"That is our man! Seize him, bind him, and bring him before the
chief!"
Cuthbert heard these words spoken in a clear low tone not far away;
but the fog wreaths were hanging upon the river, and he could not
see the speakers. Instinctively he bent harder to his oar. The
wherry shot at redoubled speed through the dull, gleaming water;
but there were sounds astern of other plashing oars, the sound of
voices low yet eager, and Cuthbert felt sure he heard the name of
Trevlyn spoken in accents of subdued fierceness. He could hear by
the sound of the oars in the rowlocks that there were many rowers
in the pursuing boat. That they were in pursuit of him he could not
doubt, and he set his teeth hard as he plied his oars, for he felt
that the issue of this chase might mean life or death to him.
Esther's warning was ringing in his ears: "Beware the dark-flowing
river--the lone house--the black cellar!"
How had he regarded that warning? He had not heeded it at all. He
had let his curiosity and love of adventure conquer both prudence
and caution; and now he was well aware that he was in some
immediate and imminent peril.
He had been warned to fly from London, but he had not obeyed that
warning. This had been partly out of generosity to his kinsmen, for
it seemed to him that by his presence amongst them he might be
increasing the peril in which they stood, and he had been told that
that was in great part due to his own rashness and hardihood.
He had remained in London. This day was the very eve of that fifth
of November on which the King's Parliament was to assemble in
state. All the city was silent and tranquil. The vague sense of
expectation and excitement that Cuthbert had observed amongst some
of his acquaintances a few days back seemed now to have died down.
Was it the hush that immediately precedes the breaking of the storm
cloud; or had the fearful tale whispered to him by the wise woman
been but the product of her weird fancy, and all his fears and
terrors groundless?
This was the question which had been agitating Cuthbert during the
past two days; and upon this dim, foggy afternoon he had taken his
wherry and resolved to find out for himself the whole truth of the
matter.
Cuthbert had not forgotten Robert Catesby, or the priest to whom he
always felt he owed his life. If any plot were in hand at this
juncture, both these men were most certainly concerned in it. And
at the lone house at Lambeth he could surely get speech of Catesby,
or learn where he was to be found; and it seemed to Cuthbert that
he could not sleep another night until he had set at rest the
doubts and fears crowding his mind.
Did he go with a view of warning Catesby that the plot was
discovered--that the dark secret was out? He himself scarcely knew.
He was not at all sure that he believed himself in the hideous
magnitude of the contemplated deed as Esther had described it.
Remembering as he did all he had heard and seen, he could not doubt
that some secret plot was afoot, but he thought it highly probable
that the scope and purpose of it had been misunderstood; and there
was certainly this feeling in his mind, that a timely word of
warning to those concerned might serve to avert a terrible doom
from any who might lie already under suspicion.
He had not been able to gain speech with Father Urban; for although
he was convinced the priest was in hiding within the house of the
Coles, both father and son resolutely denied this, and it seemed of
late as though they distrusted Cuthbert himself, and desired no
more of his company.
Martin Holt and honest Jacob Dyson had warned him to be cautious in
his dealings with any of the Romish persuasion, and Cuthbert had
been content to take this advice. But this last afternoon before
the great day so long anticipated might surely be put to some good
purpose, and the thought that those men in that Lambeth house might
be unwittingly remaining to be caught in a trap impelled Cuthbert
to strive to have speech with Master Robert Catesby and put him on
his guard, if he could not persuade him to abandon whatever rash
scheme he had in his head.
Sympathy with the persecuted went some small way in blinding
Cuthbert's eyes to the terrible nature of the purposed crime.
Moreover, he thought it like enough that Esther had heard a grossly
exaggerated account of what was determined. Still, what she had
heard others might have heard, and nothing was too bad to find
credit with those who planned and desired the ruin of all who held
views different from their own.
These and similar thoughts had been occupying Cuthbert's mind as he
bent to his oars and propelled his light wherry upstream towards
the lonely house. The tide was running out, and rowing was hard
work; but he was making progress steadily, and had no thought of
any personal peril until the sound of voices through the fog broke
upon his ear, and he realized that he himself was an object of
pursuit.
Then the wise woman's warnings flashed across him with vivid
distinctness. Had she not bidden him beware of just those perils
which he seemed resolved to court? Why had he forgotten or
disregarded her words? Had they not proved words of wisdom again
and again? And now here was he on the dark-flowing river alone,
unarmed save for the dagger in his belt, and far from all chance of
help.
Just behind was a boat in hot pursuit, and there were many rowers
in that boat, as the sounds told him. If he could hear their oars,
they could hear his. And though the twilight was creeping on, the
fog seemed to be lifting. Only the vapour wreaths hid him from the
gaze of his foes. If these were to be dispersed his last chance was
gone.
The river was absolutely lonely and deserted at this time of year
and at this spot. Lower down, schooners and barges were moored.
Near to the bridge he might have had some hope of being heard had
he shouted aloud for aid; here there was no such hope. He was away
on the Lambeth side: there were no houses and no boats of any kind.
His only chance lay in reaching the shore, springing to land, and
trusting to his fleetness to carry him into hiding. The lonely
house could not be far away. Perchance within its walls he might
find a hiding place, or gain admittance within its doors. At least
that was the only chance he had; and inspired by this thought he
drove his light wherry swiftly through the water, and felt the keel
grate against the bank almost before he was prepared for it.
The pursuers were still coming on, but did not appear to be
distressing themselves. Probably they felt so secure of their prey
that they could afford to be moderately cautious in the midst of
these fog wreaths that made river travelling somewhat perilous.
Cuthbert shipped his oars and sprang lightly ashore, leaving the
wherry to its fate. Then he raced like a hunted hare along the
margin of the river, and before five minutes had passed he had
scrambled up and leaped the wall of this lonely river-side house,
and was crouching breathless and exhausted in a thick covert upon
the farther side, straining his ears for sounds of pursuit.
These were not long in coming. He heard regular steps approaching
the wall, and a voice said:
"Here are the tracks. He got over here. Follow, and find him now.
He is in a trap!"
"Am I indeed in a trap?" thought Cuthbert, setting his teeth hard;
"that remains to be proved!"
And gliding out from the covert with that noiseless movement he had
learned during his residence in the forest, he raced like a
veritable shadow in the direction of the house.
He had reached the building rising black and grim against the
darkening sky; he had almost laid his hand upon the knocker,
intending to make known his presence and his peril, and demand
admittance and speech with Master Robert Catesby, when forth from
the shadows of the porch stepped a tall dark figure, and he felt a
shiver of dismay run through him as a loaded pistol was levelled at
his head.
"It is the spy again--the spy I have sworn to sweep from our path.
False Trevlyn, thine hour has come!"
A puff of smoke--a loud report. Cuthbert had flung up his hand to
shield his face, for the barrel was aimed straight at his temple.
He was conscious of a sudden stinging pain in his wrist. A
momentary giddiness seized him, and he stumbled and fell. A
sardonic laugh seemed to ring in his ears. He thought he heard the
banging of a door and the drawing of heavy bolts. Probably the man
who had fired was so certain of his aim that he did not even pause
to see how the shot had told.
"Your tongue will not wag again before the morrow!"
Those words seemed to be ringing in Cuthbert's ears, and then for a
moment all was blackness and darkness, with a sense of distress and
suffocation and stabs of sudden pain.
When he awoke from what he first thought had been a nightmare
dream, he was puzzled indeed to know where he was, and for a while
believed that he was dreaming still, and that he should soon awake
to find himself in his little attic chamber in the bridge house.
But as his senses gradually cleared themselves he became aware that
he was in no such safe or desirable spot. He was lying on some
cloaks in the bow of a large boat, which was being rowed steadily
and silently up stream by four stalwart men. The daylight was gone,
but so too was the fog, and the moon was shining down and giving a
sufficient light. In the stern of the boat sat two other men, whose
faces Cuthbert could dimly see, though their hats were drawn down
over their brows. These faces did not seem entirely unfamiliar, yet
he could not remember where it was he had seen them before. His
senses were cloudy and confused. He felt giddy and exhausted. He
had no disposition to try to move; but he soon found that even had
he been so disposed he could have accomplished little. His feet
were bound together by a cord, and his right hand was bound up and
utterly powerless. He remembered the shot levelled at him in the
garden of the river-side house, and felt certain that his wrist was
broken.
And who were these men who were carrying him away captive, and what
was their motive? He imagined that they must surely be those fierce
pursuers who had striven to capture him upon the river, and who had
followed him into the garden where he had hoped to hide himself
from their malice. Doubtless they had found him as he lay in a
momentary faint, and had borne him back to their boat; though what
was their motive in thus capturing him, and whither they were now
transporting him, he could not imagine. His mind was still confused
and weak. Esther's words of warning seemed to mingle with the
gurgle of the water against the bows of the boat. His temples
throbbed, there was burning pain in his wounded arm; but the night
wind fanned his brow, and brought with it a certain sense of
refreshment.
Hitherto there had been unbroken silence in the boat, and the
rowers had steadily plied their oars without uttering a word; but
now that they were out in mid river, without the smallest fear of
pursuit, far away from sight or sound from the shore, they paused
as by common consent, and one of them suddenly said:
"Now, comrades, we must settle which it is to be. Are we to take
him to Miriam or to Tyrrel?"
Those words told Cuthbert who were his captors. He was in the hands
of the gipsies or highwaymen--probably the prisoner of a mixed band
who had joined together to effect his capture. As the discussion
went on it became more evident that there were two parties and two
factions, both anxious to possess his person, and he listened with
bated breath and a beating heart to every word that passed.
"I say to Miriam," spoke up one swarthy fellow, with a backward
look towards the prisoner in the bow. "Miriam is wild to have him.
She is certain sure he has killed Long Robin. She would give her
two eyes to have vengeance on some Trevlyn. Why not let her have
the boy, to do with as she will?"
"Because all she cares for is to burn him alive, as her old mother
was burnt by some Trevlyn long ago; and what good would that do to
the rest of us? Long Robin was no such friend to us. If Miriam's
story be true, he was a treacherous fox, and deserved the fate he
got. If he it was who stole and hid the treasure, and kept the
secret all these years, hoping to enjoy the fruits of it alone,
why, he was a knave and a villain, say I; and that old hag is
little better. What do we care for her vow of vengeance? what is it
to us? Tyrrel, now, wants the prisoner for a purpose. This lad
knows where the treasure is, and he must give up the secret to us.
Once we know where he found it, and if moved where he has stowed
it, we shall speedily be rich for the rest of our days. You all
know that the forest is getting something too hot for us. Tyrrel
has decreed that we must go elsewhere, where we are less known. It
would be a thousand pities to go without this treasure, since it
really lies beneath our hand. A curse upon Long Robin, say I, for
keeping it hid all these years! It was a scurvy trick! and Miriam
was privy to it. I will raise no hand to help her. She may die with
her vow unfulfilled for all I care. Had she but acted fairly by us,
then would we have given yon lad up to her tender mercies; but not
now--not now!"
A murmur of assent ran through the whole party. The only one to
demur was the first speaker.
"The old woman got her death blow when Robin's corpse was found.
She will not last many weeks more, they say. I should well like to
bring her a bit of happiness at the end; and her one cry is for
vengeance upon the Trevlyn brood. She would well like to have yon
prisoner brought bound to her, Why not lead him first to Tyrrel and
then to Miriam?"
"When Tyrrel has him, he will decree what is done with him, not
we," said another voice. "He has no love for Miriam and her
insensate hate. Miriam and Long Robin have both played us false;
and Tyrrel loves the dark-eyed Joanna, and she will not stoop to
any deed of cruelty or tyranny. He will have a care how he treats
the boy over whom her mantle has once been thrown. But the secret
of the gold he must and will have. We will not let him go without
that."
"To Tyrrel then!" cried several voices with one accord. "I trow he
will have scant patience with any son of the house of Trevlyn,
since he was so bested by those other Trevlyns but two short
evenings back. He will be glad enow to have this lad brought before
him, for he verily feared that the whole brood had found shelter
within the gates of the Cross Way House."
Cuthbert listened eagerly to these last words, which told him that
his kinsmen at least had escaped peril and had found a safe shelter
where the treasure lay. Knowing that this was so, and that the
treasure was under their safe keeping, even did these men throw
aside the tradition of years and make a raid upon the home of the
Wyverns, his mind became somewhat calmed, although his own fate was
terribly uncertain, and he might have to pay the penalty of his
rashness with his life.
The rowers bent to their oars once again when this knotty point had
been settled. They rowed on steadily for a short time, and then out
of the darkness came a sharp clear hail.
"Who goes there?"
"Friends. We have caught the quarry; we are bringing him to
Tyrrel."
"Good. He has been waiting with impatience this two hours for news.
His wound doth not make him the more patient."
"We bring him at least the best medicine.
"Easy, lads! Ship your oars. Catch hold of her prow, Toby. So here
we are safe and sound, and there is the prisoner!"
Cuthbert had raised his head, and supporting himself on his left
elbow was gazing about him from side to side. He was still in the
middle of the river; but the boat was now alongside a big barge
moored in midstream, and from this barge several lights were
gleaming, whilst voices were answering and asking questions, and
the name of Tyrrel passed continually from mouth to mouth.
Then the rowers in the bow came and lifted him bodily in their
arms, taking care not to be needlessly rough with the broken arm
that gave him considerable pain; and so soon as he was placed upon
the barge, the rope that bound his feet was cut, somebody remarking
that it was needless now to hobble him, since he was safely on
board and beneath the eye of the whole crew.
"And where is Tyrrel?" asked several voices.
"Below in the cabin, and waiting impatiently for news. Go, and take
the boy with you; the sight of him will be the best medicine for
him."
Cuthbert was led along, dazed and bewildered, but calm from a sense
of his own helplessness, and perhaps from bodily weakness, too.
This weakness surprised him, for he did not know how much blood he
had lost, and he could not account for the way in which the lights
swam before his eyes and his steps reeled, as he was taken down a
dark ladder-like staircase and into a low long room with a swinging
lamp suspended from the ceiling. It felt close and airless after
the coldness of the night, and everything swam in a mist before his
eyes; but he heard a voice not altogether unfamiliar say in
authoritative accents: "Let him sit down, and give him a stoup of
wine;" and presently his vision cleared, and he found himself
sitting at one side of a rude table opposite the highway chieftain
Tyrrel, whose face he well remembered. They were surrounded by a
ring of stalwart men, some of whose faces were vaguely familiar to
him from having been seen at the old mill a year ago from now.
He noted that Tyrrel's face was pale, and that his head was
bandaged. It was plain that he had received recent injuries, and
apparently these did not smooth his temper. His face was dark and
stern, and the eyes that looked straight at Cuthbert gleamed
ominously beneath their heavy brows.
"Well, boy," he said at length, seeing Cuthbert's gaze fasten upon
him with inquiry and recognition, "so we meet again."
Cuthbert answered nothing. He did not intend to speak a needless
word. He had some inkling now of the motive for his capture, but he
was not going to show his hand.
"Cuthbert Trevlyn," said Tyrrel, in brief, terse sentences, "I have
not brought thee here to bandy words with thee; I will to the point
at once. I will tell thee why thou art here. Thou art in deadly
peril from without. There is a vile Popish plot but recently
discovered. The perpetrators and conspirators will all be seized
upon the morrow. Thou art held to be one of these. Thou wilt be
seized amongst others. Innocent or guilty, it matters not. Thou
wilt die the traitor's death--the hideous doom of those accused of
high treason. Thou wilt be lucky if thou art not racked first to
make thee confess what men hold (whether truly or falsely) that
thou knowest. I have interposed to save thee from that fate. I have
had thee pursued and brought hither to me. I can and I will save
thee and hide thee till all pursuit is over. But thou must purchase
my protection at a price."
Cuthbert listened as one in a dream. He knew that Tyrrel might be
speaking truth. He knew that he had received warnings before
telling him he was suspected and watched. He recalled many past
moments when he had felt that he had placed himself in a false
position and might have laid himself open to misconstruction. But
he had never thought himself in actual peril from the arm of the
law. Was Tyrrel speaking the truth now, or was he only striving to
intimidate him for his own ends?
Fixing his dark eyes full upon the face of the man opposite, he
asked:
"And what is that price?"
"The secret of the Trevlyn treasure," was the calm reply--"the
secret thou didst learn from Long Robin ere thou didst lay him in
his bloody grave, and which now thou holdest alone. Where is the
treasure, boy? Speak, and all will be well. For bethink thee, if
thou holdest thy peace I give thee up on the morrow to the
myrmidons of the law, and the golden secret will perish with thee,
none profiting thereby. Tell it but to me, and by that honour which
I have ever held sacred, thou shalt be released and placed in a
secure hiding place till all hue and cry be past. Speak, then, for
thy silence can aid none--least of all thyself. Tell the whole
story and guide us to the treasure, and all will be well."
Cuthbert sat silent and motionless, turning the matter rapidly over
in his mind. What should he do? Would it be a lasting disgrace to
yield to thoughts of personal peril, and reveal all he knew? That
revelation would not place the treasure in Tyrrel's hands. He might
fear to assail the Cross Way House; and now that house might be so
well guarded that it could defy attack.
Should he risk it? Should he tell all? For a moment he was half
disposed to do so; but another thought followed, and the words were
checked ere they had reached his lips.
What if further business had taken away Sir Richard and his son
from the lonely house? What if, in the tumult and alarm that the
news of such a plot would spread through the kingdom, the household
within those walls should be left unprotected by these kinsmen, who
might have occasion to make their way to their own home to see how
it fared with those left there?
He knew the fearless character of Lady Humbert. She would never
keep Sir Richard from his wife at a time of anxiety and possible
peril. They might already have left the Cross Way House for Trevlyn
Chase (for Lady Humbert knew that the secret of the treasure lay
with none but themselves, and would have no fears for that). And if
in the dead of night the whole force of the gipsy folk and the
highwaymen--or even these latter alone, if they could not get the
gipsies to join with them--were to sweep down and attack that
solitary house, what chance would its inmates have against them?
None, absolutely none! The golden hoard would speedily be made away
with; the treasure would be lost to Trevlyn for ever, and all the
golden hopes and dreams that had been centred upon it would be
dispersed to the winds.
Should he have it always on his mind that he had sold the secret
from craven fear? Should he ever know peace of mind or self respect
again?
Never! he would die first. And surely since he had no dealings in
this plot, and was innocent of all thought of treason, no hurt
could come to him even were he given up. Surely he could prove his
innocence, though with his head so confused as it now was he scarce
knew how he should be able to parry and answer the questions
addressed to him. Perchance some knowledge of his peril would reach
the ears of Lord Culverhouse, and he would come to his aid. At
least he would not be coerced and threatened into betraying his
secret. Tyrrel might do his worst; he would defy him.
He looked straight at the robber chief, who sat awaiting his reply
with a cold smile of triumph on his face, and answered briefly:
"I shall tell you nothing."
A gleam of anger shone in the man's eyes.
"Have a care how thou answerest me. Remember that thy secret will
perish with thee when thou goest to the traitor's death."
"It will not," answered Cuthbert coolly. "There be others of my
kindred that know it. The treasure will be saved for Trevlyn, do
what thou wilt with me."
"I shall do as I have said," answered Tyrrel, speaking very clearly
and distinctly. "My plans are all well laid. If within two hours
thou hast not altered thy mind, thou wilt be rowed ashore by my
men, bound hand and foot. Thou wilt then be given in custody to
some good friends of ours on shore, who lie not under suspicion as
we do. By them thou wilt be guarded till morning breaks, and then
all London will be ringing with the news of this foul plot, and men
will be ready to tear limb from limb all those who are so much as
suspected to have had dealings with the false traitors who have
planned all. Then wilt thou, Cuthbert Trevlyn, whose name has
already been whispered abroad as one having cognizance of this
matter, be handed over to the tender mercies of the law. It will be
told of thee how thou wast caught in the very garden of the house
where these vile conspirators resort, and that thou didst fight
like a fury to save thyself from capture. Thy dealings with Father
Urban will be remembered against thee, and many another thing
beside. A traitor's death will be thine end; and thou wilt wish in
vain when those dark hours come upon thee thou hadst saved thyself
when yet there was time. I give thee two hours to bethink thee of
these things. If thou wilt speak plainly, tell us all thou knowest,
and help to place the treasure in our hands, we will save thee from
the fate that awaits thee on shore. If not, we will give thee over
to it; and then no power on earth can save thee."
But Cuthbert's mind had already been made up, and he did not waver.
He knew himself innocent of all complicity in the plot, and he
clung to the hope that his innocence might be proved. In no case
would he purchase his freedom by a loss of self respect, by a
cowardly yielding up of that very treasure it had been the dream of
his life to restore to the house of Trevlyn. Argument and menace
were alike thrown away upon him; and two hours later, bound hand
and foot, as Tyrrel had said, he was thrown roughly into the bottom
of the wherry, and rowed downstream in dead silence, he knew not
whither.