The Fifth of November Part 17

He continued on his way in silence. As he approached the more densely populated districts of the city, an almost unconscious movement of the hand brought the fold of his mantle over his shoulder, so that it hid the lower portion of his face. The tall figure of Garnet was one which could not fail to attract attention, and many a pa.s.serby turned to see who the cavalier might be. This did not escape the eye of the prelate, and evidently for the sake of being unnoticed, he turned into a less frequented thoroughfare, and proceeded by a circuitous route to gain the hostelry wherein he resided. The way brought him through a portion of the city composed of narrow intersecting streets and alleys, faced by poor and worn out hovels. A few old warehouses here and there marked the spots where in times gone by fine goods had been stored. As they stood with broken windows and open doors sighing and creaking in the wind, they appeared like living creatures who had fallen from conditions of plenty, and were now, in their hunger, bemoaning the loss of the abundance which once had filled them.

In front of one of these buildings Garnet paused for a moment to more closely examine the pile, and being deeply absorbed in his task of inspection, was not aware of the glimmer of a lantern which came bobbing toward him along the main road. The first intimations that any one but himself stood upon the street were a sudden flash of light in his face, a heavy hand falling upon his shoulder, and a gruff voice exclaiming:

"Henry Garnet, in the name of the King I arrest thee!"

The priest started, and with rapid motion drew his cloak about him, at the same time springing upon the step of the building. The man lowered the light and by its reflection the Jesuit could see that he wore the uniform of the King's guard.

"Come," continued the soldier, drawing his sword, "submission better suits thee as a priest, than does resistance."

The blow had fallen so quickly, so unexpectedly, that for an instant Garnet stood as one struck dumb, unable either to reply or form a plan of action. However, in a moment his alert mind grasped the situation.

He had been recognized, that was evident, but his arrest was simply for disobeying the edict by which he, as well as all his order, were banished from the kingdom. The penalty following the violation of this decree, at its worst, would simply mean imprisonment in the Tower. But what, he asked himself, would be the consequence of it? While far from being an egotist, the Jesuit knew that he alone was the thinking power of that cause which to him was dearer than life. And now, when plans were fast maturing, the corn ripening in the field, awaiting but the hand of the reapers, he was placed in sudden danger which threatened to frustrate all their hopes. These thoughts flashed through his mind with the rapidity of lightning as he confronted the man standing at the foot of the steps. Escape he must,--but how?

"Come, Henry Garnet," the man repeated, ascending the steps, lantern in one hand, a sword in the other. "Thou art my prisoner, and in the name of his most gracious Majesty, James I., I arrest thee!"

A bold rush now would be of no avail, for the man stood with the point of his rapier close to the prelate's breast, almost touching his doublet; furthermore Garnet's sword was in its scabbard, and at the first attempt to draw it, he, in all probability, would be run through the body. Was there no alternative but to yield? A gust of wind caused the door at his back to creak. In an instant the Jesuit had sprung for the portal, but the soldier, perceiving his purpose, lunged with his weapon, and so true was the aim, that the prelate's cloak was pinned fast to the wooden frame. An instant he was held there, but the clasp of the mantle giving way released its wearer, and Garnet stood in the dark entry, the door shut, and his foot set firmly against it. The move had been none too quick, for the soldier hurled himself upon the closed portal, which caused the old boards to groan, but they did not yield; the only result of the man's efforts were, that the lantern flew from his grasp, rolling down the steps into the street. The priest heard him descend to recover the light, and relinquis.h.i.+ng his hold upon the door, groped his way through the darkness, hoping to elude his pursuer in the building. His hand came in contact with the bal.u.s.ter, and he quickly ascended the rickety stairs. By this time, the guard had relighted his lantern and was peering cautiously into the hall, evidently fearing a sword thrust from out the darkness. In this instant's hesitation, Garnet gained the loft above. Here the obscurity was less intense, for the waning moon s.h.i.+ning through a broken window into a room at his left, enabled him to see his way more distinctly. There was little time for choice of direction, for even now the soldier had commenced to ascend, and Garnet, not venturing to grope further in the gloom, turned toward the ray of light, and pa.s.sed quickly into the room, pressed himself against the wall and waited.

The priest could see his pursuer holding the lantern above his head, as he ascended the stairs, looking carefully about the while. The soldier approached the chamber in which the Jesuit lay hid, peered in at the door, and as if not satisfied with this cursory examination entered. At last the man seemed satisfied, and with a muttered curse was about to leave the apartment, when a fatal turn of the lantern swept one of its rays full upon the Jesuit.

"Ah! there thou art, my sly fox!" cried the soldier, springing, sword in hand, at Garnet; another instant would have seen the priest pinned fast to the wall, had not the man's foot in some way become entangled in the mantle hanging upon his arm, throwing him headlong with great clatter of steel to the floor.

In a moment Garnet was upon him, both hands at the soldier's throat, the long fingers pressing firmly the windpipe; one more strong clasp and the priest released his hold, seized the other's sword, which had fallen to the floor, and stood with its point upon the man's breast.

"Swear by the G.o.d thou fearest, and upon thine honor, that thou wilt remain in this room until I leave the house! Swear it!" the priest repeated, "ere I run thee through!"

No answer followed his command.

"Come. Swear it!" he repeated, pressing the rapier firmly against the other's chest. The ominous silence fell upon the priest as strange. He stooped to look into the face. The light was dim, and still lower he bent. Suddenly the sword dropped from his hand, for the Jesuit saw by the bulging eyes which stared into his that he had demanded an oath from a corpse. Those long white fingers had pressed more firmly than they knew; the man's windpipe was crushed like paper.

"My G.o.d!" the Jesuit whispered, kneeling beside the prostrate form, horror of the deed falling upon him. "Of what have I been guilty?

This man's blood upon my head?" Terror-stricken, he looked about the room. Again his eyes returned to the thing lying beside him. Was that a movement of the distorted face? He gazed upon it in horrible fascination. Slowly the lips of the dead man parted, the jaw dropped, and it seemed as though a hideous smile lay upon the distorted visage.

"Ah!" cried Garnet, springing to his feet, "Even in death thou art the victor, for I am shackled to thee. Never in this world can I escape the recollection of thy countenance!"

The priest fell upon his knees, and raised his hands:

"G.o.d help me and forgive me for this deed!" he cried. "If I have sinned, 'twas not to save this worthless life of mine; not that I deemed it sweet to live, but that I might survive to consecrate or yield that life in the furtherance of Thy holy work!"

He paused a moment in silent prayer, then arose, and taking a crucifix from his doublet, knelt by the figure on the floor and pressed the symbol to the dead lips.

"Nay," said he, as he stood regarding the man, "I did not wish thy death, and would gladly yield my life to see thee breathe again, but 'twas ordained thou shouldst go first. And who next?" he added, raising the cross and gazing upon it--"Mayhap he doth wear a crown."

CHAPTER XVI.

MONTEAGLE AND SALISBURY.

Four months pa.s.sed; months of impatience to the conspirators who awaited with eagerness the hour to strike against the government.

Winter and Fawkes had returned from France, their mission in part accomplished, as they had obtained from certain of the Catholic n.o.bility promises of a.s.sistance in the way of men and money, did the doors of England open to receive them. The plot to strike at the heart of the ruling powers was slowly maturing; Fawkes, now the leading spirit, worked diligently both with brain and hands to perfect the plan decided upon by Winter, Catesby and the others. Secure in a feeling of strength, the King had little thought that Fate was slowly winding about him and his ministers a shroud which prompt action alone could cast off.

Toward the close of a sultry midsummer day, Lord Cecil, Earl of Salisbury and Prime Minister of England, after holding audience with the King, returned to his dwelling, glad to cast aside his decorations and forget during a few hours the weighty affairs of State. He was scarcely seated, with a gla.s.s of wine in hand, when my Lord of Monteagle was announced as waiting in the ante-chamber. 'Twas no strange thing for this n.o.bleman to seek the Minister at his home, for between them there was a warm friends.h.i.+p, and it pleased Cecil to receive the other at any time he chose to visit him. He therefore ordered that Monteagle should be at once conducted to his apartment, and a second gla.s.s of wine prepared.

As the peer entered, the keen eyes of his host noted that his bearing betokened a mind ill at ease.

"Faith!" said he, rising from his seat and extending his hand, "thou bearest a most sour visage, my lord. Hath ridden in the sun, or did thy cook forget his occupation and serve thee an ill-prepared repast?"

Monteagle smiled faintly. "Nay," said he, "'tis my mind which is somewhat disturbed."

"Then sit thee down," cried Cecil cheerily, "and unburden thyself to me of all save affairs of State; of them am I exceeding weary, for the King hath a new hobby, a tax on beets and onions, in the discussion of which the afternoon has been consumed."

"Then his Majesty devised another way----" began Monteagle.

Salisbury raised his hand. "'Tis treason," said he in feigned displeasure; "wouldst have us in the Tower, good Monteagle, that thou speak so lightly of James' statesmans.h.i.+p?" Then changing his jesting tone to one of gravity: "But tell me, what troubles thee? Hath the air of France failed to restore the spirits of thy son, Effingston? He hath not returned?"

"He is still in Paris," replied the other, touching his lips to the gla.s.s which had been proffered him, "I this day received a letter in which he speaks encouragingly of his health, and announces his return within the month. Thy mind is easy, my lord?"

"And why not?" demanded the Prime Minister, holding aloft his gla.s.s that he might watch the reflection of the sun's rays upon the wine.

"England is at peace, the King seated firm upon his throne, and the s.h.i.+p of State rides on an even keel. Hast dreamed of treason, my Lord Monteagle?"

"Perchance not treason," replied his companion, drawing his chair nearer, "but--certain things my son hath written, added to others coming under my own observation, have caused me some uneasiness--a shadowy suspicion, as it were, that an ill plan is brewing against the King's authority."

"Tut!" cried Salisbury. "'Tis a fit of indigestion, about which thou hadst best consult thy doctor. Yet, what be these suspicions?"

"Thou knowest," replied Monteagle, sinking his voice so that it scarce reached the other's ear, "there are certain Catholics among the n.o.bles who chafe grievously under the exactions of laws pa.s.sed by Parliament and approved by James."

Salisbury shrugged his shoulders. "That is beyond peradventure," said he, "but the laws will stand."

"Of that I would speak nothing," replied Monteagle, "being neither King nor Parliament, but it hath been hinted that perchance the wind of discontent may fan into life a flame of----"

"Thou hast relatives among the Catholics," interrupted Cecil, looking keenly at the other, "hast become a confidant?"

Monteagle shook his head. "Nay," said he, "nor do I desire to mix in affairs concerning my former faith. Yet, I have knowledge of certain meetings which have taken place composed of sundry persons opposed to the policy of James."

"The dogs cut by the lash herd together in their discomfiture,"

replied Cecil, "yet they fear to bite the hand which stung them."

Monteagle frowned, for the words of the Prime Minister were not to his liking.

"There is more," said he; "certain of those have been seen in France."

"'Tis a most Catholic country," replied Salisbury, "and, perhaps, wis.h.i.+ng to wors.h.i.+p unmolested before their altars, some have gone thither for their religion's sake."

"My lord!" cried Monteagle, perceiving the Minister was in a mood for jesting, "hast thou had no fear that some hidden danger might lurk beneath the calm exterior of the peace which covers England? Do not smile, but hear me. Thou knowest the Viscount Effingston is in France, at the Court of Henry, and hath mingled much with some who are close to the throne. Perhaps it may not have reached thine ears that some months back a bloodless duel was fought between him and one Sir Thomas Winter, a zealous Catholic and enemy to the King."

"Ah!" broke in Salisbury, "thy speech grows interesting; and what brought about this duel?"

"'Twas an insult cast upon me by this Winter," replied Monteagle.

"Effingston chancing to hear, resented it, and an exchange of sword thrusts followed; but that is past. As I told thee this morning I received a letter from Paris in which the Viscount says he hath met this Winter and another, a soldier of the commoners, and----"