FAWKES BEFORE THE KING.
For a moment a great stillness pervaded the House of Lords. The King
had half arisen from the throne, his hands tightly grasping the gilded
lions on either side, and his eyes fixed upon the dead form of Elinor,
lying at Effingston's feet. All followed the monarch's glance, the
ministers and peers leaning forward to better see the stricken girl
growing rigid in the clasp of death. So profound was the silence in
the great hall, that the footsteps of those without were heard with
startling distinctness in every part of the room. Before all the
peers, leaned Lord Monteagle, his gaze riveted upon the face of his
son. As for Effingston he heeded nothing; like an image of stone he
stood, his limbs powerless and his blood turned to ice; the face of
the dead was not whiter than his, yet, upon her face was the smile of
peace, in his, the shadow of conscious, mortal agony.
So sudden had been the coming of that tender maid, born of the people,
but now more noble than any lord of England, that none save,
perchance, Salisbury, Monteagle and the King, comprehended its
meaning. The girl's dying cry that all should flee the House of
Parliament, was a mystery to the lords; but to the mind of the Prime
Minister, and to Monteagle and James, came as by a flash of lightning,
the veiled meaning in the letter, which, strong in his feeling of
security, the King had hitherto looked upon as an idle jest, gotten up
to disturb his dreams. Raising his eyes from the spot where Elinor
lay, her blood staining the polished floor, he turned them upon
Salisbury, with a look of interrogation. The Minister collected by an
effort his scattered senses. Into his mind came as though by Divine
inspiration some inkling of the nature of the threatened danger.
Turning quickly, he summoned to his side Master Edmond Doubleday, an
officer of the royal household.
"Go," said he hoarsely, "into the cellar, and whosoever thou findest
there, be it man or woman, seize quickly. Perchance the King's life
dependeth upon thy expedition."
Of quick wit, the officer comprehended that his superior had surmised
some plot, the solution of which might be found below. Hastening from
the hall he gathered on the way a dozen gentlemen, and together the
company hurried from the House and sought the door which opened to the
chamber under it. Something guided their steps--great, crimson
splashes upon the pavement, blood drops which left a well-marked trail
from the space before the throne of the King--to the narrow entrance
of the cellar wherein lay the danger which they must avert. Little did
Guido Fawkes know--as little had the dead girl comprehended--that her
heart's blood would mark the way which would lead him to the scaffold
because it would be the means of hastening on his enemies, directing
them with no uncertain significance to his hiding place.
In the semi-darkness of the cellar, amid his coals and faggots, with
the six and thirty barrels of gunpowder ready for the spark, the
daring soldier of fortune stood with trembling limbs, and a nameless
terror at his heart. Unflinching in the face of danger, the first in
all deeds of hardihood, famed for his valor in the Lowcountry, the
overturning of the lantern so near the powder train, and the low cry
of agony which followed the driving home of his dagger, had unnerved
him. For one brief instant he thought he recognized the cry--that from
the gasping lips so near his own had fallen the word "father!" but in
the excitement of the moment he dismissed the dreadful thought. Some
idle, curious knave had chanced to see the cellar door, and entered.
Was it his fault that he had resorted to the knife to prevent the
discovery of his presence?
Occupied with the overturned lantern he had noted little what befell
the other. Stabbed to death, the intruder probably lay in some dark
corner where the soldier's frantic push had sent him. The lantern
burned dimly, and time was speeding, so 'twould be an ill thing to
waste it upon a dead man. Steadying his nerves by an effort, Fawkes
took out the watch which Winter had given him, and bending toward the
flickering light studied the dial. The hour was at hand; in five
minutes the great clock in the tower of St. Paul would mark the stroke
of eleven, and he would fire the fuse.
Searching in his doublet he drew forth a tinder box and touchwood.
Five minutes more and he would strike the spark; in five more the red,
spitting serpent would reach the hidden powder; by then he would be
safe, and, mingling with the crowd, would hear the roar of thunder
heralding the passing of James Stuart and his Parliament into
eternity.
As he waited, the flint held ready to strike the steel, there flashed
through his mind the thought of his daughter, but she was safe at
home, and----The sound of hasty footsteps and the passing of dark
forms before the dim light struggling through the half closed entrance
to the cellar, broke his revery. Was it another come to meet his
knife point?
As he drew back, shading the lantern with his cloak, the door was
burst violently open, and a dozen men, the first holding aloft a
torch, pushed into the cellar. Fawkes thrust the flint and touchwood
into the bosom of his doublet, and, ever cool when danger threatened,
bent carelessly over the pile of coals and faggots. Coming thus,
without knowledge, any might have judged him an honest coal monger
busy at his trade.
Those who entered so hastily rushed upon him; Edmond Doubleday raised
a dagger, intent upon driving it into his body, but seeing Fawkes
unarmed he lowered the steel and seized him by the shoulders. In an
instant the soldier shook off the other's grasp.
"Who art thou?" cried he fiercely, "what is thy business, sir?"
For reply Doubleday turned to his companions. "Surround the fellow,
gentlemen," said he sharply, "and search the cellar."
Fawkes was quickly hemmed in by a wall of men, each with drawn sword
in hand. On the instant it flashed upon him that the plot was known,
and that further dissimulation would be profitless; therefore he held
his peace while two or three of his captors searched the cellar. One
muttered an exclamation; he had come upon the fuse, and following it,
perceived the barrels beneath the pile of faggots. Fawkes smiled
grimly.
"If thou wilt look yet further," said he, "haply thou wilt find a dead
man."
But nothing was discovered save Fawkes, his faggots, and the
gunpowder.
The captive started. He had not then killed him who grappled with him
in the darkness; sorely wounded, the other had escaped to set the
bloodhounds upon his hiding place. He had thought his hand more sure.
After thoroughly searching the cellar those who had taken Fawkes led
him to the passage without. He noted upon the stones the drops of
blood, and smiled,--his knife had not been useless after all. As the
little company with the soldier of fortune in their midst hurried
along the passage there ran toward them Sir Thomas Knyvet and half a
score of the royal guards. Perceiving the prisoner, the knight looked
at him critically.
"What!" cried he, turning to Doubleday, "hast not bound the ruffian?
'Tis the King's pleasure that any whom thou hast taken be brought
before the throne."
No cords were forthcoming, for, in their haste, small matters had been
neglected, but one of the gentlemen, taking from his pocket a pair of
garters proffered them to Doubleday.
"Take these," said he; "I warrant they will hold the knave."
Fawkes submitted without a protest, watching with grim indifference
the passing of the garters about his legs and wrists. Once he smiled;
but 'twas a fleeting shadow. Within the House his captors searched
him, coming upon the tinder box, touchwood, and Winter's watch--things
which were to bear heavy evidence against the prisoner.
In the hall of Parliament all was confusion; Elinor, guarded by
Effingston, still lay dead before the throne, and the ministers were
gathered about it.
The tumult ceased as Fawkes was led through the doorway. He was to
meet the King whom he would have slain, yet he advanced with uplifted
head, not a muscle quivering. The peers made way for him, so that a
space was cleared before the throne. Suddenly his eyes fell upon
Effingston; for an instant he paused, then following the gaze of the
grief-stricken nobleman, saw her who lay upon the floor. A mist
gathered before his eyes; a blinding flash of unreal but fierce
accusing light seared his brain and turned him into stone.
Horror-stricken he advanced, scarce conscious that he moved, until he
stood before the body of his daughter upon whose breast showed the red
wound made by the knife. The King, Salisbury, and the ministers had
turned and were looking fixedly upon him, but Fawkes was unconscious
of their gaze. He saw only the white face, the half-closed eyes, the
cold lips which had kissed his own so fondly and called him "father."
As the flashing of a great light coming out of the darkness, the truth
gleamed in its red horror upon him--the reason of the presence of
another in the cellar, the drops of blood along the pavement. She had
sought to save him from the crime of murder--and he had killed her!
He would have cried out and thrown himself upon his knees beside the
dead, but his iron will controlled the impulse, and the hands of the
guard upon his shoulder held him firm. What cared he for axe or gibbet
now? He had loved her next to his religion, and had slain her. The
King was speaking:
"Ah!" said he, "what have we here, brave gentlemen? Doth tremble so at
the sight of one dead girl? Who art thou, fellow?"
Fawkes replied nothing, nor, perchance, heard the voice of James; his
thoughts were in Spain, where, when a child, Elinor had climbed upon
his knee.
"Faith!" cried the King, "hast caught a dumb man, good Master
Doubleday? or hath the decoration of the garter so overcome his senses
that he is in a maze?"
Some of the gentlemen about the throne smiled, for James loved a jest;
but Effingston turned away and pressed his father's hand.
"Come!" cried the King, impatiently; "wilt not find thy tongue? 'tis
not my custom to speak a second time. What didst thou in the cellar?"
Fawkes raised his eyes and the King saw in them a look of such utter
hopelessness that some chord of pity in his heart was touched.
"My good Lord Cecil," said he, turning to Salisbury, "methinks terror,
or something worse, hath driven away his wits; we but waste words upon
him. See to it, pray, that he be closely guarded, for certain
questions must be put to him. The Warden of the Tower hath a way to
loosen stubborn tongues."
So saying, he arose with much dignity and left the hall, followed by
many of his gentlemen. Fawkes they took out by another way--the road
which led to the Tower. He gave no sign, but let his gaze dwell in one
last farewell upon the body of his daughter. Then his eyes met those
of Effingston, and in the other's look he read that the dead would
rest in peace and honor.