whom she inspired by her own courage) saved us from our foes. It was she who shot down the foremost enemies, who would else have had thy life, Culverhouse, and with her own hands dragged thee, all unconscious as thou wert, within these gates.

"Wherefore, as to thee, boy, I owe my life (for that thou didst receive in thine arm the charge that else would have dashed out my brains), and that to her we both owe this timely rescue, methinks that no wife nor daughter could do more, and that we must let bygones be bygones and wed you so soon as may be. I will give my fatherly blessing to you twain, for you are worthy of each other, and have proved it this night. And so soon as you can win the sanction of your good parents to your nuptials, Culverhouse, I will give my saucy Kate to you without a doubt or a fear."



Chapter 25: "On The Dark Flowing River."

"That is our man! Seize him, bind him, and bring him before the chief!"

Cuthbert heard these words spoken in a clear low tone not far away; but the fog wreaths were hanging upon the river, and he could not see the speakers. Instinctively he bent harder to his oar. The wherry shot at redoubled speed through the dull, gleaming water; but there were sounds astern of other plashing oars, the sound of voices low yet eager, and Cuthbert felt sure he heard the name of Trevlyn spoken in accents of subdued fierceness. He could hear by the sound of the oars in the rowlocks that there were many rowers in the pursuing boat. That they were in pursuit of him he could not doubt, and he set his teeth hard as he plied his oars, for he felt that the issue of this chase might mean life or death to him.

Esther's warning was ringing in his ears: "Beware the dark-flowing river—the lone house—the black cellar!"

How had he regarded that warning? He had not heeded it at all. He had let his curiosity and love of adventure conquer both prudence and caution; and now he was well aware that he was in some immediate and imminent peril.

He had been warned to fly from London, but he had not obeyed that warning. This had been partly out of generosity to his kinsmen, for it seemed to him that by his presence amongst them he might be increasing the peril in which they stood, and he had been told that that was in great part due to his own rashness and hardihood.

He had remained in London. This day was the very eve of that fifth of November on which the King's Parliament was to assemble in state. All the city was silent and tranquil. The vague sense of expectation and excitement that Cuthbert had observed amongst some of his acquaintances a few days back seemed now to have died down. Was it the hush that immediately precedes the breaking of the storm cloud; or had the fearful tale whispered to him by the wise woman been but the product of her weird fancy, and all his fears and terrors groundless?

This was the question which had been agitating Cuthbert during the past two days; and upon this dim, foggy afternoon he had taken his wherry and resolved to find out for himself the whole truth of the matter.

Cuthbert had not forgotten Robert Catesby, or the priest to whom he always felt he owed his life. If any plot were in hand at this juncture, both these men were most certainly concerned in it. And at the lone house at Lambeth he could surely get speech of Catesby, or learn where he was to be found; and it seemed to Cuthbert that he could not sleep another night until he had set at rest the doubts and fears crowding his mind.

Did he go with a view of warning Catesby that the plot was discovered—that the dark secret was out? He himself scarcely knew. He was not at all sure that he believed himself in the hideous magnitude of the contemplated deed as Esther had described it. Remembering as he did all he had heard and seen, he could not doubt that some secret plot was afoot, but he thought it highly probable that the scope and purpose of it had been misunderstood; and there was certainly this feeling in his mind, that a timely word of warning to those concerned might serve to avert a terrible doom from any who might lie already under suspicion.

He had not been able to gain speech with Father Urban; for although he was convinced the priest was in hiding within the house of the Coles, both father and son resolutely denied this, and it seemed of late as though they distrusted Cuthbert himself, and desired no more of his company.

Martin Holt and honest Jacob Dyson had warned him to be cautious in his dealings with any of the Romish persuasion, and Cuthbert had been content to take this advice. But this last afternoon before the great day so long anticipated might surely be put to some good purpose, and the thought that those men in that Lambeth house might be unwittingly remaining to be caught in a trap impelled Cuthbert to strive to have speech with Master Robert Catesby and put him on his guard, if he could not persuade him to abandon whatever rash scheme he had in his head.

Sympathy with the persecuted went some small way in blinding Cuthbert's eyes to the terrible nature of the purposed crime. Moreover, he thought it like enough that Esther had heard a grossly exaggerated account of what was determined. Still, what she had heard others might have heard, and nothing was too bad to find credit with those who planned and desired the ruin of all who held views different from their own.

These and similar thoughts had been occupying Cuthbert's mind as he bent to his oars and propelled his light wherry upstream towards the lonely house. The tide was running out, and rowing was hard work; but he was making progress steadily, and had no thought of any personal peril until the sound of voices through the fog broke upon his ear, and he realized that he himself was an object of pursuit.

Then the wise woman's warnings flashed across him with vivid distinctness. Had she not bidden him beware of just those perils which he seemed resolved to court? Why had he forgotten or disregarded her words? Had they not proved words of wisdom again and again? And now here was he on the dark-flowing river alone, unarmed save for the dagger in his belt, and far from all chance of help.

Just behind was a boat in hot pursuit, and there were many rowers in that boat, as the sounds told him. If he could hear their oars, they could hear his. And though the twilight was creeping on, the fog seemed to be lifting. Only the vapour wreaths hid him from the gaze of his foes. If these were to be dispersed his last chance was gone.

The river was absolutely lonely and deserted at this time of year and at this spot. Lower down, schooners and barges were moored. Near to the bridge he might have had some hope of being heard had he shouted aloud for aid; here there was no such hope. He was away on the Lambeth side: there were no houses and no boats of any kind. His only chance lay in reaching the shore, springing to land, and trusting to his fleetness to carry him into hiding. The lonely house could not be far away. Perchance within its walls he might find a hiding place, or gain admittance within its doors. At least that was the only chance he had; and inspired by this thought he drove his light wherry swiftly through the water, and felt the keel grate against the bank almost before he was prepared for it.

The pursuers were still coming on, but did not appear to be distressing themselves. Probably they felt so secure of their prey that they could afford to be moderately cautious in the midst of these fog wreaths that made river travelling somewhat perilous. Cuthbert shipped his oars and sprang lightly ashore, leaving the wherry to its fate. Then he raced like a hunted hare along the margin of the river, and before five minutes had passed he had scrambled up and leaped the wall of this lonely river-side house, and was crouching breathless and exhausted in a thick covert upon the farther side, straining his ears for sounds of pursuit.

These were not long in coming. He heard regular steps approaching the wall, and a voice said:

"Here are the tracks. He got over here. Follow, and find him now. He is in a trap!"

"Am I indeed in a trap?" thought Cuthbert, setting his teeth hard; "that remains to be proved!"

And gliding out from the covert with that noiseless movement he had learned during his residence in the forest, he raced like a veritable shadow in the direction of the house.

He had reached the building rising black and grim against the darkening sky; he had almost laid his hand upon the knocker, intending to make known his presence and his peril, and demand admittance and speech with Master Robert Catesby, when forth from the shadows of the porch stepped a tall dark figure, and he felt a shiver of dismay run through him as a loaded pistol was levelled at his head.

"It is the spy again—the spy I have sworn to sweep from our path. False Trevlyn, thine hour has come!"

A puff of smoke—a loud report. Cuthbert had flung up his hand to shield his face, for the barrel was aimed straight at his temple. He was conscious of a sudden stinging pain in his wrist. A momentary giddiness seized him, and he stumbled and fell. A sardonic laugh seemed to ring in his ears. He thought he heard the banging of a door and the drawing of heavy bolts. Probably the man who had fired was so certain of his aim that he did not even pause to see how the shot had told.

"Your tongue will not wag again before the morrow!"

Those words seemed to be ringing in Cuthbert's ears, and then for a moment all was blackness and darkness, with a sense of distress and suffocation and stabs of sudden pain.

When he awoke from what he first thought had been a nightmare dream, he was puzzled indeed to know where he was, and for a while believed that he was dreaming still, and that he should soon awake to find himself in his little attic chamber in the bridge house. But as his senses gradually cleared themselves he became aware that he was in no such safe or desirable spot. He was lying on some cloaks in the bow of a large boat, which was being rowed steadily and silently up stream by four stalwart men. The daylight was gone, but so too was the fog, and the moon was shining down and giving a sufficient light. In the stern of the boat sat two other men, whose faces Cuthbert could dimly see, though their hats were drawn down over their brows. These faces did not seem entirely unfamiliar, yet he could not remember where it was he had seen them before. His senses were cloudy and confused. He felt giddy and exhausted. He had no disposition to try to move; but he soon found that even had he been so disposed he could have accomplished little. His feet were bound together by a cord, and his right hand was bound up and utterly powerless. He remembered the shot levelled at him in the garden of the river-side house, and felt certain that his wrist was broken.

And who were these men who were carrying him away captive, and what was their motive? He imagined that they must surely be those fierce pursuers who had striven to capture him upon the river, and who had followed him into the garden where he had hoped to hide himself from their malice. Doubtless they had found him as he lay in a momentary faint, and had borne him back to their boat; though what was their motive in thus capturing him, and whither they were now transporting him, he could not imagine. His mind was still confused and weak. Esther's words of warning seemed to mingle with the gurgle of the water against the bows of the boat. His temples throbbed, there was burning pain in his wounded arm; but the night wind fanned his brow, and brought with it a certain sense of refreshment.

Hitherto there had been unbroken silence in the boat, and the rowers had steadily plied their oars without uttering a word; but now that they were out in mid river, without the smallest fear of pursuit, far away from sight or sound from the shore, they paused as by common consent, and one of them suddenly said:

"Now, comrades, we must settle which it is to be. Are we to take him to Miriam or to Tyrrel?"

Those words told Cuthbert who were his captors. He was in the hands of the gipsies or highwaymen—probably the prisoner of a mixed band who had joined together to effect his capture. As the discussion went on it became more evident that there were two parties and two factions, both anxious to possess his person, and he listened with bated breath and a beating heart to every word that passed.

"I say to Miriam," spoke up one swarthy fellow, with a backward look towards the prisoner in the bow. "Miriam is wild to have him. She is certain sure he has killed Long Robin. She would give her two eyes to have vengeance on some Trevlyn. Why not let her have the boy, to do with as she will?"

"Because all she cares for is to burn him alive, as her old mother was burnt by some Trevlyn long ago; and what good would that do to the rest of us? Long Robin was no such friend to us. If Miriam's story be true, he was a treacherous fox, and deserved the fate he got. If he it was who stole and hid the treasure, and kept the secret all these years, hoping to enjoy the fruits of it alone, why, he was a knave and a villain, say I; and that old hag is little better. What do we care for her vow of vengeance? what is it to us? Tyrrel, now, wants the prisoner for a purpose. This lad knows where the treasure is, and he must give up the secret to us. Once we know where he found it, and if moved where he has stowed it, we shall speedily be rich for the rest of our days. You all know that the forest is getting something too hot for us. Tyrrel has decreed that we must go elsewhere, where we are less known. It would be a thousand pities to go without this treasure, since it really lies beneath our hand. A curse upon Long Robin, say I, for keeping it hid all these years! It was a scurvy trick! and Miriam was privy to it. I will raise no hand to help her. She may die with her vow unfulfilled for all I care. Had she but acted fairly by us, then would we have given yon lad up to her tender mercies; but not now—not now!"

A murmur of assent ran through the whole party. The only one to demur was the first speaker.

"The old woman got her death blow when Robin's corpse was found. She will not last many weeks more, they say. I should well like to bring her a bit of happiness at the end; and her one cry is for vengeance upon the Trevlyn brood. She would well like to have yon prisoner brought bound to her, Why not lead him first to Tyrrel and then to Miriam?"

"When Tyrrel has him, he will decree what is done with him, not we," said another voice. "He has no love for Miriam and her insensate hate. Miriam and Long Robin have both played us false; and Tyrrel loves the dark-eyed Joanna, and she will not stoop to any deed of cruelty or tyranny. He will have a care how he treats the boy over whom her mantle has once been thrown. But the secret of the gold he must and will have. We will not let him go without that."

"To Tyrrel then!" cried several voices with one accord. "I trow he will have scant patience with any son of the house of Trevlyn, since he was so bested by those other Trevlyns but two short evenings back. He will be glad enow to have this lad brought before him, for he verily feared that the whole brood had found shelter within the gates of the Cross Way House."

Cuthbert listened eagerly to these last words, which told him that his kinsmen at least had escaped peril and had found a safe shelter where the treasure lay. Knowing that this was so, and that the treasure was under their safe keeping, even did these men throw aside the tradition of years and make a raid upon the home of the Wyverns, his mind became somewhat calmed, although his own fate was terribly uncertain, and he might have to pay the penalty of his rashness with his life.

The rowers bent to their oars once again when this knotty point had been settled. They rowed on steadily for a short time, and then out of the darkness came a sharp clear hail.

"Who goes there?"

"Friends. We have caught the quarry; we are bringing him to Tyrrel."

"Good. He has been waiting with impatience this two hours for news. His wound doth not make him the more patient."

"We bring him at least the best medicine.

"Easy, lads! Ship your oars. Catch hold of her prow, Toby. So here we are safe and sound, and there is the prisoner!"

Cuthbert had raised his head, and supporting himself on his left elbow was gazing about him from side to side. He was still in the middle of the river; but the boat was now alongside a big barge moored in midstream, and from this barge several lights were gleaming, whilst voices were answering and asking questions, and the name of Tyrrel passed continually from mouth to mouth.

Then the rowers in the bow came and lifted him bodily in their arms, taking care not to be needlessly rough with the broken arm that gave him considerable pain; and so soon as he was placed upon the barge, the rope that bound his feet was cut, somebody remarking that it was needless now to hobble him, since he was safely on board and beneath the eye of the whole crew.

"And where is Tyrrel?" asked several voices.

"Below in the cabin, and waiting impatiently for news. Go, and take the boy with you; the sight of him will be the best medicine for him."

Cuthbert was led along, dazed and bewildered, but calm from a sense of his own helplessness, and perhaps from bodily weakness, too. This weakness surprised him, for he did not know how much blood he had lost, and he could not account for the way in which the lights swam before his eyes and his steps reeled, as he was taken down a dark ladder-like staircase and into a low long room with a swinging lamp suspended from the ceiling. It felt close and airless after the coldness of the night, and everything swam in a mist before his eyes; but he heard a voice not altogether unfamiliar say in authoritative accents: "Let him sit down, and give him a stoup of wine;" and presently his vision cleared, and he found himself sitting at one side of a rude table opposite the highway chieftain Tyrrel, whose face he well remembered. They were surrounded by a ring of stalwart men, some of whose faces were vaguely familiar to him from having been seen at the old mill a year ago from now.

He noted that Tyrrel's face was pale, and that his head was bandaged. It was plain that he had received recent injuries, and apparently these did not smooth his temper. His face was dark and stern, and the eyes that looked straight at Cuthbert gleamed ominously beneath their heavy brows.

"Well, boy," he said at length, seeing Cuthbert's gaze fasten upon him with inquiry and recognition, "so we meet again."

Cuthbert answered nothing. He did not intend to speak a needless word. He had some inkling now of the motive for his capture, but he was not going to show his hand.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn," said Tyrrel, in brief, terse sentences, "I have not brought thee here to bandy words with thee; I will to the point at once. I will tell thee why thou art here. Thou art in deadly peril from without. There is a vile Popish plot but recently discovered. The perpetrators and conspirators will all be seized upon the morrow. Thou art held to be one of these. Thou wilt be seized amongst others. Innocent or guilty, it matters not. Thou wilt die the traitor's death—the hideous doom of those accused of high treason. Thou wilt be lucky if thou art not racked first to make thee confess what men hold (whether truly or falsely) that thou knowest. I have interposed to save thee from that fate. I have had thee pursued and brought hither to me. I can and I will save thee and hide thee till all pursuit is over. But thou must purchase my protection at a price."

Cuthbert listened as one in a dream. He knew that Tyrrel might be speaking truth. He knew that he had received warnings before telling him he was suspected and watched. He recalled many past moments when he had felt that he had placed himself in a false position and might have laid himself open to misconstruction. But he had never thought himself in actual peril from the arm of the law. Was Tyrrel speaking the truth now, or was he only striving to intimidate him for his own ends?

Fixing his dark eyes full upon the face of the man opposite, he asked:

"And what is that price?"

"The secret of the Trevlyn treasure," was the calm reply—"the secret thou didst learn from Long Robin ere thou didst lay him in his bloody grave, and which now thou holdest alone. Where is the treasure, boy? Speak, and all will be well. For bethink thee, if thou holdest thy peace I give thee up on the morrow to the myrmidons of the law, and the golden secret will perish with thee, none profiting thereby. Tell it but to me, and by that honour which I have ever held sacred, thou shalt be released and placed in a secure hiding place till all hue and cry be past. Speak, then, for thy silence can aid none—least of all thyself. Tell the whole story and guide us to the treasure, and all will be well."

Cuthbert sat silent and motionless, turning the matter rapidly over in his mind. What should he do? Would it be a lasting disgrace to yield to thoughts of personal peril, and reveal all he knew? That revelation would not place the treasure in Tyrrel's hands. He might fear to assail the Cross Way House; and now that house might be so well guarded that it could defy attack.

Should he risk it? Should he tell all? For a moment he was half disposed to do so; but another thought followed, and the words were checked ere they had reached his lips.

What if further business had taken away Sir Richard and his son from the lonely house? What if, in the tumult and alarm that the news of such a plot would spread through the kingdom, the household within those walls should be left unprotected by these kinsmen, who might have occasion to make their way to their own home to see how it fared with those left there?

He knew the fearless character of Lady Humbert. She would never keep Sir Richard from his wife at a time of anxiety and possible peril. They might already have left the Cross Way House for Trevlyn Chase (for Lady Humbert knew that the secret of the treasure lay with none but themselves, and would have no fears for that). And if in the dead of night the whole force of the gipsy folk and the highwaymen—or even these latter alone, if they could not get the gipsies to join with them—were to sweep down and attack that solitary house, what chance would its inmates have against them? None, absolutely none! The golden hoard would speedily be made away with; the treasure would be lost to Trevlyn for ever, and all the golden hopes and dreams that had been centred upon it would be dispersed to the winds.

Should he have it always on his mind that he had sold the secret from craven fear? Should he ever know peace of mind or self respect again?

Never! he would die first. And surely since he had no dealings in this plot, and was innocent of all thought of treason, no hurt could come to him even were he given up. Surely he could prove his innocence, though with his head so confused as it now was he scarce knew how he should be able to parry and answer the questions addressed to him. Perchance some knowledge of his peril would reach the ears of Lord Culverhouse, and he would come to his aid. At least he would not be coerced and threatened into betraying his secret. Tyrrel might do his worst; he would defy him.

He looked straight at the robber chief, who sat awaiting his reply with a cold smile of triumph on his face, and answered briefly:

"I shall tell you nothing."

A gleam of anger shone in the man's eyes.

"Have a care how thou answerest me. Remember that thy secret will perish with thee when thou goest to the traitor's death."

"It will not," answered Cuthbert coolly. "There be others of my kindred that know it. The treasure will be saved for Trevlyn, do what thou wilt with me."

"I shall do as I have said," answered Tyrrel, speaking very clearly and distinctly. "My plans are all well laid. If within two hours thou hast not altered thy mind, thou wilt be rowed ashore by my men, bound hand and foot. Thou wilt then be given in custody to some good friends of ours on shore, who lie not under suspicion as we do. By them thou wilt be guarded till morning breaks, and then all London will be ringing with the news of this foul plot, and men will be ready to tear limb from limb all those who are so much as suspected to have had dealings with the false traitors who have planned all. Then wilt thou, Cuthbert Trevlyn, whose name has already been whispered abroad as one having cognizance of this matter, be handed over to the tender mercies of the law. It will be told of thee how thou wast caught in the very garden of the house where these vile conspirators resort, and that thou didst fight like a fury to save thyself from capture. Thy dealings with Father Urban will be remembered against thee, and many another thing beside. A traitor's death will be thine end; and thou wilt wish in vain when those dark hours come upon thee thou hadst saved thyself when yet there was time. I give thee two hours to bethink thee of these things. If thou wilt speak plainly, tell us all thou knowest, and help to place the treasure in our hands, we will save thee from the fate that awaits thee on shore. If not, we will give thee over to it; and then no power on earth can save thee."

But Cuthbert's mind had already been made up, and he did not waver. He knew himself innocent of all complicity in the plot, and he clung to the hope that his innocence might be proved. In no case would he purchase his freedom by a loss of self respect, by a cowardly yielding up of that very treasure it had been the dream of his life to restore to the house of Trevlyn. Argument and menace were alike thrown away upon him; and two hours later, bound hand and foot, as Tyrrel had said, he was thrown roughly into the bottom of the wherry, and rowed downstream in dead silence, he knew not whither.



Chapter 26: Jacob's Devotion.

"If thou wouldst save thy friend from a terrible fate, come hither to me without delay."

Jacob stood gazing at this scrap of parchment as one in a dream, his slow wits only taking in by degrees the meaning of the mysterious words.

"Thy friend," he repeated slowly, "thy friend! What friend? I have many. Terrible fate! Saints preserve us, what means that? Can it be Cuthbert who is in peril—that rash Cuthbert, for ever diving into matters he had far, far better let alone, and burning his fingers for naught? Can it be of him it speaks? Belike it may. There have been ugly whispers abroad of late. Mine uncle told me only this day that some constables came to his door asking some trivial questions anent his household, and speaking of Cuthbert by name. It would be like his folly at such a moment to run his head into a noose.

"But he shall not be hurt if I can help it. Who is this wise woman who sends the message? Methinks I have heard Rachel speak of her ere now. Well, I can but go visit her and hear what she would have to say. I know the house in Budge Row; I took Rachel to the door once. For myself, I love not such hocus pocus; but if it be a matter of Cuthbert's safety, I will e'en go and listen to her tale. If she wants to filch money from me for foul purposes, she will find she has come to the wrong man. I will pay for nothing till I have got my money's worth."

It was already dark. Jacob had been partaking of one of Martin Holt's hospitable suppers. Cuthbert had been absent, and Mistress Susan had remarked with some acrimony that the young man was growing a deal too fine in his ways for them. He came and went just at pleasure; and she did not think it well to encourage him in his idleness and irregularities. Martin opined that he had been amusing himself by watching the preparations for the grand doings on the morrow. The King was in London, and would open his Parliament the next day. Little was being talked of but that event all over London that night.

And now, on reaching his home, Jacob found this brief missive awaiting him, and started forth again, wondering not a little whither it would lead him. The streets were almost empty. Budge Row was dark and silent as the grave. Yet as he looked up at the tall narrow house, a window from above was softly opened, and a low voice over his head spoke in soft, urgent accents:

"Hist! make no sound. Wait but a moment. I will open to you."

Jacob waited, and almost immediately the door was cautiously opened, and a head looked round, a pair of dark eyes peering up into his face.

"It is well, Jacob Dyson, thou hast come," said the same voice, in the lowest of low whispers. "But I may not speak with thee here. Thou must come with me elsewhere. Tyrrel's men are in this house, carousing in their cups. But they have ears like the wild things of the forest. I may not bring thee within the door. They think that I be gone to my chamber to sleep. They will seek me no more tonight. And before the morrow dawns our task must be accomplished."

"And what is that task?" asked Jacob breathlessly.

"To free Cuthbert Trevlyn from the bonds that hold him; to save him from the power of those who will, when the morning dawns; deliver him up to the emissaries of the law as one who has taken part in the vilest plot that has ever been conceived by heart of man!"

Jacob started, and faced his companion, who was hurrying him along the dark streets at a rapid pace.

"Plot, woman! what dost thou mean?" he cried, alarmed and distrustful, and yet impelled to let her lead him whither she would, dominated by the power of her strong will. "I must know more of this matter ere I go further. I have heard fell whispers ere now, but I know not what their truth be. I am a peaceable, law-abiding citizen. I mix myself not up in such doubtful matters. Speak plainly, and tell me what thou knowest, and what evil or harm threatens Cuthbert Trevlyn, or I vow I will go no further with thee. I will not be made a tool of; I will not walk in the dark."

He stopped short, and she did the same, still holding his arm in a close clutch. They had reached one of the many city churches; the big building loomed up before them dark and tall. The wise woman drew her companion within the shelter of the deep porch. Here they could speak at will; none could overhear them now.

"I will tell thee all in as few words as may be. Thou knowest me as the wise woman of Budge Row; but once I was the queen of the woodland, the queen of the gipsy tribes there, and I still hold some power over the children of the forest. They still bring me news of all that passes there. Cuthbert Trevlyn has found the lost treasure, and in finding it has killed one of the tribe. Hatred and greed have been alike stirred up. Many are bound together against him. If he cannot be snatched this night from the clutches into which he has let himself fall—oh, why would he not heed my warnings?—nothing can avail to save him.

"Listen, Jacob Dyson. Tyrrel, the notable highwayman, upon whose head a price has long been set, has this night taken Cuthbert Trevlyn prisoner, hoping to win from him the secret of the hidden treasure which now lies in his keeping. Cuthbert has refused to tell him aught; and now he purposes to strive to turn this to good account for himself by delivering him up to the officers of the law upon the morrow, as being concerned in a fearful plot that tomorrow will make the ears of all England tingle.

"Dost thou stare at that? hast thou indeed heard aught of it? There have been whispers abroad; but the matter hath been kept wondrous close. Cuthbert Trevlyn has by his hardihood, his curiosity, and his fidelity to friends, who are no true friends to him, placed himself in jeopardy. He ought to be in hiding now; for if upon the morrow the name of Trevlyn gets noised abroad, there will be scant mercy shown him by the judges of this land."

"Cuthbert a prisoner! Cuthbert delivered up to judgment!" cried Jacob, aghast. "What meanest thou, woman? What hath he done?"

"He bath done no evil; but he hath shown himself imprudent and reckless. He has been seen in company he ought to have fled; he has visited places against which he was warned. Tyrrel knows this. Tyrrel knows how to turn to his advantage everything of like nature. Tyrrel will give him up at the moment when hue and cry is being made for all concerned in this matter. He will give him up, and men will bear witness where and how he was seized, where and how he has been seen before this. Men's minds will be all aflame with rage and fear. The wildest tale will obtain credence, and there be nothing so wild in what they may truly say of Cuthbert Trevlyn. The Tower gates will close upon him, and they will only open to him when he is led forth to die. Have I not lived long enough to know that? If he he not saved tonight, nothing can avail to save him afterwards."

Jacob felt a strange thrill run through him at these words,

"And why dost thou tell me this, of all men, woman? What can I do to save him?"

He saw that she had raised her face as if to strive to scan the expression on his; but the darkness foiled her, neither could he see aught but the gleam of her dark eyes.

"I come to thee because time presses, and I know not where else to turn. Thou hast been his friend before; wilt thou play a friend's part now, even if it be fraught with peril?"

Jacob paused a few seconds before replying, and then said simply, "What can I do?"

"I will tell thee," answered Esther, speaking rapidly. "Cuthbert Trevlyn lies bound in a house not far away. Tomorrow, so soon as the news of the plot is noised abroad, and all is in commotion to discover the conspirators, he will be delivered up to those who are searching for these; and if thou knewest as much as I, thou wouldst know that nothing then can save him. But there be yet twelve hours before this can happen, and if he can be rescued within those twelve hours, and lodged with me in my house at Budge Row, I will undertake to hide him so well till all hue and cry be past and over that none shall find him; and before the glad Yuletide season has come to rejoice men's hearts, he shall be free to go where he will and show his face with the best of them."

This and much more did the eager gipsy pour into Jacob's astonished ears as he stood in the shadow of the deep porch. Every detail of the capture was made known to him, the whole plot laid bare, as she had heard it from the lips of the men who had borne Cuthbert ashore, and had then been so cunningly plied with heating liquor by the astute old woman that they had babbled freely of those very things that Tyrrel would fain have had held secret as the grave, at least for twenty-four hours longer.

Jacob listened, and as he listened his mind was strangely stirred. Here was his rival in deadly peril of his life; and if Cuthbert were once to be removed from his path, had not Cherry almost promised, in time, to be his wife? And had he not done all he knew to warn Cuthbert from just those friendships and associations which had ended by placing him in this terrible peril? Could anything more be looked for from him? What did this strange woman think that he could accomplish?

Cuthbert was truly his friend and comrade. He had proved it once by risking his life to aid and abet him. But now what could he do? And surely in these perilous times, when all men knew they must walk warily, it behoved him to take heed to his steps.

"And what can I do?" he asked, as the woman paused.

"Art thou willing to strive to save him at some peril to thyself?"

Jacob paused for a full minute. A host of tumultuous feelings rushed and surged through his brain. A thousand conflicting impulses swayed him as he revolved the situation with all the rapidity of quickened thought.

It was but a minute, yet it seemed like an hour to him before he placed his hand upon that of the eager woman and answered steadily:

"I am willing."

She clutched his hand and held it fast.

"My heart did not deceive me. I knew that thou wert a true man. Jacob Dyson, listen to my words, and take good heed to them, and I will strive so to work that no harm shall befall thee, albeit I may not deny that thou mayest stand in some jeopardy. Take and put on this long cloak that I carry beneath my arm; wrap it well about thee, and turn up its collar that it hide well thy face. Pull thy hat down over thy eyes—so. And now take this ring and put it upon thy finger. I have told thee where Cuthbert Trevlyn is lodged this night. Go to the house and ask speech of Master Dibbler. When thou seest him, show him that ring, and tell him that Esther, the wise woman, has sent thee with it, and that she desires him to let thee have a brief interview alone with his prisoner, who has something to say to thee for me of the utmost value to all. Show not thy face, show only the ring, and unless I be greatly deceived, he will take thee to the prisoner forthwith, and lock thee up together alone. The rest thou canst almost divine. Thou must lose no time, but cut the cords that bind him, wrap him in this cloak—ye are much of a height—and so muffled he may well pass out in the darkness unheeded. Thou must stay behind in the prison bound as he was bound. In the morning thou wilt be given over to the officers of the law; for I misdoubt me much that Dibbler will ever find out the trick that has been played upon him. He never saw Cuthbert Trevlyn before, and I trow he has scarce observed what manner of man he is. He will deliver thee up for one Cuthbert Trevlyn, taken in the act of fleeing to the house where the conspirators are known to lodge.

"But I trow that thy father's solid weight and Esther's acuteness can soon serve to set thee at liberty. It will be an easy task to show to all the world that thou art Jacob Dyson, a peaceable citizen, and that thou hast been wrongly apprehended in the place of another. Thou wilt be able to prove that at the hour men say they found thee in that dark garden thou wast in thy father's or thine uncle's house. Thy captors will be confused, enraged, bewildered, and will have to explain how they come to be striving to pass off Jacob Dyson as an evil doer. I trow well we can turn the tables upon them.

"Art thou willing to run some small peril for the sake of serving one who has called thee friend?"

And Jacob, with scarce a moment's pause, replied once again, "I am willing."

Next day, the morning of the fifth of November, 1605, dawned clear and still and bright. London was early astir; for was not the King to open his Parliament that day? and were not hundreds of loyal subjects going to line the streets to see the procession pass? If the King were not popular, the Prince of Wales, Prince Henry, was; and a sight was a sight to the simple folk of those days, even as it is still.

But before long a curious change passed over the face of the London streets. A breath—a whisper—a fleeting rumour. Men's faces grew suddenly pale and grave. Women uttered sharp exclamations of astonishment and fear. People pressed together into knots, asking quick questions and awaiting the answers in breathless expectancy; and presently the whispers became changed into open cries and shouts. A smothered roar as of execration and menace ran through the streets, being caught up and passed from mouth to mouth till it was surging along like a great billow on the wide Atlantic sea.

"A Popish plot!"

"Down with the Papists!"

"Blow up the whole of the Parliament Houses—King, Lords, and Commons!"

"Heard ye ever the like before?"

"Taken in the very act—with the barrels of gunpowder laid ready, and the slow match in his hand!"

"A curse upon all such vile traitors!"

"A curse upon the Papists!"

"England will never know peace till she has destroyed them root and branch!"

"Down with the whole brood of them—the vile scum of a vile race!"

These and many like cries were passing through the crowd in great, gusty shouts. Martin Holt, standing at the door of his shop, was just taking in the sense of what was passing, and anxiously ruminating upon the fact that Cuthbert had not been home all the night, when Abraham Dyson came hurrying up, his face pale with apprehension.

"Good Master Holt, hast thou heard the news?"

"That the Papists have tried to blow up the Parliament Houses? Can such a thing be true?"

"As true as daylight; there is no manner of doubt as to that. But I have another trouble than that, which has been happily averted. They tell me my boy has been arrested as one of the conspirators. I am about to hasten down and inquire into it.

"Martin, where is Cuthbert?"

"I have not seen him since yesterday noon. What of him? Has he—the foolish, hot-headed boy—gone and run himself into like trouble?"

"I know not—I know naught of him; only methought they might be together, being such friends and comrades."

"They were not together yesterday. Jacob supped here with us, and knew naught of Cuthbert then."

"Supped with you last night! that is good hearing, for men say he was seen at Lambeth then, where the conspirators have some house or hiding place. Come thou with me, good Martin, I prithee. I must take solid men to witness for my lad, and bring him safely home again. I warrant me he has had no dealings in yon foul plot! He hates the very name of Popery and scheming."

Martin Holt lost not a moment in following his friend, who was joined by several sober and wealthy merchants and citizens, all deeply indignant at the insult received by their friend in this false accusation of Jacob.

Abraham Dyson had been warned by a letter of the peril in which his son stood—a mysteriously-worded letter, but one that was evidently written by a friend. It advised that Dyson and his friends should proceed at once to Westminster and Whitehall, where the excitement would be at its height, and there they would find Jacob in custody, and would doubtless be able speedily to obtain his release, since he had been arrested under a misapprehension.

Whoever had written these words had plainly known the truth; for when the city men had almost fought their way through a howling and wildly excited mob, they found Jacob, bound and guarded, being just led before some of the King's counsellors under the name of Cuthbert Trevlyn.

"That man is not Cuthbert Trevlyn," shouted old Abraham, forgetting all but the fact that he saw his son in dire and deadly peril. "This is a quiet and peaceable Protestant citizen. Here am I with friends ready to testify the same. This is nothing but another vile Papist plot, conceived to strive to do to death good, peaceable citizens of contrary faith, while they escape the doom their traitorous villainy deserves!"

This astute form of vindication roused another clamour from the crowd. There was not the smallest difficulty in proving Jacob's identity, in establishing his innocence and obtaining his release. Those in authority saw at once that it was one of those innumerable cases of mistaken identity, and did not even care to waste time over a close inquiry into circumstances; whilst the bystanders were raving in indignant sympathy, perfectly convinced that it was all the work of the conspirators themselves, to try to throw their own guilt upon the innocent, and by no means sure that their own turn might not come next.

When Jacob was free, he turned to the King's counsellors and said:

"If it please you gentlemen to fall upon and make away with a notable band of outlaws and robbers, who have long made the terror of the southern roads, they be all beneath your very hand today—gathered together in an old barge not far above Lambeth, where they be waiting the issue of this day's work, knowing far more about it than peaceable and well-minded men should do. Tyrrel is the name of the leader, and he and the best part of his band will hold high revel there this night. They will fall an easy prey in your hands if it please you to send and take them."

The crowd shouted in delight. There was no love lost between the citizens of London and those freebooters who made all travel so perilous, and the name of Tyrrel was widely known and widely feared. The counsellors conferred together awhile and asked many questions of Jacob, and then they released him with courteous words of regret, intimating that if good came of this hunt after the outlaws he should not lose his reward.

His father lost no time in getting him safely home, and questioning him closely as to how he came to find himself in such a predicament; but all he answered was that he and Cuthbert had been about a good deal together, and that they had been mistaken for one another. As for Cuthbert, he was safe enough, but would remain in hiding for some few weeks. He was innocent of all complicity in the plot; but his carelessness had caused him to be suspected of some knowledge of it, and suspicion at a moment of popular frenzy was almost as fatal as actual guilt. When the real culprits had been discovered and had paid the penalty of their crime, smaller persons would be safe once more. Silence and obscurity were the safest shields for the present, and to no living soul did he reveal the secret of Cuthbert's hiding place.

London was soon ringing with the news of the death or capture of the plotters of the Gunpowder Treason, as it quickly began to be called; and those interested in the matter heard with satisfaction that Tyrrel and his band had been surprised, and all upon the barge had been either apprehended or slain. Tyrrel had died sword in hand, as became a man of his calling, and the few who had escaped to their old haunts had warned their comrades there, who had fled the south country forthwith, and were scattered no man knew whither.

Only to one person did Jacob presently tell the whole story of that strange night when he set out to rescue Cuthbert from dire peril, and that person was his cousin Keziah. The tale aroused her deepest interest, and from that moment Jacob became to her a hero as well as an idol. The honest youth had never been idolized before—never in his wildest moments had he hoped to rise to the level of a hero; and there was something so wonderful in finding himself so regarded that it began to have a softening and even an elevating effect upon him, and to draw forth an answering admiration and love.

The end of it was that before the Yuletide season had come, he went blushing to Martin Holt to ask for the hand of his second daughter Keziah in marriage instead of that of Cherry, whose heart had from the first been given elsewhere; and it was arranged that the marriage should take place almost at once, for Jacob pleaded he had waited long enough for his wife, and Keziah's only wish was to please her future lord and master.



Chapter 27: Yuletide At The Cross Way House.

Lady Humbert had got her own way—she generally did when her mind was set upon a thing—and a large and merry party was assembled beneath the hospitable roof of the Cross Way House to spend the festive Yuletide there together.

Sir Richard was not sorry just at this juncture to extend his visit to these kinswomen, whose known loyalty and adhesion to the Protestant cause had made the name of Wyvern respected and held in high repute even at the King's Court. It had been with equal satisfaction that he had married his eldest daughter Cecilia to Sir Robert Fortescue, and had allowed Lord Culverhouse openly to proclaim his betrothal with Kate.

For strange things had been happening in the world of London since the discovery of that abortive Gunpowder Treason; and, in the first panic, the name of Trevlyn had freely been whispered abroad. Sir Richard's friends had trembled for him, and had counselled him to keep perfectly quiet and let the evil whisper die a natural death if it would.

For two long weeks the family at the Chase lived upon tenterhooks. Every day they feared to hear the approach of some messenger with tidings of woe. There was terror in many hearts when a loud explosion in the middle of the night roused them all from their beds; but it was quickly seen that this explosion did not immediately concern them, and that it must have proceeded from the old Gate House, which was already wrapped in flames. The servants hurried down to assist, but were too late. It was only many hours later that the charred remains of what had once been two human beings were found amongst the smoking ruins. A whisper went abroad that a certain well-known seminary priest, by name Father Urban, had fled from London, and had taken refuge with Nicholas Trevlyn. It was surmised that the two must have been preparing themselves for a siege, and that their ammunition had unexpectedly ignited and caused the catastrophe.

To say that any one deplored the fate of the gloomy old man, who was supposed to be little better than a maniac, would be going altogether too far. Petronella shed a few tears, but they were tears rather of relief than of sorrow; while Sir Richard felt that he could breathe more freely when his contumacious kinsman had ceased to live at his door.

The whisper which had alarmed his friends died a natural death so soon as the real facts connected with the plot came to be known, and the number and names of the true conspirators discovered. Indeed, further inquiry appeared to elicit the fact that Cuthbert Trevlyn had been striving to unravel and expose the plot, and that he had been shot down by one of the genuine plotters as a spy and a foe. As he had not since been seen or heard of, considerable anxiety was felt in some quarters for his safety. Sir Richard was causing inquiries to be made in London. Cherry was beginning to go about looking pale and hollow eyed. Lady Humbert, who always cheerily avowed that everything would come right in time, was secretly not a little anxious, until a few days before the Yuletide season, when she was called out into her own back regions to interview a strange woman who was asking for her, and found herself face to face with Joanna, the gipsy queen.

For a moment she scarcely knew the woman again, for she had put off her distinctive dress, and was habited like a simple countrywoman. Her face, too, had lost its brilliant colouring, and her eyes were softer than of yore. She told the astonished Lady Humbert that her mother Miriam was lately dead, that the tribe over whom she ruled had been dispersed and scattered she knew not whither, and that she had no wish to gather about her the remnants of the gipsy folk, who had long been more disposed to consort with robbers and outlaws than to submit to her sway. She was weary of the old life, and desired something more tranquil. She asked if she could serve Lady Humbert in the capacity of dairy woman or laundress, and was promptly answered in the affirmative.

She then went on to whisper that first she must to London, and that she would bring back Cuthbert Trevlyn with her, and be with them again on the Christmas Eve. More than this she would not say; but Lady Humbert trusted her implicitly, and after that she went about the house with a bright face and brisk step, laughed at Cherry's wistful looks, and declared that she would wait no longer for the absentee, but on Christmas Eve would have up out of the strongroom all the treasure hidden there, and would hand it over to its lawful owners, the Trevlyns—Sir Richard, as head of the house, being the fittest person now to have charge of it.

There was a little murmur of remonstrance, Cuthbert's name being mentioned. Was it fair to do anything till he returned? But some persons began to fear he never would be seen again. All were deeply interested in the treasure; and Lady Humbert clinched the matter by declaring that her mind was made up, and that she would do as she had said.

What a wonderful sight it was as piece after piece of rich old plate, some gold, some silver, all richly chased and embossed, was brought by the servants and placed by Lady Humbert's direction upon the long tables in the old banqueting hall, now unused for half a century! Breathless and wondering, the Trevlyns stood by watching, Sir Richard exclaiming in delighted recognition of various family heirlooms he had often heard described, and which transcended even the fancies he had formed about them. And, besides the wonderful plate, there were jewels and gold in abundance, small coffers filled with golden coins and precious stones, sufficient for a king's ransom.

Kate stood clinging to Culverhouse's arm, her eyes as bright as stars. It was to her the realization of a wonderful dream; and as she gazed and gazed upon the sparkling hoard, which she knew would smooth her own path in life and that of the lover of her choice, she glanced up at him with kindling glances to say:

"Nay, but what a splendid treasure! I never dreamed of aught like this! But oh, it seems to spoil it all not to have Cuthbert! It was he who found it, when nearly all the rest of the world derided the hope of such a thing. Oh, why is he not here to be with us today?"

"Why not, indeed?"

A door at the far end of the room was thrown suddenly open. Lady Humbert, who had withdrawn herself for a few moments, came forward smiling and beaming, and behind her—who?

Petronella, who was standing at Philip's side, not far away, uttered a quick, sharp cry of rapture, and flung herself into Cuthbert's arms.

"Cuthbert!" cried Kate, with a forward bound; and the next minute Cuthbert was surrounded by a crowd of eager questioners, and so belaboured with greetings, inquiries, and congratulations that he himself could not get in a word, but stood looking smilingly from one to another till his eyes met the eager, wistful glance of a pair of limpid blue ones, and with a quick cry of "Cherry!" he shook off the detaining clasp of all other hands, and went straight across to the spot where she stood blushing, quivering, and hardly able to believe the evidences of her senses.

All made way for him smilingly, for the secret of his love was an open one now, and Cherry had endeared herself to all the family by her gentleness and pretty, clinging ways.

"Sweetheart," he said, "I come to claim thee at last, and to claim thee with thy good father's ready consent and promised blessing. Cherry, it is to Jacob's devotion and generosity that we owe this happiness, for he it was who saved my life, and might well have risked his own to do so. But he thought not of that; he only thought how he might serve me, and redeem a promise he had made to thee. And now he has his reward. He was wedded to thy sister a short week back, being unwilling to wait longer. And he bids me give thee a brother's love and greeting, hoping that thou wilt find a place for a brother in thine heart, and wilt give to him a sister's love."

"Oh, that indeed I will! Good Jacob! kind Jacob!" cried Cherry, who, bewildered by this rush of happiness, scarce knew what she said or did; but it was enough that she had Cuthbert back again safe and sound.

To her the voices questioning and exclaiming and eagerly displaying to her lover the treasure he had never been able to examine and had never seen massed together, sounded like the murmur of troubled waters. She stood with Cuthbert's hand in hers, gazing at him as one in a dream, and it was only when Lady Humbert took her hand and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek that she seemed suddenly to awake from her trance.

"There, little one! I trow thou dost not half know what is in store for thee! We shall lose our merry Kate, who must be transformed into the Viscountess Culverhouse, instead of going home chastened and repentant for her mad folly, as was once hoped, after her imprisonment here. And as for our quiet Petronella, she too is to find a home of her own with Master Philip, whose share of this golden treasure will give him all he needs. But as for thee, little one, Cross Way House will still be thy home; for Cuthbert will be content to abide here with us so long as we live, and reign here with thee after we are gone.

"So thou wilt still be beneath the stern rule of an aunt, little one. How wilt thou like that? But thou wilt have a husband to protect thee, so that thou needest not fear too greatly.

"Say, pretty child, art thou content with Cross Way House for a home; or dost thou wish to seek for another?"

Cherry's answer was to put her arms timidly but lovingly about Lady Humbert's neck, as she answered, with a little sob of pure happiness:

"With Cuthbert I should be happy anywhere, and I love Cross Way House dearly. If you will have me, I will gladly stay and strive to be a daughter to you and Mistress Dowsabel. It is all like some wonderful, beautiful dream. I never thought the lost treasure of Trevlyn could bring such happiness with it!"

THE END.