“That is our man!  Seize him, bind him, and bring him before the chief!”

Cuthbert heard these words spoken in a clear low tone not far away; but the fog wreaths were hanging upon the river, and he could not see the speakers.  Instinctively he bent harder to his oar.  The wherry shot at redoubled speed through the dull, gleaming water; but there were sounds astern of other plashing oars, the sound of voices low yet eager, and Cuthbert felt sure he heard the name of Trevlyn spoken in accents of subdued fierceness.  He could hear by the sound of the oars in the rowlocks that there were many rowers in the pursuing boat.  That they were in pursuit of him he could not doubt, and he set his teeth hard as he plied his oars, for he felt that the issue of this chase might mean life or death to him.

Esther’s warning was ringing in his ears:  “Beware the dark-flowing river—­the lone house—­the black cellar!”

How had he regarded that warning?  He had not heeded it at all.  He had let his curiosity and love of adventure conquer both prudence and caution; and now he was well aware that he was in some immediate and imminent peril.

He had been warned to fly from London, but he had not obeyed that warning.  This had been partly out of generosity to his kinsmen, for it seemed to him that by his presence amongst them he might be increasing the peril in which they stood, and he had been told that that was in great part due to his own rashness and hardihood.

He had remained in London.  This day was the very eve of that fifth of November on which the King’s Parliament was to assemble in state.  All the city was silent and tranquil.  The vague sense of expectation and excitement that Cuthbert had observed amongst some of his acquaintances a few days back seemed now to have died down.  Was it the hush that immediately precedes the breaking of the storm cloud; or had the fearful tale whispered to him by the wise woman been but the product of her weird fancy, and all his fears and terrors groundless?

This was the question which had been agitating Cuthbert during the past two days; and upon this dim, foggy afternoon he had taken his wherry and resolved to find out for himself the whole truth of the matter.

Cuthbert had not forgotten Robert Catesby, or the priest to whom he always felt he owed his life.  If any plot were in hand at this juncture, both these men were most certainly concerned in it.  And at the lone house at Lambeth he could surely get speech of Catesby, or learn where he was to be found; and it seemed to Cuthbert that he could not sleep another night until he had set at rest the doubts and fears crowding his mind.

Did he go with a view of warning Catesby that the plot was discovered—­that the dark secret was out?  He himself scarcely knew.  He was not at all sure that he believed himself in the hideous magnitude of the contemplated deed as Esther had described it.  Remembering as he did all he had heard and seen, he could not doubt that some secret plot was afoot, but he thought it highly probable that the scope and purpose of it had been misunderstood; and there was certainly this feeling in his mind, that a timely word of warning to those concerned might serve to avert a terrible doom from any who might lie already under suspicion.