They knew of course nothing of my coming; and when I dismounted in the yard there was not a man to be seen.  I left my horse with James; and went along the flagged path that led to the door, and beat upon the door.  The house seemed all dark and deserted; and it was not till I had beaten once more at the door that I saw a light shewing beneath it.  Presently a very unsteady voice cried out to know who was there; and I knew it for my Cousin Tom’s; so I roared at him that it was myself.  There followed a great to-do of unlocking and unbarring—­for they had the house—­as I found presently—­fortified as it were a castle; and when the door was undone there was my Cousin Tom with a great blunderbuss and two men with swords behind him.

“Why, whatever is forward?” I said sharply; for I was impatient with the long waiting and the cold, for a frost was beginning as the sun set.

“Why, Cousin Roger, we knew nothing of your coming,” said my Cousin Tom, looking a little foolish, I thought.  “We did not know who was at the door.”

“I only knew myself of my coming yesterday,” I said.  “And whatever is the house fortified for?”

My cousin was putting up the bolts again as I spoke; (the two men were gone away into the back of the house);—­and, as soon as he had done, he said: 

“Why, there are dangerous folks about, Cousin Roger.  And it is a Catholic house, you see.”

I smiled at that; but said no more; for at that moment my Cousin Dolly came through from the back of the house where she had been sent by her father for safety; and at that sight I thought no more of the door.

I saluted her as a cousin should; and she me.  She looked mighty pretty to me, in her dark dress, with her lace on, for supper was just on the table; and I cannot but think she was pleased to see me, for she was all smiling and flushed.

“So it is you, Cousin Roger,” she said.  “I thought it might very well be.  We looked for you before Christmas.”

* * * * *

At supper, and afterwards, I learned in what a panic poor Cousin Tom had lived since the news of the plot, and, above all, of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey’s death; and what he said to me made me determine to speak to him of my own small peril, for he had the right to know, and to forbid me his house, if he wished.  But I hoped that he would not.  It appeared that when the news of Sir Edmund’s death had come, there had been something of a to-do in the village, of no great signification; for it was no more than a few young men who marched up and down shouting together—­as such yokels will, upon the smallest excuse; and one of them had cried out at the gate of Hare Street House.  At Barkway there had been more of a business; for there they had burnt an effigy of the Pope in the churchyard; and the parson—­who was a stout Churchman—­had made a speech upon it.  However, this had played upon Cousin Tom’s fears, and he had fortified the house with bolts, and slept with a pistol by his bed.