Again he recoiled from her.

“I know their secrets!  I one of them!  Woman, dost thou believe this vile thing of me?

“No, I believe it not.  I know that thou hast but let thyself be led into dire peril through that foolish, generous weakness of youth and thy Trevlyn blood, against which I have warned thee—­and warned thee in vain.  But dost thou think thou canst despise the warnings of the wise woman and escape deadly peril?  Cuthbert Trevlyn, listen to me and heed me well.  This thing is known—­is known in high places.  The King and his counsellors have had intelligence thereof.  The deed of darkness will be frustrated, and heads will fall beneath the axe of the executioner.  Already whispers are going abroad—­already the guilty ones are watched and spied upon; and with the guilty there are those suspected who know naught of this vile deed.  Shall I say more, or can thine own quick wits supply the rest?”

Cuthbert had turned a little pale.  His eyes were fixed upon this woman’s face.

“Tell me all,” he said hoarsely.  “What dost thou mean by these dark sayings?”

“I mean,” she answered, in clear low tones, “that there is peril for Trevlyn in this thing.  Thine own rashness, Miriam’s spite and quickness of wit to avail herself of every trifling matter that passes, the presence in London of Sir Richard and his son at this time, the old tradition surrounding the name of Trevlyn—­all are helping on the work; all are pointing in one direction.  Rash boy, thou hast been seen with Father Urban in the streets—­a Jesuit, a seminary priest, a man suspected of many plots and many daring acts of courage and cunning.  Thou art suspected to have been concerned in his escape one dark and foggy night, when thou wert on the river in thy wherry; and he must have been taken on board some such craft.  Thou hast been seen with others who are suspected of being mixed up in this business.  Thou hast appeared within the city walls when they appeared; when they were absent thou wast absent likewise.  Thou wouldst not heed warnings when yet there was time; thou must now take double heed to thy steps—­”

“Thou spokest of Sir Richard and his son but now,” cried Cuthbert, interrupting hastily.  “For myself, I must take the consequences of my rashness.  The fault is mine, and if harm comes to me I can bear it; but if others have been imperilled through me, I should never forgive myself.  Tell me plainly if this has been so; keep me not in suspense!  How can one word be breathed against the loyalty of a man faithful and true as Sir Richard, and a stanch Protestant to boot?”

The old woman shook her head meaningly.