“Never, never, never!” answered Cuthbert, with all the heat of youth and generous feeling.  “I would never betray those who have trusted me, not though they were my foes.  And I too hate and abominate these iniquitous laws that persecute men’s bodies for what they hold with their minds and souls.  I have suffered persecution myself.  I know how bitter a thing it is.  I would have every man free to believe that which his conscience approves.  I would join with any who would implore the King to show mercy and clemency to his persecuted subjects.”

Walter’s face relaxed; he looked relieved and pleased.

“Methought that we could trust thee, Cuthbert.  Thou art a Trevlyn; it must needs be thou art stanch.  I am right glad that thou art here.  There may be work yet for thee to do.  Thou wilt abide in thine uncle’s house until—­”

“Until Parliament opens at least,” answered Cuthbert quickly.  “I have said as much to him, I would fain be there then and see it all.  And my presence in the forest is known by foes; it is no place for me longer.”

Then breaking off, for he had not meant to say so much, and had no wish to be further questioned on the subject, he asked in a low tone: 

“Sure it was Father Urban whose face I saw on the stairs but now?”

“Hist! silence!” whispered Walter, with a glance enforcing caution; “do not breathe that name even within these walls.  He is here at risk of his life; but at such a moment he will not be away.  A warrant is out against him.  He may not venture abroad by night or day.  But he can be useful in a thousand ways, for he knows more than any other man of some matters appertaining to the state.  And if our hopes be realized, then he will emerge from his prison and rove the country from end to end.  He has friends in every place.  To him we shall look for guidance in a hundred ways.”

Walter’s eyes glowed.  He looked like one to whom triumph is a certainty—­one who anticipates success and already tastes the sweets thereof.  Cuthbert was growing uncomfortable.  He felt as though he were hearing more than he ought to do.  True, the Coles had talked in very much this fashion all through the dark days of the previous winter when he had been so much with them.  They were always looking for a day of release, always dwelling on the bright prospects of the future.  But some instinct told Cuthbert that there was a difference now in the fashion of their talk, and he was made uncomfortable by it though he scarce knew why.

He rose to go.

“I have but just returned.  I have many visits to pay.  I will come again anon,” he said.

“Ay, but come not too openly.  Let us not be seen consorting together.  And as thou walkest the street, keep thine eyes and thine ears open and attent, and learn ever what men say and think.  If thou hearest aught of moment, bring it to us.  Every whisper may be of value.  And now farewell.  Come not again by day, but slip in by the door in the archway when all be wrapped in gloom.  So it is safest.”