THE BANQUET.
On the evening of that memorable Fifth of November, there were
gathered in a spacious residence at Ashbery, Saint Ledger, a small
company evidently bent upon pleasure.
During the day they had passed their time in the many ways gentlemen
were wont to choose when seeking forgetfulness of the din and
distractions incident to a great city. But it was not difficult to
discern that the hearts of the men were far from interested in the
various sports undertaken by them.
The hours from morning until dark had been spent in a variety of ways,
but none evinced any enjoyment in their pastime. A few had beguiled a
small part of the day in hunting, but they failed to find even in that
excitement relief for the anxiety which so oppressed them. At last
twilight came, lingered, and glided into night. But with the darkness
the uneasiness of all increased.
Nor would this fact have caused wonder had it been known what thoughts
lay in the mind of each; that they were momentarily expecting tidings
upon which depended not only their hopes and happiness but, perchance
their lives as well. Indeed, the company had been bidden thither by
none other than Lord Catesby, who deemed it expedient that those not
actually engaged in carrying out the plot for the assassination of
James and his Parliament, should tarry at his country residence until
news of the accomplished deed should be brought them. Acting upon the
suggestion, he, together with Sir Everard Digsby, Rookwood, Robert
Morgan, Grant and the brother of Sir Thomas Winter, had ridden forth
from the city the day before; and now, with apprehension which their
sanguine hopes could not fully thrust aside, they awaited the news
which was to tell them how the fearful plot had prospered.
After a day, the length of which was measured not by the standard of
moments but by that of slow-moving years, all had assembled to partake
of the evening repast. Surrounding the glittering table were anxious
and thoughtful faces. The host was silent and distraught, but not more
so than his guests. The terrible strain under which they labored
forbade much conversation; and if a laugh, perchance, mounted to the
lips of any, it sounded hollow and mirthless.
"What now, good gentlemen," cried Catesby, with an attempt at gayety,
when silence had again fallen upon the group; "ye are in truth but
sorry companions. It would appear that something besides good vintage
lay in the cellar beneath us. Come, fill your cups and let wine bring
to our lips the jest, since wit seemeth utterly barren."
"Nay, my lord," exclaimed Rookwood, as he thrust his glass aside; "I
for one am done with pretensions; 'tis time some news did reach us."
The man drew forth his watch, and glancing at it, said with a frown:
"By Our Blessed Lady, 'tis past nine and we have had no tidings!"
The anxiety in the speaker's tone seemed to find a silent response in
the heart of each. Before them all the wine stood untasted. A barking
cur upon the highway caused them to start to their feet and listen,
thinking the sound might be the herald of an approaching horseman.
"'Twas nothing," said the host wearily, when once more seated.
"Patience, patience, gentlemen; I think this delay doth not bode ill
to us, for as ye are aware, bad news is ever atop of the swiftest
steed."
"Ah, good Catesby," exclaimed Digsby, "it is to thee we look for
consolation in this terrible hour. But I do most devoutly wish some
intelligence, be it good or evil, would arrive; for naught can be
worse than this awful waiting."
"Talk not of evil tidings," broke in Grant, nervously; "our minds are
full enough of fears without thy----"
"Nay, good Robert," interrupted Sir Everard, "'twas but a figure of
speech I used. Nothing is further from my mind than to play the
croaking prophet."
"Art sure, my lord," queried Rookwood, "that Sir Winter did comprehend
in what manner the intelligence was to be brought?"
"Quite certain of it," answered the host; "for 'twas the last topic
upon which we spoke before I left the city. Have no fear; he
understood full well that Master Keyes was to ride post haste the
moment all was accomplished."
"How long would it take a horseman, riding at his best speed, to
travel the distance?" enquired Rookwood, again drawing forth his
watch.
"If nothing occurred to hinder on the way, and his mount was fresh at
start, methinks the journey should be made in eight hours."
"Then," exclaimed the other, thrusting back his time-piece, "if all be
well we would have heard ere now. I fear me--nay--I know not what I
fear."
But hark! What sound is that which at last falls upon the listening
group? Was it the wind sighing through the leafless trees? Nay, it
cannot be; for now they hear it again, and more distinctly. There is
no mistaking the flying hoofs of a horse striking the hard road. All
spring from the table. The moment has arrived; they are to know. As
each gazes into the white face of the other, he but beholds the
reflection of his own pallid countenance, and speech for a moment is
impossible.
"God!" cried Rookwood, listening; "Catesby, thou didst say but one
rider was to bear the message, and I hear the noise of several rushing
steeds, if, indeed, I be not mad."
Louder and louder grew the clatter of the hoofs, whiter and whiter the
faces of the waiting men. At last five horsemen dash in at the gate
and ride without drawing rein across the lawn and up to the very
window of the banquet room.
No need to ask what tidings. Winter is the first to throw himself from
his steaming horse, and followed by Percy, the two Wrights and Robert
Keyes, staggers into the room. They are covered with mud and streaming
with perspiration. Their hats and swords were left behind--evidently
lost in the wild ride from London. Breathless they stand, for a moment
unable to speak. Written on the face of each is an expression of utter
despair, mingled with fear and pain, such a look as an animal wears
when, shot through the body, it blindly flees from death.
Winter is the first to find voice; and clutching at the table, which
shakes under his trembling grasp, pants, in a tone which is scarcely
audible:
"Flee for your lives! There is yet time for us to escape. We cannot
help him who is in the Tower. Our own necks will pay for further
delay."
There is a horrified silence, broken only by the hard breathing of
the men. At last Rookwood, pale with emotion, sprang toward the
speaker, gasping: "What is this thou sayest? Failure! It cannot be!
Thou must be mad!"
"Nay," cried Percy, "'tis so, 'tis so, indeed. Fawkes is captured.
Nothing is left for us but flight. Come, to horse! to horse! I say.
Even now the soldiers are on the road, and any moment the sound of
hurrying hoofs in pursuit of us may fall upon our ears."
In an instant the utmost disorder reigned. Chairs were overturned in
the eagerness of the men to take in hand their swords, which rested
against the wall. Glasses, swept from off the board, fell with a
crash, adding to the general din. The floor was strewn with eatables
and wine, carried from off the table in the mad rush. Panic ruled, and
it had placed its sign-manual upon each face.
At last, above the uproar, the voice of Catesby can be heard, and
standing by the door he addresses the fear-stricken men. "Gentlemen!"
he cried, "has the grasp of terror seized upon and turned you all mad?
Why should we fly, and by that course brand our deeds as sinful? Are
we criminals? Have we stolen aught? Are we creatures to be hunted
through the country? Come! play the part God has given to each, and at
the end, since success is not ours let us meet death here, hand in
hand, as becomes brothers in one faith--like martyrs!"
The words of the speaker had small effect upon the men, and did not
check the general confusion. Those who had just arrived were in the
garden attending to their jaded steeds, knowing full well that upon
them depended their lives.
Rookwood burst again into the room, attired in a heavy riding
mantle. "Come," he cried to his host; "to horse while there is time!
'Twould be a wickedness to tarry longer; it meaneth naught but
self-destruction. Our steeds have been resting, and many miles may be
placed between us and London ere break of day. Endanger not all our
lives by thy foolish scruples."
At last the finer sentiments of Catesby were overruled by the words
and entreaties of his companions, and he with them, hurried to the
stable. With trembling fingers the bridles were fastened, the girths
drawn, and in a moment all were ready for the flight. With a clatter
the cavalcade sped out of the gate and thundered down the road at
breakneck pace, disappearing in the darkness.
So ended the day which was to see the culmination of a deed which
these fleeing men once dreamed would set the world on fire! And what
had come of it? For them, nothing but the dancing sparks struck out by
the hoofs of galloping horses, bearing their guilty riders from under
the blow of a swinging axe. Fawkes, their unhappy tool, was already in
the grip of the avenging power; and was tasting a more bitter gall
than that of torture and death, for that he had, with his own hand,
shed the blood of his well-beloved daughter, but not one drop of the
heretic blood he so thirsted to spill.