"Thy task is done, and it is well done. But now get thee from the
forest with all speed, for there is peril to thee here."
So said Joanna, standing before Cuthbert in the pixies' dell, her
hand upon the low stone wall, her tall figure drawn up to its full
height. She had been looking thoughtfully down into the sparkling
water, which was now filling the well as of old, whilst Cuthbert
told his tale with graphic power. An expression of calm triumph was
on her face as she heard how the long-lost hoard was lying safely
stored within the house of the Wyverns--a house sacred to the
gipsies and safe from any raids of robbers, such was the esteem in
which that name was held. She looked like one whose task is done,
who feels a heavy load lifted from the mind; but the glance fixed
upon Cuthbert's eager face was also one of gravity and meaning.
"The forest is no place for thee now," she said; "get thee hence as
fast as thou canst."
"And wherefore so?" asked Cuthbert, surprised. "Methought the peril
ceased with the death of--"
"Hush!" said the gipsy, almost sternly; "bethink thee that there
may be listeners even now about us in these thick bushes, and guard
thy words with caution. Remember the strange links that bind
together those of the wild gipsy blood; and remember that Long
Robin lies in his bloody grave not far from here."
She lowered her voice as she spoke, and Cuthbert instinctively
followed her example.
"But no man knows that."
"How canst thou tell?"
"None saw the deed. It was done in the dead of night. Ere morning
came he was laid below the earth. Thou thyself knew not what had
befallen him till I spoke the word."
He looked at her as if in momentary distrust; but the calm gaze and
the noble countenance of the gipsy seemed to reassure him. Joanna,
who had read his thought, smiled slightly.
"Nay, boy, thou needst not fear treachery from Joanna, and the
gipsy queen will give thee all protection in her power. Have I not
told thee that upon me, when I received that title, was laid the
charge of seeing the stolen treasure restored to the house of
Trevlyn? To thy courage and resolve and perseverance and skill
belongs it that this charge is now fulfilled. Thou needst not fear
that any ill will or lack of caution on Joanna's part will cause
evil to light upon thy head. But there are others with whom thou
mayest have to reckon. There is Miriam, to whom Long Robin was as
the apple of the eye."
"Yet he was not her husband (he is no aged man), and he can scarce
have been her son."
"No matter. As I have told thee ere this, there be strange bonds
betwixt us of the gipsy blood, binding closer and firmer than ever
ties of kinship do. Miriam loved yon man with a love passing all
others. She has missed him these many weeks. She is frantic with
anxious grief. She is convinced that some ill has befallen him. She
is rousing to anger and vengeance the whole tribe. They have vowed
that they will find Robin, whether he be dead or alive, and that if
dead they will avenge them on his murderer. Already suspicion has
fallen upon thee. Dost think thy many journeys through the forest
have passed unnoted by us?"
"I have never seen a soul; I had not known myself watched."
"Luckily for thee thou hast not been watched, else would little of
the treasure have been placed in safe keeping. Thou hast reaped the
benefit Robin hoped to reap himself alone when he surrounded this
dell as with a barrier that no man might pass. Even the most daring
spirits of our tribe dare not come here; and Miriam, who bids them
scour the forest in all other directions, fears to tell them to
come hither, albeit I well know she will shortly search the spot
herself if Robin come not soon. Then she will find the grave; it
will not escape her eyes. First she will think the lost treasure
lies there, for I am convinced that Robin never told her the full
secret. Then when she looks farther, she will find what that grave
really contains; and thou hadst best be far away ere that day
comes. Thou hast been seen. Thy journeyings in the forest have
provoked wonder and curiosity. Let Miriam once learn that Robin
lies there, and the whole truth will flash upon her; and then look
thou to thyself!"
These words were spoken with such significance that Cuthbert
experienced an involuntary qualm of fear.
"I thank thee for the warning," he said; "I will avail myself of
thy kind counsel. I had thought of journeying to London ere this.
There, it may be, I shall be hidden from their malice."
"Thou wilt be safer there than here," answered the gipsy quietly;
"I will not say thou wilt be truly safe in any spot if Miriam's ire
be once roused against thee. She has a wondrous fierce spirit, and
she has influence with our people second only to mine. And then
there hung about Long Robin a mysterious charm. Men loved him
not--they feared and distrusted him; and yet, were it to be known
that he had met his death by violence, Miriam would have but small
trouble in stirring up the hearts of a score of stout fellows vowed
to vengeance. In the forest thou wilt have small chance of thy
life."
"Perchance they will follow me to London," said Cuthbert; "if so,
it will be small use to fly."
"In London our folks have fears for themselves," answered the gipsy
queen. "Half of them are outlawed; the other half lie beneath the
suspicion of sorcery, which in these days is almost worse. They may
hover about the dens of the city, but they will fear to molest thee
elsewhere. Thou must take heed how thou venturest beyond the city
walls, for Tyrrel and his men may be lurking beyond on the watch."
"Methought Tyrrel and Miriam were no such friends," said Cuthbert,
recollecting the night when he had been brought to the mill. "Will
he take up her quarrel?"
"If she can make him believe that Robin had the secret of the lost
treasure, and that thou didst force the secret from him ere thou
laidest him in his grave, he will take up the quarrel in right good
earnest, and rest not till he has learned where the treasure has
been hid. We of the gipsy tribe have as little believed in that hid
treasure as the house of Trevlyn, hence its safety all these years.
But let Miriam once tell what she knows--which is something, I
warrant--and there may be many who will then believe that the
secret was in Robin's keeping. They will be certain sure that thou
wouldst not have killed the man until thou hadst made sure of the
treasure. It would be acting like the fabled yokel who killed the
goose that laid the golden eggs. Wherefore be gone. Hide thyself in
London town. In a few weeks or months the chase may be over; but
for the time being beware of the forest!"
"I will," answered Cuthbert. "I thank thee for thy good counsel. I
will be speedily gone."
Joanna stood looking reflectively at him.
"Thou wouldst he safest within the walls that shelter the
treasure--with thy kinsfolk of the house of Wyvern."
"Nay, but I must first go to London," answered Cuthbert quickly; "I
have been long absent. My kinsfolk there will be looking for news
of me. And perchance my presence in the house of my kinswomen might
imperil them. I would not be a cause of danger to them."
"Thou art a bold and true-hearted lad," answered Joanna; "and it
may be well that for the nonce thou shouldest keep away from the
Cross Way House. Thy presence there might awaken suspicion; though
I scarce believe that any lust of gold would drive our people to
attack that house. Go then to London, and lose thyself there
awhile. Presently thou mayest return and see how thy sister fareth;
but not too soon--not too soon!"
Cuthbert started.
"My sister!" he said; "how knowest thou that?"
Joanna smiled her lofty smile.
"Ask a gipsy how she knoweth what takes place within the limits of
her domain! Tush, boy! thinkest thou that I do not know all that
passes in the forest? Thy sister has done well to find a shelter
there. She is safer at the Cross Way House than in this dell with
thee."
"If she is safe I can well look to myself," answered Cuthbert, with
the confidence of youth and strength. "To be warned where the peril
lies is half the battle. I will be cautious--I will be wary; and
having naught to keep me in the forest, I will start for London
town this very day."
"Ay, do so, and without an hour's delay. Old Miriam is raging like
a fury. Tyrrel may at any moment return, and I trow she will rouse
him to bitter enmity towards thee. Fly, before any strive to stay
thee. And when thou hast reached the city, go once again to Esther.
Tell her that the deed is done, the treasure found, that it lies in
the house of the Wyverns, and that the luck has come back to the
house, as was always said, through the daughters' sons."
"I will," answered Cuthbert; and bidding a farewell to the gipsy,
to whose protection and goodwill he owed so much, he left the dell
and made his way rapidly through the forest, till he struck the
road which would lead him to London.
He would not turn out of the direct way to go to the Cross Way
House, though he would gladly have seen his sister and Kate and his
aged kinswomen again. He did not wish them to know of the peril
which might threaten his own path, nor did he desire to draw
attention to that house by directing his steps thither in broad
daylight. Plainly his presence in the forest had already excited
remark. He had been seen far oftener than he had known. If he did
not linger, but pursued his way to London without delay, he might
reach it by nightfall, and that was no small inducement to him.
Petronella knew that he was bound thither; she would not reckon on
seeing him again. And there was Cherry at the other end. The
thought of seeing her again that very day drew him onwards like a
magnet. During these long weeks of search and hard toil, the
thought of Cherry had been the best sweetener of his labour. He had
talked of her with his sister, he had dreamed of her when he lay
down to sleep at night, and now he was on his way to see her, to
tell her all the tale, and ask her at her father's hand. The
thought was sweet to intoxication, and his eager anticipation
seemed to put wings to his feet.
How different were his feelings as he drew near to the great city
this second time! It was just about a year since he had entered it
for the first time, a stranger, homeless, well-nigh penniless, and
very uncertain of the reception he should receive from his kinsfolk
on the bridge. Now he stepped towards the region of shining lights
with all confidence and joy. He was rich past his wildest hopes,
for the treasure had proved to be far greater than even his fondest
dreams had credited; and he knew that when division was made, it
would be no niggard portion that would fall to the share of the
finder. He had won for himself such goodwill from his kinsfolk as
would stand him in good stead in days to come. He had enlarged his
scholarship, made for himself a number of friends of all degrees,
and, above all, had won the love of his cousin Cherry, and a
position which would enable him speedily to ask her at her father's
hands. He would fulfil his boyish promise made last Yuletide, when
he vowed her that the day should come when she should no longer
pine for the innocent gaieties and luxuries of wealth, but should
herself be a lady of some degree, and should have her house and her
horses and servants, and a bright and happy future with the husband
of her choice.
Now he had set foot upon the bridge, and was eagerly traversing the
familiar roadway, as the short daylight faded and the lights from
the houses shone out brighter and brighter in the gloom. His
uncle's house was almost in sight. His heart was beating high with
anticipation and delight, when a hand was laid suddenly upon his
shoulder, and he turned to find himself face to face with Anthony
Cole.
He was about to exclaim in words of pleasure and welcome, when his
attention was arrested by the strange expression upon the thin,
eager face--an expression so strange that it checked the
commonplace words of greeting that sprang naturally to Cuthbert's
lips, and he waited in silence for what Anthony should say.
"Thou hast come! it is well," said the latter, in tones that were
little above a whisper. "Methought that thou wouldst not be absent
at such a time. Well doth it behove every true son of the Church to
rally round her at such a moment. I felt assured that thou wouldst
be here. Others beside me have been watching for thee. It is well.
Keep thine own counsel; be wary, be discreet. And now go. It boots
not that we be seen talking together thus. When thou hast fitting
opportunity, come secretly to my house; thou wilt be welcome
there."
And half pushing Cuthbert from him before the bewildered youth had
time to speak a single word, the printer disappeared within his own
door, and Cuthbert was left to make his way to his uncle's house.
"Beshrew me if I know what Master Anthony means!" said Cuthbert to
himself. "I trow there be matters stirring in London town of which
we in the country know nothing. How strange it is that one can
hardly set foot in this great seething city without hearing words
of mystery--without feeling oneself enwrapped in its strange
atmosphere of doubt and perplexity. Something is doubtless astir of
which I know naught; but at my uncle's house I shall hear all."
The shutters were just being put up at Martin Holt's as Cuthbert
stepped across the threshold. The servant uttered a cry of
astonishment as he saw his master's nephew, and Martin himself came
forward from the little room behind.
"Bless me, is it thou, Cuthbert?" he exclaimed in surprise. "Well,
boy, thou art welcome since thou art come, though we had almost
begun to think thou hadst forgot us and thy promise to return. Come
upstairs and greet thy aunt and cousins. Hast thou seen aught of
Cherry, as thou comest from the south?"
Cuthbert stepped back a pace, and some of the light went out of his
face.
"Cherry!" he stammered, taken aback. "How should I have seen her?
Is she not here?"
"Not for a matter of four days. She is helping her aunt, Prudence
Dyson at the Cross Way House, to wait upon some guests the ladies
are entertaining. Methought if you had come that way you might have
chanced upon her."
A keen thrill of disappointment ran through Cuthbert's frame. To
think how near he had been to Cherry and had never guessed it! If
only he had called at the Cross Way House that day!
"I have not been there for the matter of a week. I was last at
Trevlyn Chase; but mine uncle and his son have gone to London, as I
heard. I had hoped to find Cherry here."
"Well, thou wilt find all but her. Go up, go up! Thou wilt need
refreshment after thy journey, and thou shalt hear the news as we
sup. Thine old room shall be made ready for thee. I am glad to see
thy face again, boy; and would hear thy story anon."
Cuthbert received a warmer welcome than he had looked for from the
aunt and cousins upstairs. Perhaps they were all missing the
brightness that had left them when Cherry went. Perhaps the vacant
place at the board day by day was an offence to the conservative
eye of Mistress Susan. But whatever was the cause, there was no
denying the cordiality of the reception accorded to him; and after
the lonely life of the forest, and all his wanderings there, his
strange resting places, and many hours of watching, toil, and
anxious fear, it seemed pleasant indeed to be sitting at this
hospitable board, warmed by the friendly glow of the fire, and
discussing the savoury viands that always adorned a table of
Mistress Susan's spreading, and which did indeed taste well after
the hardy and sometimes scanty fare he had known in the forest.
But his open-air life had done him good in many ways. His uncle
smiled, and told him he had grown to be a very son of Anak, and
that he was as brown as a gipsy; whilst his cousins looked at him
with furtive admiration, and Keziah could almost have wept that
Cherry was not there to welcome him.
Cuthbert, however, quickly got over his disappointment on this
score, and after swallowing a few sighs, was content to think that
it might indeed be best so. Cherry would learn where he was from
Petronella, and would hear from her that his heart was still her
own, and that success had crowned his search after the lost
treasure. He could go to seek her shortly, when the gipsy tribe
should have drawn away from that part of the forest into the
quarters they preferred during the winter months. Were she to be
here, he must surely betray himself, and should have to speak
immediately to Martin Holt of his desire to make Cherry his wife.
Somehow, when face to face with his uncle, he felt less confident
of winning his sanction for this step than he had done when away
from him in the forest. There it had seemed perfectly simple so
long as he could show the father that he had the means to keep a
wife in comfort. Now he began to wonder if this would be enough.
Hints were dropped by both the Holts regarding Cherry's approaching
marriage with Jacob Dyson. Mistress Susan openly regretted her
absence from home as hindering that ceremony; and although Martin
Holt spoke with more reticence, it was plain he was still
cherishing the hope of the match when his wilful youngest should be
a little older.
It might be that Cherry's absence at this time was fortunate rather
than the reverse. Cuthbert, at any rate, was relieved from the
necessity for immediate action; and when he had spoken a little of
himself, his kinsfolk, and the visits he had paid during his
wanderings in the forest (keeping the real object of those
wanderings quite out of the talk), he turned his conversation to
other matters, and asked what was passing in London, and what was
chiefly stirring men's minds.
"Marry it is the opening of Parliament that is the chiefest thing,"
said Martin Holt. "It is said in the city that his Majesty loves
not his good Parliament; and truly it looks like it, since he has
put off its opening so many a time. First it was to have been last
February, then not till the third of this present month. Now it is
again prolongued till the fifth of November next; but I trow his
Majesty will scarce dare to postpone again. His people like not
those rulers who fear to meet those who are chosen by them to
debate on matters of the state. It looks not well for the sovereign
to fear to meet his people."
Cuthbert, who knew little about such matters, asked many questions
about Parliament and its assemblies. His uncle answered him freely
and fully, and explained to him exactly the site of the building
where the great body assembled.
"Thou canst take the wherry thou used to love so well, and row
thyself to Westminster one of these days, and look well at the
Parliament Houses," said Martin Holt. "It is a grand spectacle to
see the King come in state to open the assembly. Thou mayest see
that sight, too, an thou purposest to stay with us so long."
"I would gladly do so," answered Cuthbert, who remembered that he
was bidden not to return to the forest too quickly. He knew that,
now he was safely away, Joanna would allow all search to be made
after him there, and that it would soon be ascertained that he had
fled. But whilst that search was going on, he was safest in London,
and was glad enough of the opportunity of seeing any gay pageant.
As he lay in his narrow bed that night, enjoying the comfort of it
after his chilly nook in the tree, which had been his best shelter
of late, and somewhat disturbed by the noises that from time to
time arose from the street below, he recalled to mind the strange
greeting he had received from Anthony Cole, and wondered anew at
his mysterious words.
And then his fancy somehow strayed to the great Parliament Houses
of which his uncle had spoken. He remembered that strange dark
journey across the river from Lambeth and the lonely house there to
Westminster and its lofty palaces. He recalled the locality of the
house he had entered, where Catesby and his friends were assembled
at some strange toil, and the terrified aspect these men all wore
when some unexpected sound had smitten upon their ears. He recalled
the sudden fierce grip of Catesby's hand upon his arm before he
recognized the face of the stranger within their midst. He
recollected the threats he had striven to speak binding him to the
silence he was so willing to promise.
What did it all mean? what could it mean? Lying in the dark, and
turning the matter over and over in his mind, Cuthbert began to
feel some fearful and sinister suspicions.
The month when all this had happened had been early in the year;
was it January, or early February? He could scarce remember, but he
knew it was one or the other. And had not his uncle said that
Parliament was to have met in February? Now that it was about to
meet soon again, had not Anthony spoken words implying that some
muster of friends was looked for in London; and had not Anthony and
his son always regarded him in the light of a friend and ally?
Cuthbert was by this time aware that he had but little love left
for the creed in which he had been reared. It seemed to him that
all, or at any rate far the greater part, of what was precious in
that creed was equally open to him in the Church established in the
land, together with the liberty to read the Scriptures for himself,
and to exercise his own freedom of conscience as no priest of the
Romish Church would ever let him exercise it. With him there had
been no wild revulsion of feeling, no sense of tearing and rending
away from one faith to join himself to another. His own convictions
had been of gradual growth, and he still felt and would always feel
a certain loving loyalty towards the Church of his childhood.
Still, he was increasingly convinced of the fact that it was not
within that fold that he himself could ever find true peace and
conviction of soul; and though no ardent theologian, and by no
means given over to controversy and dogmatism, he had reached a
steady conclusion as to his own faith, and one that was little
likely to be shaken.
At the same time he was kindly disposed to those of his countrymen
who were still beneath the Papal yoke, and were suffering for their
old allegiance. He honoured their constancy, and felt even a boyish
sense of shame in having, as it were, deserted the weaker side when
it was in trouble and undergoing persecution. He felt a qualm of
uneasiness when he thought of this, and would gladly have shared
the perils if he could have shared the convictions of those who had
striven to make him their friend. Cuthbert was a little in advance
of his times in the facility with which he set aside matters of
opinion in the choosing of his friends. Those were days in which
men were seldom able to do this. They still divided themselves into
opposing camps, and hated not only the opinions embraced by their
rivals, but the rivals themselves, without any discrimination at
all. To be intimate and friendly with those of hostile opinions was
far more rare then than it has since become; and Cuthbert, who
possessed that faculty, was liable to be greatly misunderstood, and
to run into perils of which he little dreamed.
Thinking of those things he had seen that strange night led him to
wonder more and more what it could all mean; and, accordingly, upon
the morrow the first visit he paid was to Anthony Cole on the
bridge, hoping that through him this curiosity might be in some way
satisfied.
Cuthbert took the privilege accorded him in old times, and walked
through the house and up the narrow staircase without pausing in
the shop below. It was still early, and business had not yet begun.
The house was very silent; but he heard low-toned voices above, and
pursued his way towards them. As he did so a door, the existence of
which had never been discovered by him before, though he thought
the house was well known by him from attic to basement, suddenly
opened from the staircase, and a head appeared for a single
instant, and was as suddenly withdrawn. The door closed sharply,
and he heard the click as of a spring falling back to its place. He
passed his hand across his eyes as he exclaimed beneath his breath:
"Sure that was Father Urban--"
But he began to feel doubtful as to his right to come and go in
this house at will, and was about to descend the stairs quietly
again, when a door opened from above, and some one came hastily
down the stairs. Cuthbert fancied he saw the gleam of some weapon
in the hand of the advancing figure, and felt that he had better be
upon his guard.
"Cuthbert Trevlyn!" exclaimed a familiar voice, and a hand was
slipped beneath the doublet, and there was no further gleam of cold
steel. "I am right glad to welcome thee. It is well for friends to
muster at such a time. Comest thou with news?"
Walter Cole was the speaker. His face too wore something of the
look which Cuthbert had observed on the father's the previous
evening--an expression of strained expectancy, as if with long
waiting mind and spirit had alike grown worn and over anxious. The
bright eyes scanned his face eagerly. Cuthbert felt half ashamed of
his ignorance of and indifference to the burning questions of the
day.
"I have heard naught, I know naught. I have been living the life of
the forests these past months," he answered, following Walter into
a small room where they had often worked together. "I have heard no
word of what was passing in the world; I come to learn that here."
The eagerness faded from Walter's face. He spoke much more quietly.
"Belike thou wert right to hide and live thus obscure; many of our
leaders have done the like. It is ofttimes the best and the safest
plan. But the time is at hand, and we must rally around them now.
When the hour has struck and when the deed is done, then will it be
for us to work--then will our hour of toil come. East and west,
north and south, must we spur forth with the tidings. The whole
nation must hear it and be roused. The blow must be struck whilst
the iron is hot. Thus and only thus can we be secure of the
promised victory."
Walter spoke quietly, yet with an undercurrent of deep enthusiasm
that struck an answering chord in Cuthbert's heart. All true and
deep feeling moved him to sympathy. His friend was talking in
riddles to him; but he felt the earnestness and devotion of the
man, and his sympathy was at once aroused.
"What hour? what blow? what deed?" he asked wonderingly. "I know
not of what thou speakest."
Walter drew his brows together and regarded him with an expression
of intense and wondering scrutiny. When he spoke it was in a
different tone, as though he were carefully weighing his every
word, as though he were a little uncertain of the ground on which
he stood. There was something of evasive vagueness in his tone,
whilst his eyes were fixed on Cuthbert's face as though he would
read his very soul.
"Methought thou knewest how cruelly we suffered, and that we trust
some stroke of kind fortune's wheel may ere long make life
something better for us. The King meets his Parliament soon. Then
is the time when men's grievances may be discussed, and when there
is hope for all that wiser and more merciful laws may be passed. We
have gathered together at this time to see what may be done. We are
resolved, as thou must surely know, not to suffer like this for
ever. Half the people of the realm be with us. It were strange if
nothing could be accomplished. Cuthbert Trevlyn, answer me this:
thou dost wish us well; thou art not a false friend--one who would
deceive and betray?"
"Never, never, never!" answered Cuthbert, with all the heat of
youth and generous feeling. "I would never betray those who have
trusted me, not though they were my foes. And I too hate and
abominate these iniquitous laws that persecute men's bodies for
what they hold with their minds and souls. I have suffered
persecution myself. I know how bitter a thing it is. I would have
every man free to believe that which his conscience approves. I
would join with any who would implore the King to show mercy and
clemency to his persecuted subjects."
Walter's face relaxed; he looked relieved and pleased.
"Methought that we could trust thee, Cuthbert. Thou art a Trevlyn;
it must needs be thou art stanch. I am right glad that thou art
here. There may be work yet for thee to do. Thou wilt abide in
thine uncle's house until--"
"Until Parliament opens at least," answered Cuthbert quickly. "I
have said as much to him, I would fain be there then and see it
all. And my presence in the forest is known by foes; it is no place
for me longer."
Then breaking off, for he had not meant to say so much, and had no
wish to be further questioned on the subject, he asked in a low
tone:
"Sure it was Father Urban whose face I saw on the stairs but now?"
"Hist! silence!" whispered Walter, with a glance enforcing caution;
"do not breathe that name even within these walls. He is here at
risk of his life; but at such a moment he will not be away. A
warrant is out against him. He may not venture abroad by night or
day. But he can be useful in a thousand ways, for he knows more
than any other man of some matters appertaining to the state. And
if our hopes be realized, then he will emerge from his prison and
rove the country from end to end. He has friends in every place. To
him we shall look for guidance in a hundred ways."
Walter's eyes glowed. He looked like one to whom triumph is a
certainty--one who anticipates success and already tastes the
sweets thereof. Cuthbert was growing uncomfortable. He felt as
though he were hearing more than he ought to do. True, the Coles
had talked in very much this fashion all through the dark days of
the previous winter when he had been so much with them. They were
always looking for a day of release, always dwelling on the bright
prospects of the future. But some instinct told Cuthbert that there
was a difference now in the fashion of their talk, and he was made
uncomfortable by it though he scarce knew why.
He rose to go.
"I have but just returned. I have many visits to pay. I will come
again anon," he said.
"Ay, but come not too openly. Let us not be seen consorting
together. And as thou walkest the street, keep thine eyes and thine
ears open and attent, and learn ever what men say and think. If
thou hearest aught of moment, bring it to us. Every whisper may be
of value. And now farewell. Come not again by day, but slip in by
the door in the archway when all be wrapped in gloom. So it is
safest."
Cuthbert drew a deep breath of relief when he stood once again in
the fresh air. He walked rapidly through the familiar sunny streets
and strove to forget the impression made upon him by the recent
interview.
"Plots, plots, plots!" he muttered--"nothing but dark plots, and
the hope that things will thus be set right. I misdoubt me if it
will ever be by such means. Poor souls! I pity them with all my
heart; but I like not their ways. They are not the ways of truth,
of uprightness, of equity. Methinks I had better hold aloof and
have no dealings with them. They seem to think because I like
them--the men themselves--and mislike these persecutions even as
they do, that I am one with them and understand their ways and
their deeds. But I do not, I do not, and I think not that I ever
shall. I will go mine own way, and they must go theirs. It were
best not to meddle too much in strange matters. Now I will go and
seek honest Jacob. From him methinks I shall get as warm a welcome,
but a welcome that is not tinged with these mysteries and dark
words."