But before long a curious change passed over the face of the London streets.  A breath—­a whisper—­a fleeting rumour.  Men’s faces grew suddenly pale and grave.  Women uttered sharp exclamations of astonishment and fear.  People pressed together into knots, asking quick questions and awaiting the answers in breathless expectancy; and presently the whispers became changed into open cries and shouts.  A smothered roar as of execration and menace ran through the streets, being caught up and passed from mouth to mouth till it was surging along like a great billow on the wide Atlantic sea.

“A Popish plot!”

“Down with the Papists!”

“Blow up the whole of the Parliament Houses—­King, Lords, and Commons!”

“Heard ye ever the like before?”

“Taken in the very act—­with the barrels of gunpowder laid ready, and the slow match in his hand!”

“A curse upon all such vile traitors!”

“A curse upon the Papists!”

“England will never know peace till she has destroyed them root and branch!”

“Down with the whole brood of them—­the vile scum of a vile race!”

These and many like cries were passing through the crowd in great, gusty shouts.  Martin Holt, standing at the door of his shop, was just taking in the sense of what was passing, and anxiously ruminating upon the fact that Cuthbert had not been home all the night, when Abraham Dyson came hurrying up, his face pale with apprehension.

“Good Master Holt, hast thou heard the news?”

“That the Papists have tried to blow up the Parliament Houses?  Can such a thing be true?”

“As true as daylight; there is no manner of doubt as to that.  But I have another trouble than that, which has been happily averted.  They tell me my boy has been arrested as one of the conspirators.  I am about to hasten down and inquire into it.

“Martin, where is Cuthbert?”

“I have not seen him since yesterday noon.  What of him?  Has he—­the foolish, hot-headed boy—­gone and run himself into like trouble?”

“I know not—­I know naught of him; only methought they might be together, being such friends and comrades.”

“They were not together yesterday.  Jacob supped here with us, and knew naught of Cuthbert then.”

“Supped with you last night! that is good hearing, for men say he was seen at Lambeth then, where the conspirators have some house or hiding place.  Come thou with me, good Martin, I prithee.  I must take solid men to witness for my lad, and bring him safely home again.  I warrant me he has had no dealings in yon foul plot!  He hates the very name of Popery and scheming.”

Martin Holt lost not a moment in following his friend, who was joined by several sober and wealthy merchants and citizens, all deeply indignant at the insult received by their friend in this false accusation of Jacob.

Abraham Dyson had been warned by a letter of the peril in which his son stood—­a mysteriously-worded letter, but one that was evidently written by a friend.  It advised that Dyson and his friends should proceed at once to Westminster and Whitehall, where the excitement would be at its height, and there they would find Jacob in custody, and would doubtless be able speedily to obtain his release, since he had been arrested under a misapprehension.