stood full well that Master Keyes was to ride post haste the
moment all was accomplished."

"How long would it take a horseman, riding at his best speed, to
travel the distance?" enquired Rookwood, again drawing forth his
watch.

"If nothing occurred to hinder on the way, and his mount was fresh at
start, methinks the journey should be made in eight hours."

"Then," exclaimed the other, thrusting back his time-piece, "if all be
well we would have heard ere now. I fear me--nay--I know not what I
fear."

But hark! What sound is that which at last falls upon the listening
group? Was it the wind sighing through the leafless trees? Nay, it
cannot be; for now they hear it again, and more distinctly. There is
no mistaking the flying hoofs of a horse striking the hard road. All
spring from the table. The moment has arrived; they are to know. As
each gazes into the white face of the other, he but beholds the
reflection of his own pallid countenance, and speech for a moment is
impossible.

"God!" cried Rookwood, listening; "Catesby, thou didst say but one
rider was to bear the message, and I hear the noise of several rushing
steeds, if, indeed, I be not mad."

Louder and louder grew the clatter of the hoofs, whiter and whiter the
faces of the waiting men. At last five horsemen dash in at the gate
and ride without drawing rein across the lawn and up to the very
window of the banquet room.

No need to ask what tidings. Winter is the first to throw himself from
his steaming horse, and followed by Percy, the two Wrights and Robert
Keyes, staggers into the room. They are covered with mud and streaming
with perspiration. Their hats and swords were left behind--evidently
lost in the wild ride from London. Breathless they stand, for a moment
unable to speak. Written on the face of each is an expression of utter
despair, mingled with fear and pain, such a look as an animal wears
when, shot through the body, it blindly flees from death.

Winter is the first to find voice; and clutching at the table, which
shakes under his trembling grasp, pants, in a tone which is scarcely
audible:

"Flee for your lives! There is yet time for us to escape. We cannot
help him who is in the Tower. Our own necks will pay for further
delay."

There is a horrified silence, broken only by the hard breathing of
the men. At last Rookwood, pale with emotion, sprang toward the
speaker, gasping: "What is this thou sayest? Failure! It cannot be!
Thou mu