“Whatever I may with honour and right do for Father Urban shall not be lacking.  I owe him my life.  I can never grudge any service for him, be it great or small.”

“Well spoken, my boy,” answered the bookseller, with his calm, penetrating smile.  “May the blessed saints long preserve untainted that true nobility of soul.”

Cuthbert spent a restless day, wondering what mission the priest had for him, and whether his uncle would be angry at him for meddling in any such matters.  But Martin Holt was friendly with several of the Papist families about him, notably with the Coles themselves; and Cuthbert had a growing sense of his own independence and the right to choose his own associates and his own path in life.

It was growing dusk when he stood beside the narrow bed on which Father Urban lay.  The light filtered in scantily through the narrow window pane, and illumined a face lined by pain and white with exhaustion.  Upon the bed lay a packet which looked like papers, and one of the priest’s wasted hands lay upon it as if to guard it.  As Cuthbert bent over him and spoke his name, Father Urban looked up, and a dim light crept into his eyes.

“Is it thou, my son, come at last?”

“Yes, Father.  What may I do for thee?”

“Wilt thou do one small service more for me, my son?”

“Willingly, Father, if it lies within my power.”

“It is well within thy power, boy.  It is not the power I question, but the will.  We live in dangerous days.  Art willing to partake of the peril which compasses the steps of those who tread in the old ways wherein the fathers trod?”

“Try me and see,” was the quiet reply.

Perhaps none could better have suited the astute reader of character.  The hollow eyes lighted, and the old man bent upon Cuthbert a searching glance whilst he seemed to pause to gather strength.

“I would have thee take this packet,” he said, speaking slowly and with some pain and difficulty.  “There is no superscription; and sooner than let them be found by others on thy person, fling them into the river, or cut them to fragments with thy dagger; and plunge thy dagger into thine own heart sooner than be taken with them upon thee.  But with caution and courage and strength (and I know that thou hast all of these) thou canst avoid this peril.  What thy part is, is but this:  Deliver this packet into the hand of Master Robert Catesby himself.  Thou knowest him.  Thou wilt make no error.  Seek him not at any tavern or public place.  Go to a lone house at Lambeth, with moss-grown steps down to the water’s edge.  Go by thine own wherry thither, and go alone.  Thou canst not mistake the house.  There is none like it besides.  It stands upon the water, and none other building is nigh at hand; but a giant elm overshadows it, and there is a door scarce above high water level and steps that lead from it.  Knock three times, thus, upon that door”—­and the priest gave a curious tap, which Cuthbert repeated by imitation; “and when thou art admitted, ask for Robert Catesby, and give him the packet.  That is all.  Thy mission will then be done.  Wilt thou do as much for me?”