Guy Fawkes; or, The Gunpowder Treason. William Harrison Ainsworth

starting. “I thought I recognised you. You are the soldier in the Spanish garb who saved that false prophetess from drowning.”

      “I saved her only for a more lingering death,” rejoined Guy Fawkes.

      “I know it,” retorted the pursuivant. “I found her dead body when I visited her cell on my way hither, and gave orders to have it interred without coffin or shroud in that part of the burial-ground of the Collegiate Church in Manchester reserved for common felons.”

      “I know not what stays my hand,” rejoined Guy Fawkes, fiercely. “But I am strongly tempted to give you a grave beside her.”

      “I will put your daring to the proof!” cried the pursuivant, snatching a pike from one of his followers, and brandishing it over his head. “Throw down your arms, or you die!”

      “Back!” exclaimed Guy Fawkes, presenting a petronel at him, “or I lodge a bullet in your brain.”

      “Be advised by me, and rush not on certain destruction, good Master Pursuivant,” said the foremost soldier, plucking his mantle. “I see by his bloodthirsty looks that the villain is in earnest.”

      “I hear footsteps,” cried the other soldier; “our comrades are at hand.”

      “Then it is time for me to depart,” cried Guy Fawkes, springing through the secret door, and closing it after him.

      “Confusion!” exclaimed the pursuivant; “but he shall not escape. Break open the panel.”

      The order was promptly obeyed. The men battered the stout oak board, which was of great thickness, with their pikes, but it resisted every effort, nor was it until the arrival of a fresh band of soldiers with lights, mallets, chisels, and other implements suitable to the purpose, that it could be forced open. This accomplished, the pursuivant, commanding his attendants to follow him, dashed through the aperture. As they proceeded singly along the narrow passage, the roof became so low that they were compelled to adopt a stooping posture. In this manner they hurried on until their further progress was stopped by a massive stone door, which appeared to descend from above by some hidden contrivance, no trace of bolt or other fastening being discernible. The flag fitted closely in channels in the walls, and had all the appearance of solid masonry. After examining this obstacle for a moment, the pursuivant was convinced that any attempt to move it would be impracticable, and muttering a deep execration, he gave the word to return.

      “From the course it appears to take,” he observed, “this passage must communicate with the garden,—perhaps with the further side of the moat. We may yet secure them, if we use despatch.”

      To return to the fugitives. On arriving at the point where the stone door was situated, which he discovered by the channels in the wall above-mentioned, Guy Fawkes searched for an iron ring, and, having found it, drew it towards him, and the ponderous flag slowly dropped into its place. He then groped his way cautiously along in the dark, until his foot encountered the top of a ladder, down which he crept, and landed on the floor of a damp deep vault. Having taken the precaution to remove the ladder, he hastened onwards for about fifty yards, when he came to a steep flight of stone steps, distinguishable by a feeble glimmer of light from above, and mounting them, emerged through an open trap-door into a small building situated at the western side of the moat, where, to his surprise and disappointment, he found the other fugitives.

      “How comes it you are here?” he exclaimed, in a reproachful tone. “I kept the wolves at bay thus long, to enable you to make good your retreat.”

      “Miss Radcliffe is too weak to move,” replied Humphrey Chetham; “and I could not persuade Father Oldcorne to leave her.”

      “I care not what becomes of me,” said the priest. “The sooner my painful race is run the better. But I cannot—will not abandon my dear charge thus.”

      “Think not of me, father, I implore you,” rejoined Viviana, who had sunk overpowered with terror and exhaustion. “I shall be better soon. Master Chetham, I am assured, will remain with me till our enemies have departed, and I will then return to the hall.”

      “Command me as you please, Miss Radcliffe,” replied Humphrey Chetham. “You have but to express a wish to insure its fulfilment on my part.”

      “Oh! that you had suffered Mr. Catesby to tarry with us till the morning, as he himself proposed, dear daughter,” observed the priest, turning to Viviana.

      “Has Catesby been here?” inquired Guy Fawkes, with a look of astonishment.

      “He has,” replied Oldcorne. “He came to warn us that the hall would be this night searched by the officers of state; and he also brought word that a warrant had been issued by the Privy Council for the arrest of Sir William Radcliffe.”

      “Where is he now?” demanded Fawkes, hastily.

      “On the way to Chester, whither he departed in all haste, at Viviana's urgent request, to apprise her father of his danger,” rejoined the priest.

      “This is strange!” muttered Guy Fawkes. “Catesby here, and I not know it!”

      “He had a secret motive for his visit, my son,” whispered Oldcorne, significantly.

      “So I conclude, father,” replied Fawkes, in the same tone.

      “Viviana Radcliffe,” murmured Humphrey Chetham, in low and tender accents, “something tells me that this moment will decide my future fate. Emboldened by the mysterious manner in which we have been brought together, and you, as it were, have been thrown upon my protection, I venture to declare the passion I have long indulged for you;—a passion which, though deep and fervent as ever agitated human bosom, has hitherto, from the difference of our rank, and yet more from the difference of our religious opinions, been without hope. What has just occurred,—added to the peril in which your worthy father stands, and the difficulties in which you yourself will necessarily be involved,—makes me cast aside all misgiving, and perhaps with too much presumption, but with a confident belief that the sincerity of my love renders me not wholly undeserving of your regard, earnestly solicit you to give me a husband's right to watch over and defend you.”

      Viviana was silent. But even by the imperfect light the young merchant could discern that her cheek was covered with blushes.

      “Your answer?” he cried, taking her hand.

      “You must take it from my lips, Master Chetham,” interposed the priest; “Viviana Radcliffe never can be yours.”

      “Be pleased to let her speak for herself, reverend sir,” rejoined the young merchant, angrily.

      “I represent her father, and have acquainted you with his determination,” rejoined the priest. “Appeal to her, and she will confirm my words.”

      “Viviana, is this true?” asked Chetham. “Does your father object to your union with me?”

      Viviana answered by a deep sigh, and gently withdrew her hand from the young merchant's grasp.

      “Then there is no hope for me?” cried Chetham.

      “Alas! no,” replied Viviana; “nor for me—of earthly affection. I am already dead to the world.”

      “How so?” he asked.

      “I am about to vow myself to Heaven,” she answered.

      “Viviana!” exclaimed the young man, throwing himself at her feet, “reflect!—oh! reflect, before you take this fatal—this irrevocable step.”

      “Rise, sir,” interposed the priest, sternly; “you plead in vain. Sir William Radcliffe will never wed his daughter to a heretic. In his name I command you to desist from further solicitation.”

      “I obey,” replied Chetham, rising.

      “We lose time here,” observed Guy Fawkes, who had been lost for a moment in reflection. “I will undertake to provide for your