ation was most natural. His
wife and daughter supervened at that moment, in their alarm entering the
room unceremoniously, in spite of the august presence, to inquire into
the meaning of this firing, and to reassure themselves that their father
and his illustrious guests were safe.

From the windows they could observe a stir in the gardens below. Black
shadows of men flitted to and fro, and a loud, rich voice was heard
calling to them to take cover, that they were betrayed. Then a sheet of
livid flame blazed along the summit of the low wall, and a second volley
of musketry rang out, succeeded by cries and screams from the assailed
and the shouts of the assailers who were now pouring into the garden
through the battered doorway and over the wall. For some moments
steel rang on steel, and pistol-shots cracked here and there to the
accompaniment of voices, raised some in anger, some in pain. But it was
soon over, and a comparative stillness succeeded.

A voice called up from the darkness under the windows to know if His
Majesty was safe. There had been a plot to take him; but the ambuscaders
had been ambuscaded in their turn, and not a man of them remained--which
was hardly exact, for under a laurel bush, scarce daring to breathe, lay
Sir Rowland Blake, livid with fear and fury, and bleeding from a rapier
scratch in the cheek, but otherwise unhurt.

In the room above, Monmouth had sunk wearily into his chair upon hearing
of the design there had been against his life. A deep, bitter melancholy
enwrapped his spirit. Lord Grey's first thoughts flew to the man he
most disliked--the one man missing from those who had been bidden to
accompany His Majesty, whose absence had already formed the subject
of comment. Grey remembered this bearing before the council that same
evening, and his undisguised resentment of the reproaches levelled
against him.

"Where is Mr. Wilding?" he asked suddenly, his voice dominating the
din of talk that filled the room. "Do we hold the explanation of his
absence?"

Monmouth looked up quickly, his beautiful eyes ineffably sad, his weak
mouth drooping at the corners. Wade turned to confront Grey.

"Your lordship does not suggest that Mr. Wilding can have a hand in
this?"

"Appearances would seem to point in that direction," answered Grey, and
in his wicked heart he almost hoped it might be so.

"Then appearances speak truth for once," came a bitter, ringing voice.
They turned, and there on t