“Betrayed!” echoed Fawkes with a fierce oath, “and by whom?”

“That we know not.  But some days since, my Lord Mounteagle received a mysterious warning bidding him absent himself from this meeting of Parliament, for that a blow should then be struck, no man seeing who dealt it.  Wherefore we fear—­”

“Mounteagle!” cried Fawkes, interrupting fiercely; “then the traitor is yon false hound Tresham!”

“So we all thought till we charged him with it, and had he blenched or shrunk our daggers should have been buried in his heart!” answered Winter in low, fierce accents; “but he swore he knew naught of it, and that with so bold a front and so open an air that for very doubt of his guilt we could not smite him.  There may be other traitors in the camp.  There was that lad thou, or thy fool of a servant, Catesby, once brought amongst us.  I liked it not then.  He should not have been let go without solemn oath taken on pain of death.  Trevlyn, methinks, was the name.  I hear he has been seen in London again of late.  Why does he haunt us? what does he suspect?”

“Tush! thou art dreaming.  Trevlyn! why, that is a good name, and the lad knows nothing, and is, moreover, stanch.

“Guido, thou hast not said that thou dost pardon us for sending thee on so perilous an errand this day.”

“Thou needst not repent, Catesby.  I should have adventured myself the same had I known all.  I have sworn myself to this task, and I go not back to mine own country till all be accomplished.”

Chapter 23:  Peril For Trevlyn.

Cuthbert stood at the door of the narrow house in Budge Row, seeking speech of the wise woman.

It was a blustering night—­the first night in November.  The wind howled and shrieked round the corners of the streets; the rain pattered down and splashed the garments of the few pedestrians who had braved the storm.  It was but seven of the clock, yet Budge Row was dark and quiet as though midnight had settled down upon the city.  Scarce any gleams of light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, and only the sound of a distant watchman’s cry broke the silence of the night.

Cuthbert had once before sought this house, but had knocked in vain for admittance.  Either the wise woman was from home, or else she had no intention of receiving visitors.  Since then his mind had been engrossed by other matters, and he had not thought again of Joanna’s charge concerning Esther.  But recent mysterious occurrences had made him desirous not only of telling her his own tale, but of seeking information from her; and here he stood in the wind and rain making request for admittance.