Wilton instantly dropped the muzzle of his pistol, without returning the shot.  But there was a cause for his so doing, which none of the conspirators themselves, who were all eagerly looking towards the spot where he stood, had yet perceived.

While Charnock and the other had been speaking, a young gentleman had suddenly entered the room, and pushing rapidly forward through the group in the doorway, he had advanced to the front and knocked up the hand of the assassin just as he was in the very act of firing.  The new comer was dressed in dark-coloured clothes, and more in the French than in the English costume of that day, with a curious sort of cravat of red silk tied in a bow beneath the chin.  He wore his hat, which was trimmed with feathers, and a large red bow of ribands, and in his hand he bore nothing but a small cane with an amber head, while his person displayed no arms whatever, except a small riding sword, which every gentleman wore in that day.

His figure was tall and commanding; his countenance open, noble, but somewhat stern; and there was to be remarked therein the peculiar expression which the pictures of Vandyke have handed down to us in the portraits of Charles I. It was a melancholy expression; but in Charles that melancholy seemed somewhat mingled with weakness; while on the stern brow and tightly-compressed lips of the young stranger, might be read, by the physiognomist, vigour and determination almost approaching to obstinacy.

The same, perhaps, might have been said of him which was said by the Roman sculptor when he beheld the picture of Charles, “That man will not die a natural death;” and in this instance, also, the prophecy would have been correct.  But there was something that might have spoken, too, of death upon the battle-field, or in the deadly breach, or in some enterprise where daring courage needed to be supported by unshrinking pertinacity and resolution.

The sound of the pistol-shot fixed all eyes, for an instant, upon that particular point in the room towards which it had been fired; but the moment that the conspirators beheld the person who now stood amongst them, they instantly drew back in a circle.  Every sword was thrust into its sheath, every hat was taken off, while, with a flashing eye and frowning brow, the young stranger turned to Sir George Barkley, exclaiming, “What is all this, sir?  What is this, gentlemen?  Are ye madmen? or fools? or villains?”

“Those are hard words, your grace,” replied Sir George Barkley, “and hard to stomach.”

“Not more than those persons deserve, sir,” replied the stranger, “who betray the confidence of their King, when they know that he is powerless to punish them.”

“We are serving our King, my lord duke,” replied Sir John Fenwick, “and not betraying his confidence.  Are we not here in arms, my Lord of Berwick, perilling our lives, prepared for any enterprise, and all on the King’s behalf?”