Some of the gentlemen about the throne smiled, for James loved a jest; but Effingston turned away and pressed his father's hand.

"Come!" cried the King, impatiently; "wilt not find thy tongue? 'tis not my custom to speak a second time. What didst thou in the cellar?"

Fawkes raised his eyes and the King saw in them a look of such utter hopelessness that some chord of pity in his heart was touched.

"My good Lord Cecil," said he, turning to Salisbury, "methinks terror, or something worse, hath driven away his wits; we but waste words upon him. See to it, pray, that he be closely guarded, for certain questions must be put to him. The Warden of the Tower hath a way to loosen stubborn tongues."

So saying, he arose with much dignity and left the hall, followed by many of his gentlemen. Fawkes they took out by another way--the road which led to the Tower. He gave no sign, but let his gaze dwell in one last farewell upon the body of his daughter. Then his eyes met those of Effingston, and in the other's look he read that the dead would rest in peace and honor.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BANQUET.

On the evening of that memorable Fifth of November, there were gathered in a s.p.a.cious residence at Ashbery, Saint Ledger, a small company evidently bent upon pleasure.

During the day they had pa.s.sed their time in the many ways gentlemen were wont to choose when seeking forgetfulness of the din and distractions incident to a great city. But it was not difficult to discern that the hearts of the men were far from interested in the various sports undertaken by them.

The hours from morning until dark had been spent in a variety of ways, but none evinced any enjoyment in their pastime. A few had beguiled a small part of the day in hunting, but they failed to find even in that excitement relief for the anxiety which so oppressed them. At last twilight came, lingered, and glided into night. But with the darkness the uneasiness of all increased.

Nor would this fact have caused wonder had it been known what thoughts lay in the mind of each; that they were momentarily expecting tidings upon which depended not only their hopes and happiness but, perchance their lives as well. Indeed, the company had been bidden thither by none other than Lord Catesby, who deemed it expedient that those not actually engaged in carrying out the plot for the a.s.sa.s.sination of James and his Parliament, should tarry at his country residence until news of the accomplished deed should be brought them. Acting upon the suggestion, he, together with Sir Everard Digsby, Rookwood, Robert Morgan, Grant and the brother of Sir Thomas Winter, had ridden forth from the city the day before; and now, with apprehension which their sanguine hopes could not fully thrust aside, they awaited the news which was to tell them how the fearful plot had prospered.

After a day, the length of which was measured not by the standard of moments but by that of slow-moving years, all had a.s.sembled to partake of the evening repast. Surrounding the glittering table were anxious and thoughtful faces. The host was silent and distraught, but not more so than his guests. The terrible strain under which they labored forbade much conversation; and if a laugh, perchance, mounted to the lips of any, it sounded hollow and mirthless.

"What now, good gentlemen," cried Catesby, with an attempt at gayety, when silence had again fallen upon the group; "ye are in truth but sorry companions. It would appear that something besides good vintage lay in the cellar beneath us. Come, fill your cups and let wine bring to our lips the jest, since wit seemeth utterly barren."

"Nay, my lord," exclaimed Rookwood, as he thrust his gla.s.s aside; "I for one am done with pretensions; 'tis time some news did reach us."

The man drew forth his watch, and glancing at it, said with a frown: "By Our Blessed Lady, 'tis past nine and we have had no tidings!"

The anxiety in the speaker's tone seemed to find a silent response in the heart of each. Before them all the wine stood untasted. A barking cur upon the highway caused them to start to their feet and listen, thinking the sound might be the herald of an approaching horseman.

"'Twas nothing," said the host wearily, when once more seated.

"Patience, patience, gentlemen; I think this delay doth not bode ill to us, for as ye are aware, bad news is ever atop of the swiftest steed."

"Ah, good Catesby," exclaimed Digsby, "it is to thee we look for consolation in this terrible hour. But I do most devoutly wish some intelligence, be it good or evil, would arrive; for naught can be worse than this awful waiting."

"Talk not of evil tidings," broke in Grant, nervously; "our minds are full enough of fears without thy----"

"Nay, good Robert," interrupted Sir Everard, "'twas but a figure of speech I used. Nothing is further from my mind than to play the croaking prophet."

"Art sure, my lord," queried Rookwood, "that Sir Winter did comprehend in what manner the intelligence was to be brought?"

"Quite certain of it," answered the host; "for 'twas the last topic upon which we spoke before I left the city. Have no fear; he understood full well that Master Keyes was to ride post haste the moment all was accomplished."

"How long would it take a horseman, riding at his best speed, to travel the distance?" enquired Rookwood, again drawing forth his watch.

"If nothing occurred to hinder on the way, and his mount was fresh at start, methinks the journey should be made in eight hours."

"Then," exclaimed the other, thrusting back his time-piece, "if all be well we would have heard ere now. I fear me--nay--I know not what I fear."

But hark! What sound is that which at last falls upon the listening group? Was it the wind sighing through the leafless trees? Nay, it cannot be; for now they hear it again, and more distinctly. There is no mistaking the flying hoofs of a horse striking the hard road. All spring from the table. The moment has arrived; they are to know. As each gazes into the white face of the other, he but beholds the reflection of his own pallid countenance, and speech for a moment is impossible.

"G.o.d!" cried Rookwood, listening; "Catesby, thou didst say but one rider was to bear the message, and I hear the noise of several rushing steeds, if, indeed, I be not mad."

Louder and louder grew the clatter of the hoofs, whiter and whiter the faces of the waiting men. At last five hors.e.m.e.n dash in at the gate and ride without drawing rein across the lawn and up to the very window of the banquet room.

No need to ask what tidings. Winter is the first to throw himself from his steaming horse, and followed by Percy, the two Wrights and Robert Keyes, staggers into the room. They are covered with mud and streaming with perspiration. Their hats and swords were left behind--evidently lost in the wild ride from London. Breathless they stand, for a moment unable to speak. Written on the face of each is an expression of utter despair, mingled with fear and pain, such a look as an animal wears when, shot through the body, it blindly flees from death.

Winter is the first to find voice; and clutching at the table, which shakes under his trembling grasp, pants, in a tone which is scarcely audible:

"Flee for your lives! There is yet time for us to escape. We cannot help him who is in the Tower. Our own necks will pay for further delay."

There is a horrified silence, broken only by the hard breathing of the men. At last Rookwood, pale with emotion, sprang toward the speaker, gasping: "What is this thou sayest? Failure! It cannot be!

Thou must be mad!"

"Nay," cried Percy, "'tis so, 'tis so, indeed. Fawkes is captured.

Nothing is left for us but flight. Come, to horse! to horse! I say.

Even now the soldiers are on the road, and any moment the sound of hurrying hoofs in pursuit of us may fall upon our ears."

In an instant the utmost disorder reigned. Chairs were overturned in the eagerness of the men to take in hand their swords, which rested against the wall. Gla.s.ses, swept from off the board, fell with a crash, adding to the general din. The floor was strewn with eatables and wine, carried from off the table in the mad rush. Panic ruled, and it had placed its sign-manual upon each face.

At last, above the uproar, the voice of Catesby can be heard, and standing by the door he addresses the fear-stricken men. "Gentlemen!"

he cried, "has the grasp of terror seized upon and turned you all mad?

Why should we fly, and by that course brand our deeds as sinful? Are we criminals? Have we stolen aught? Are we creatures to be hunted through the country? Come! play the part G.o.d has given to each, and at the end, since success is not ours let us meet death here, hand in hand, as becomes brothers in one faith--like martyrs!"

The words of the speaker had small effect upon the men, and did not check the general confusion. Those who had just arrived were in the garden attending to their jaded steeds, knowing full well that upon them depended their lives.

Rookwood burst again into the room, attired in a heavy riding mantle. "Come," he cried to his host; "to horse while there is time!

'Twould be a wickedness to tarry longer; it meaneth naught but self-destruction. Our steeds have been resting, and many miles may be placed between us and London ere break of day. Endanger not all our lives by thy foolish scruples."

At last the finer sentiments of Catesby were overruled by the words and entreaties of his companions, and he with them, hurried to the stable. With trembling fingers the bridles were fastened, the girths drawn, and in a moment all were ready for the flight. With a clatter the cavalcade sped out of the gate and thundered down the road at breakneck pace, disappearing in the darkness.

So ended the day which was to see the culmination of a deed which these fleeing men once dreamed would set the world on fire! And what had come of it? For them, nothing but the dancing sparks struck out by the hoofs of galloping horses, bearing their guilty riders from under the blow of a swinging axe. Fawkes, their unhappy tool, was already in the grip of the avenging power; and was tasting a more bitter gall than that of torture and death, for that he had, with his own hand, shed the blood of his well-beloved daughter, but not one drop of the heretic blood he so thirsted to spill.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"IN THE KING'S NAME."

The bomb having exploded so unexpectedly in the camp of the conspirators, Fawkes a prisoner in the hands of the government, which, following the custom of the day, would probably under torture wring from him a confession, the gentlemen who had been so zealous in the cause had now no thought but of flight. So sudden had been the exposure of their plot--laid bare to the eyes of all England at the eleventh hour--that the bold plans for a well-regulated defense were overthrown completely, and could not be carried out in any degree.

Garnet, indeed, was for the time safe, his hiding place unknown to the authorities, and did Fawkes resist with physical and moral force the torture, the Jesuit might not become involved in the consequences of his treason. But Catesby, Percy, the two Winters and others stood in the shadow of the scaffold. That no mercy would be measured out to them was beyond peradventure. Though of brave spirit, they feared, and could but flee before, the anger of the law.

It was indeed a pitiful and chagrined body of hors.e.m.e.n who, hurrying through Worcestershire and the adjoining county, sought to hide themselves from the King's officers. Pausing in their mad flight, they rifled the house of Lord Windsor, taking such arms and armor as best suited their needs. Close after them rode the soldiers of the King incited by promise of reward and honor did they capture and deliver the little band into the hands of Salisbury and his ministers. One face was missing from among those fleeing for their lives in such wild haste. Catesby, Percy, my Lord of Rookwood, the two Wrights, Grant, Morgan and Robert Keyes rode side by side, but Thomas Winter, he who had summoned Fawkes from Spain, was absent. Small need of words between the proscribed conspirators. A single purpose was in each heart--to escape those in pursuit.