h him."

Giles cast a quick glance at the speaker, then letting his eyes fall,
said:

"That he is, and little hath he slept this night, for 'twas late ere
he arrived, and when I arose I heard him walking about."

"Then wilt thou tell him I await; or--nay, stop--thou needst not
announce me; I will see him in his chamber. Show the way, I will
follow."

"As thou dost wish," said Giles, turning to open a door which hid a
flight of rickety stairs leading to the floor above. Reaching the
landing Winter noted that Martin was about to follow and exclaimed:

"Nay, show me the portal, I will not trouble thee further. And if thou
wilt be so kind, see to it that we are not disturbed in our
conversation."

"Have no fear for that, Sir Thomas, I will take care that none do
interrupt. The room is in front of thee," saying which, Martin turned
and descended the stairs.

Winter tapped upon the panel.

"Enter," said a quiet voice.

He lifted the latch and passed into the room. The prelate had
evidently been engaged in prayer, for, as the other stepped within,
the priest was arising from his knees. His face seemed in strange
contrast to the garb he had donned; the delicate, almost effeminate
features of the man were little in keeping with the gay attire of a
cavalier.

"Ah, Sir Thomas," exclaimed the Jesuit, advancing with gentle dignity
and extended hand, "glad am I to see thee, for I have been more than
lonely, but," he added, with a bright smile, "'tis not my nature to
complain; these be but small discomforts, and gladly would I endure
greater in the service of my Master. Hast any news? Hath aught
happened since we met? But pray be seated," he added, pointing to one
of the two chairs, which, with a low bed, comprised the furniture of
the room.

"Nay, good father, nothing hath transpired," replied the other, a
shade passing athwart his face; "and now tell me, what dost thou think
of Fawkes? Is his enthusiasm great enough to serve our purpose?"

"A most terrible man, but one whose cruelty rests upon the love of
God. Indeed, it is as thou didst say, if each Catholic in England were
possessed of but one-half his zeal, then would the gutters run red
with the blood of heretics; 'twas such as he who made the eve of St.
Bartholomew. Are we free to speak?" queried Garnet, leaning toward the
other.

"Quite free," replied Winter, "a faithful friend of mine is on guard
that we be not interrupted."

"Then, 'tis well; I have spen