AT "THE SIGN OF THE LEOPARD."
Winter waited long for his servant's return. He walked restlessly up
and down the chamber, ever and anon pausing, either for recourse to
the flagon on the table, or to draw aside the curtains and gaze out
upon the street. At last, sinking into a chair with a muttered curse
at the long delay, he fell into deep sleep, overcome by the wine in
which he had so freely indulged. Dawn broke gray and cheerless. The
first rays of the sun penetrated into the chamber and fell upon the
sleeper,--his position was unchanged since the small hours of the
night. Gradually, as the light increased, he stirred uneasily, awoke,
and rubbing his eyes, looked about as though not sure of the
surroundings. His eye rested upon the flagon, then slowly traveled
toward the window. The recollection of the last night, however,
flashed before him, and springing from the chair, he dashed out into
the corridor.
"Richard!" he called. No answer followed his summons.
"Richard," he repeated, in a still louder tone. The only response was
the echo of his own voice.
"What mad business be this?" exclaimed he, retracing his steps and
looking wildly about the apartment. "By this cursed drink have I
brought ruin to our hopes and cause. Out upon thee," he cried in a
transport of passion, suddenly seizing the flagon, and flinging it
with all his might across the room. The heavy piece of metal struck
the wall, sending out a deluge of wine, and falling with a crash,
shattered into fragments an ivory crucifix resting upon a small table.
Winter stood aghast at the havoc wrought.
"An omen," he whispered, white to the lips, glancing about with
frightened looks, then kneeling to take up the broken cross.
"See," he cried, holding with trembling fingers the image of the
crucified Savior which had escaped the wreck, and now dripped with
wine;--"Christ's wounds do open their red mouths and bleed afresh at
my awful deeds." The man arose, crossed himself, and thrust the image
into his doublet, then wiping the sweat from his brow sank into a
chair.
"'Tis not by these tremblings, or vain regrets, that I may fortify
myself, or mend what's done," he exclaimed. "I must bethink me, and
let reason check the consequences of my folly. The girl asseverated
that she heard all which transpired at her house last night. Oh, most
unfortunate chance which gave the words into her ear! What foul fiend
did raise the cup to my lips and leave my wit too weak to turn the
deadly stroke? Nay," he continued, after several moments, shaking his
head, "she'll not make known the purport of our speech, for the love
she bears her father is a potent hostage for her silence, and if I be
judge, Mistress Elinor will make scant mention of her visit
yesternight. Even if there be small love in her heart for me, a most
wholesome fear doth take its place, and for my present purpose one
will serve as fittingly as the other. Marry," he continued, with a
smile, seemingly relieved by his reflections, "thy ready wit hath at
last returned; but by St. Paul! what hath become of that varlet
Richard? 'Tis more than likely the open door of some pot house spoke
more strongly to him than my command, and 'tis most providential if my
surmise be true; I must have been mad indeed to trust the rogue on
such a mission. Small doubt but that he heard all which transpired
here last night, for he hath a most willing ear to listen, and a
tongue given to wag. 'Twould be a heaven-sent deed if something would
occur to silence his speech, for his knowledge, if he hath the wit to
know its value, may be a deadly menace to our cause. When he returns
I'll give the knave silver to quit the country; or, perchance," he
added, a hard, cunning look coming into his eyes as he put his hand
upon a small dagger at his side, "if that will not suffice, 'twill be
necessary for our safety to introduce him to more sturdy metal."
The man arose and proceeded to efface the marks of dissipation, and
set his disordered dress to rights, saying as he finished, "I must to
my appointment with Garnet. Marry," he added, donning hat and mantle,
"I hope he is safely housed, and that my letter to Giles Martin, which
the worthy prelate was to present, did insure him some extra
attention, as a pot house, at its best, must be a poor refuge for a
priest."
It was early in the morning and few people were astir.
"Gramercy," quoth Winter, when he had proceeded some distance on his
way, "would that some person were abroad that I might enquire the
direction to 'The Sign of the Leopard;' I swear," he added, glancing
about, "it must be in this neighborhood, but I can illy guess where."
Looking, he perceived a group of men a little distance down the
street. "There be some worthies," exclaimed he, "who can perhaps
direct me to the hostelry." As he approached he saw they were
regarding a figure lying upon the ground.
"Nay, Master Alyn," said one, "thou hadst best do naught but let it
await removal by the King's guard; if thou disturb the body surely
questions might be asked which 'twould bother thy head to answer."
"Beshrew my heart," exclaimed the man addressed, who, judging from his
appearance, was a small tradesman, "I can ill afford to have this evil
thing lying upon my step, preventing what little trade might drift
this way."
Winter now came up with the group, and as they turned at the sound of
his footsteps, he could see that the object of their remarks was a man
lying face downward on the flagging, and his attitude of relaxation
showed that death had overtaken him.
"What hast thou here, my men?" Sir Thomas exclaimed, "some victim of a
drunken brawl?"
"That we cannot make out," answered the first speaker, touching his
hat, on perceiving--by his dress and manner--that the questioner was a
gentleman, possibly one in authority, "but for truth, he has been
stuck as pretty as a boar at Yule-tide. Thou mayst look for thyself,"
he added, with some little pride, as of a showman exhibiting his
stock, and laying hold of the body by the shoulders he turned it over,
so that the distorted face gazed up at the sky.
Winter started at the sight, unable to repress a cry, for before him
was the body of his servant. His wish had indeed been fulfilled; those
silent lips would tell no tales.
"What, good sir!" cried he who seemed to be the spokesman of the
party, on noting the white face of the other; "doth thy stomach turn
so readily?"
"Nay," replied Winter, raising a gauntlet to hide his emotion, "but
they who meet death suddenly are seldom sweet to look upon,
and--and--for truth, I have not yet broke my fast; canst direct me to
a certain hostelry in this neighborhood known as 'The Sign of the
Leopard?'"
"I can, Master, for many a pot of ale I've drank in that same place.
Look," he continued, pointing, "if thou wilt follow this street until
the second turning to the right, from there thou canst readily see the
tavern's sign."
"My thanks to thee," said Winter, taking a coin from his purse and
handing it to the man. His eyes again for a moment turned upon the
prostrate figure. "And my friends," added he, "I would deem it
expedient that ye notify the guards, and have this unsightly thing
removed." He then turned and proceeded in the direction given him.
This incident brought a renewal of the apprehensions which had haunted
him earlier in the morning, and he muttered as he went on his way:
"There is the first consequence of my folly, and the next may be--nay,
courage; heaven will not be so merciless as to permit one evil deed to
overthrow our cause. God will pardon this hasty sin, when he who
committed it doth risk life in His holy work. But," he added, with a
smile, "'tis providential justice which slew the man, for the dead
utter no words." At last he arrived before the house which he sought.
"Marry," he exclaimed, gazing at the exterior of the tavern; "'tis
indeed a sorry place for the saintly Garnet to reside in, but it has
the advantage of being a secure retreat." He tried the door, which
yielded to his touch, and entered the apartment. On the tables stood
the remains of last night's libations, and the air hung heavy with the
odor of stale tobacco smoke. Over all was a spell of silent
desolation, as if the ghosts of the songs and merry jests, which had
echoed from the walls, had returned with aching heads to curse the
room.
"This is a sweet place, truly," said Winter, looking upon the table.
After a short delay the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching,
a door opened and the host entered. Giles Martin, not at once
recognizing the man who stood by the table, regarded his guest with
some little surprise, for a customer at that early hour was rare.
"To what may I serve thee, sir?" said he, advancing toward Winter.
"Well, Master Martin," exclaimed the one addressed, "dost so soon
forget a face? It is, I swear, a poor trick for a landlord."
"What, Sir Thomas?" cried the other in surprise, holding out his hand,
"I did not recognize thee in this uncertain light. A thousand pardons,
and highly am I honored to find thee in my humble house."
"'Tis but small honor I do thee," replied the man, with a laugh,
drawing off his gauntlets. "Didst receive my letter?"
"Aye, that I did, and have shown the bearer of it every courtesy which
this poor tavern can provide. Much am I gratified to learn that Sir
Thomas Winter remembered one whom he hath not seen since----"
"Nay, good Martin, I do recall the time thou wouldst name. But pray
tell me, is my cavalier friend up at this early hour, for I would
confer with him."
Giles cast a quick glance at the speaker, then letting his eyes fall,
said:
"That he is, and little hath he slept this night, for 'twas late ere
he arrived, and when I arose I heard him walking about."
"Then wilt thou tell him I await; or--nay, stop--thou needst not
announce me; I will see him in his chamber. Show the way, I will
follow."
"As thou dost wish," said Giles, turning to open a door which hid a
flight of rickety stairs leading to the floor above. Reaching the
landing Winter noted that Martin was about to follow and exclaimed:
"Nay, show me the portal, I will not trouble thee further. And if thou
wilt be so kind, see to it that we are not disturbed in our
conversation."
"Have no fear for that, Sir Thomas, I will take care that none do
interrupt. The room is in front of thee," saying which, Martin turned
and descended the stairs.
Winter tapped upon the panel.
"Enter," said a quiet voice.
He lifted the latch and passed into the room. The prelate had
evidently been engaged in prayer, for, as the other stepped within,
the priest was arising from his knees. His face seemed in strange
contrast to the garb he had donned; the delicate, almost effeminate
features of the man were little in keeping with the gay attire of a
cavalier.
"Ah, Sir Thomas," exclaimed the Jesuit, advancing with gentle dignity
and extended hand, "glad am I to see thee, for I have been more than
lonely, but," he added, with a bright smile, "'tis not my nature to
complain; these be but small discomforts, and gladly would I endure
greater in the service of my Master. Hast any news? Hath aught
happened since we met? But pray be seated," he added, pointing to one
of the two chairs, which, with a low bed, comprised the furniture of
the room.
"Nay, good father, nothing hath transpired," replied the other, a
shade passing athwart his face; "and now tell me, what dost thou think
of Fawkes? Is his enthusiasm great enough to serve our purpose?"
"A most terrible man, but one whose cruelty rests upon the love of
God. Indeed, it is as thou didst say, if each Catholic in England were
possessed of but one-half his zeal, then would the gutters run red
with the blood of heretics; 'twas such as he who made the eve of St.
Bartholomew. Are we free to speak?" queried Garnet, leaning toward the
other.
"Quite free," replied Winter, "a faithful friend of mine is on guard
that we be not interrupted."
"Then, 'tis well; I have spent the night in prayer, beseeching the
Almighty to lead my mind aright that I may decide the justice of the
plan proposed. Ah," exclaimed the Jesuit, arising, and with hands
clenched before him, "'tis a hideous act, but," an expression of
fierceness coming into his gentle face, "my supplication was answered,
the deed is favored by God, for He hath sent me a token of His
approval."
"A token, thou sayest, good father?" exclaimed Winter in an awed
voice.
"Verily," cried Garnet, raising his eyes to heaven, "a sign from Him
whose cause we serve. 'Twas thus: Long had I knelt in prayer, long had
I raised my voice that He who holds the oceans in His palm, and guides
the planets in their courses, would lead me to a wise decision. 'O
God,' I cried, 'send thou some token that I may know thy will.' Even
as I gazed upon the crucifix clenched in my unlifted hand, the message
I so craved had come, for the cross was stained with blood, which from
it fell in sluggish drops. I looked more intently, filled with
amazement, and perceived that so closely had I pressed the silver
image of the blessed Savior it had cut into the flesh. But 'twas God's
voice in answer to my prayer."
"Most marvelous," whispered Winter, crossing himself. "But didst thou
comprehend all that Fawkes proposed? Hast dwelt on every point?"
"Think not, my son," the prelate answered, "that because my eyes have
long been used to the dim light of the sanctuary, they have not
perceived all the horror of that which must be done. But now," he
cried, his pale face flushed with emotion, "God in His wisdom hath for
a time taken from me the crucifix and given in its place the sword. So
be it," he continued, drawing the rapier hanging by his side and
kissing the cross formed by the blade and handle, "He shall not find
Henry Garnet wanting, for not until the Angelus doth sound from
Landsend to Dunnet Head, will this hand of mine relax its hold, unless
death doth strike the weapon from it."
"Ah, good father," cried Winter in admiration of the other's spirit,
"thy enthusiasm and courage are surely heaven born, but," he
whispered, "if we fail, what then?"
"We cannot," broke in the Jesuit, his eyes alight with the fervor of
his spirit. "Have I not told thee that heaven approves our act?
Victory belongs to us; the White Dove doth rest upon our helms. 'Tis
true that some of us may perish, but what of them? Their fame shall
live from age to age, and never will the call to Mass or Vespers
sound, never will the clouds of incense mount upward--streaming past
the Host without their names being within the hearts and on the
tongues of the worshipers. Think how greatly we be blessed," he
continued, laying his hand fondly upon the other's shoulder;--"a few,
a happy few, who have been thus elected to raise the cross of Christ
from out the dust. Nay," he added, shaking his head, "I would not wish
our danger one jot or tittle less, for, methinks, some portion of the
glory which is now our own might depart with it, and I could illy
bear the loss of even one small gem which must rest in the immortal
crown of our recompense."
"Then thou dost feel our victory is assured," said Winter, in a
constrained voice, looking anxiously toward Garnet.
"Nay, I do not feel--I am certain," replied the prelate, decisively.
"And now there rests with us the duty of forming our plans, making
everything ready to strike the mighty blow. What hast thou to offer or
suggest?"
"Good father, I would not take upon myself to offer a suggestion,"
said Winter; "but methinks it would be well that we all assemble and
discuss the matter more fully."
"And where shall the gathering be held?--at the house of Master
Fawkes?"
"Not so," replied the other, so abruptly that the priest turned upon
him an enquiring glance. "I mean," continued Winter, noting the look,
"'twould be unwise for us to be seen again meeting in that place; it
might arouse curiosity, and that might be fatal."
"Then what wouldst thou say to my Lord Catesby's?"
"Nay, for I deem the same objection doth apply to his dwelling. I
would suggest we gather at the house of Sir Everard Digby. Will't suit
thee, father?"
"I think thy caution most commendable, and thy proposition the best.
And when shall the meeting be?"
"Say a week hence," replied Winter. "In the meantime I will see Sir
Everard, and make the necessary arrangements. But what of thee till
then?"
"Disturb not thyself, my son, concerning me," replied the prelate; "I
will content myself, and be right comfortable in the care of thy
friend the host. Dost think he hath suspicions?"
"Nay," replied the other. "In truth, if his suspicions were aroused,
he would be silent; such poor taste hath he, that love for me would
make him dumb, and with it is the fact that the man is a zealous
Catholic; methinks if his help could be safely won he would be most
valuable to us. Shouldst thou find a fitting opportunity it might be
well to sound the man."
"I will do so," replied the prelate, "if a chance doth offer itself."
"And now," continued Winter, rising, "I must away. Be ever careful,
father, for thy loss would signify the destruction of our hopes."
"My son," answered the other, with a smile, "thou dost speak from thy
heart; but methinks, if at this moment Henry Garnet were dragged away
and hurried toward the block, the mighty work would be continued;
success doth rest in higher hands than mine. Now, until we meet again,
may the peace of Him whose servants we are rest upon thee."