heartier."

"Giles Martin, for want of better," replied the host, "and dost thou know this Sir Thomas Winter?" he inquired after a moment, still looking at the note in his hand.

"Aye, and for a right brave gentleman, who hath done me noble service."

"For one done unto himself, I take it, from the purport of the letter?"

"A small service, not worth the mentioning," replied Fawkes. "Once in Spain, a gentleman—the self-same Sir Thomas, was sorely set upon by a surly ruffian, who, in exchange for his purse, would have given him Paradise." Then with a deprecating wave of the hand, which he dropped on the hilt of his rapier, "'twas but a weakly blow I turned, and spitted the varlet with my good sword here. Zounds," he continued with a voice full of enthusiasm, "for this petty act he did conduct my poor motherless lass out of a country where, to the men, a pretty face is as flint to powder, and brought her safe to London and her grandam."

"You saved his life; 'twas a worthy object and a worthy deed," exclaimed Martin heartily, who had been watching the speaker narrowly during his narration.

"Tut, tut; 'twas nothing; but I take it thou hast acquaintance with him," said Fawkes, turning toward the other, with a manner which denoted surprise at the landlord's outburst of appreciation, "and may direct me unto his residence, for after many years' absence I am lately come, and illy versed in London's streets which are as crooked as a blade that hath lain long in the fire."

"In truth, I do know where he lives," said Martin (then continued in a lower tone as if speaking to himself) "and further, that he's in none too good favor with the King. But as to his address: if thou wilt take the dome on St. Paul's as thy guide, which thou canst most readily see, proceed thither, and when reached, continue down the street running toward the left, a few more steps will bring thee to a house surrounded by an iron railing; it is the one thou seekest." He hesitated a moment, then continued as if good judgment had been overcome by enthusiasm—"and when thou dost behold Sir Thomas, make mention that Giles Martin (say naught of my present calling, for he knows me not by that) sends his duty, and would again at his elbow cry in the self-same voice, 'An Essex, An Essex!' Perchance," Martin added, suddenly breaking off, fearing he had been incautious before a stranger in connecting his name with an incident which had brought but little honor with it, "that is why I am now doing this," taking a soiled tankard from the table and wiping it on his apron.

"Gladly will I be the bearer of thy message, but as thou hast said, why does Sir Winter stand in ill repute?"

"It may be," answered Martin, turning his gaze upon the two men at the table, then setting down the tankard, "that he hath a quick temper and a ready tongue, swift steeds in our time to pull a man's head upon the block," and advancing toward the other concluded in a low voice full of emotion, "mayhap memory doth hold up a mirror to his eye, in which is reflected Mary's dripping head, chopped for her faith."

"Verily," cried Fawkes, in a loud tone characteristic of one not afraid of voicing opinions that lay near his heart, "would that good King James might look into the glass thou dost mention and see the promises of his youth, for naught of promise or his mother's head methinks——"

"Hist," whispered Martin, breaking in and laying his hand upon the speaker, "a truce to such treason talk; naught has it done but brought me to an ill-famed pot-house," he concluded in a thoughtful voice.

"Well, well, none of thy story will I ask; but in Spain they do illy treat a heretic," Fawkes continued, looking significantly at the fire, and pointing toward it with his outstretched arm; "a truce, as thou sayest, for I must no longer tarry. Saint Paul's bell is on the stroke of ten, and I would see Sir Winter, and (in a softer voice) my lass, to-night; for honestly, I am more than anxious to see her pretty face; first I must bid yon knaves good-bye." So saying he endeavored to rouse the companions of his cups. Not being able however to bring them to any degree of consciousness, he discontinued his exertions, and turning toward the landlord, who had been watching his efforts, said, laughingly: "'tis but little harm they'll do in sleep, and I trow they are none too good when in their seven senses, so I will leave them thus; but take thou from this the reckoning of us all, for naught of gold they have, I swear"—handing the other a purse, which, after extracting a sovereign, Martin returned to its owner.

"'Tis but a sorry night in which to travel," remarked the host, pocketing the money and proceeding to rake the fire, while his guest wrapped about himself a long, thick cloak which had hung over the back of a bench.

"Aye, 'tis cold, and steel draws unto itself the frost," responded Fawkes, as he finished his preparations for departure. "And now, Sir Host," he continued, extending his hand, "farewell, but soon, when I am once more to rights, it will do me pleasure to quaff a flagon in thy honest company, for such is a man who knoweth Sir Thomas Winter, and," he continued, drawing closer to the other, "is no prating Protestant in these times when he who would seek a favor or gain a title must blow out the candles on his altar, and break its images. Start not at my words, for by thy very speech thou art no heretic, and I do love thee the better for it. But see," he continued as he opened the door, "the night is already mended, the snow hath ceased, the moon shows bright, and by my troth, there is my guide," and he pointed to the distant dome of St. Paul, on which a huge cross glistened in the moonlight.

CHAPTER II.

IN THE SHADOW OF ST. PAUL.

In the heart of London, a musket shot distance from the great dome of St. Paul, stood a dwelling of no mean pretension occupied by one Thomas Percy, Gentleman-Pensioner, a man of goodly parts, blood relative of the Earl of Northumberland and well known as a Catholic, though, by reason of his office, there attached to him scant suspicion in the minds of the King's ministers that his faith overlapped his loyalty.

On the same night which witnessed the appearance of Guido Fawkes and his drunken companions at the "Sign of the Leopard," there were gathered together, in an upper chamber of Percy's dwelling, four gentlemen. The house was an official structure given over as a meeting place for certain of the King's commissioners, the room wherein they sat being well adapted for the discussion of such matters as it seemed inexpedient to let reach the ears of those whose business called them not within the council chamber.

A snow storm made the night exceeding chilly, so three of those who came to partake of the hospitality of the Pensioner had provided themselves with ample cloaks, which, closely wrapped about their persons, and covering the lower portions of their faces, precluded recognition, were any, by chance, to accost the wearer on the King's highway. Although few were abroad on account of the extreme cold, and those few would not have marveled that a gentleman should be closely muffled even as a secret assassin, or highwayman, or noticed that the three went not together to the outer door of the house, still each came separately, knocking thrice upon the panel, whereupon Sir Percy himself opened to him, that he might enter quickly.

Being safe within, and the room warmed by great logs which sputtered in the open fireplace, the three laid aside their cloaks, and sat uncovered in the presence of their host, who, the better to discourse with each, occupied a place at the head of the long