ehension which their
sanguine hopes could not fully thrust aside, they awaited the news
which was to tell them how the fearful plot had prospered.

After a day, the length of which was measured not by the standard of
moments but by that of slow-moving years, all had assembled to partake
of the evening repast. Surrounding the glittering table were anxious
and thoughtful faces. The host was silent and distraught, but not more
so than his guests. The terrible strain under which they labored
forbade much conversation; and if a laugh, perchance, mounted to the
lips of any, it sounded hollow and mirthless.

"What now, good gentlemen," cried Catesby, with an attempt at gayety,
when silence had again fallen upon the group; "ye are in truth but
sorry companions. It would appear that something besides good vintage
lay in the cellar beneath us. Come, fill your cups and let wine bring
to our lips the jest, since wit seemeth utterly barren."

"Nay, my lord," exclaimed Rookwood, as he thrust his glass aside; "I
for one am done with pretensions; 'tis time some news did reach us."
The man drew forth his watch, and glancing at it, said with a frown:
"By Our Blessed Lady, 'tis past nine and we have had no tidings!"

The anxiety in the speaker's tone seemed to find a silent response in
the heart of each. Before them all the wine stood untasted. A barking
cur upon the highway caused them to start to their feet and listen,
thinking the sound might be the herald of an approaching horseman.
"'Twas nothing," said the host wearily, when once more seated.
"Patience, patience, gentlemen; I think this delay doth not bode ill
to us, for as ye are aware, bad news is ever atop of the swiftest
steed."

"Ah, good Catesby," exclaimed Digsby, "it is to thee we look for
consolation in this terrible hour. But I do most devoutly wish some
intelligence, be it good or evil, would arrive; for naught can be
worse than this awful waiting."

"Talk not of evil tidings," broke in Grant, nervously; "our minds are
full enough of fears without thy----"

"Nay, good Robert," interrupted Sir Everard, "'twas but a figure of
speech I used. Nothing is further from my mind than to play the
croaking prophet."

"Art sure, my lord," queried Rookwood, "that Sir Winter did comprehend
in what manner the intelligence was to be brought?"

"Quite certain of it," answered the host; "for 'twas the last topic
upon which we spoke before I left the city. Have no fear; he
under