as I left it weeks ago. There has been no soul
within. Gunpowder, faggots, iron bars, and stones--all are as
before; and above, the coal and faggots carefully concealing all.
Why this anxiety and fear, Catesby? it was not wont to be so with
thee."

"No; but I have something of terrible import to reveal to thee,
good Guy. And first I must ask thy pardon for thus exposing thee to
peril as this day I did. I sent thee on this mission of inspection;
but I ought first to have told thee that we are in fear and
trembling lest we have been betrayed!"

"Betrayed!" echoed Fawkes with a fierce oath, "and by whom?"

"That we know not. But some days since, my Lord Mounteagle received
a mysterious warning bidding him absent himself from this meeting
of Parliament, for that a blow should then be struck, no man seeing
who dealt it. Wherefore we fear--"

"Mounteagle!" cried Fawkes, interrupting fiercely; "then the
traitor is yon false hound Tresham!"

"So we all thought till we charged him with it, and had he blenched
or shrunk our daggers should have been buried in his heart!"
answered Winter in low, fierce accents; "but he swore he knew
naught of it, and that with so bold a front and so open an air that
for very doubt of his guilt we could not smite him. There may be
other traitors in the camp. There was that lad thou, or thy fool of
a servant, Catesby, once brought amongst us. I liked it not then.
He should not have been let go without solemn oath taken on pain of
death. Trevlyn, methinks, was the name. I hear he has been seen in
London again of late. Why does he haunt us? what does he suspect?"

"Tush! thou art dreaming. Trevlyn! why, that is a good name, and
the lad knows nothing, and is, moreover, stanch.

"Guido, thou hast not said that thou dost pardon us for sending
thee on so perilous an errand this day."

"Thou needst not repent, Catesby. I should have adventured myself
the same had I known all. I have sworn myself to this task, and I
go not back to mine own country till all be accomplished."

Chapter 23: Peril For Trevlyn.

Cuthbert stood at the door of the narrow house in Budge Row,
seeking speech of the wise woman.

It was a blustering night--the first night in November. The wind
howled and shrieked round the corners of the streets; the rain
pattered down and splashed the garments of the few pedestrians who
had braved the storm. It was but seven of the clock, yet Budge Row
was dark and quiet as though m