troubled by the communication made to him, but he said nothing, and was for some time lost in reflection, and evidently weighing within himself what course it would be best to pursue. His uneasiness was not without effect on Viviana Radcliffe, and she ventured at last to inquire whether he apprehended any new danger.
“I scarcely know what I apprehend, dear daughter,” he answered. “But circumstances have occurred which render it impossible we can remain longer in our present asylum with safety. We must quit it at nightfall.”
“Is our retreat then discovered?” inquired Viviana, in alarm.
“Not as yet, I trust,” replied Oldcorne; “but I have just ascertained from a messenger that the pursuivant, who, we thought, had departed for Chester, is still lingering within the town. He has offered a large reward for my apprehension, and having traced us to Manchester, declares he will leave no house unsearched till he finds us. He has got together a fresh band of soldiers, and is now visiting every place he thinks likely to afford us shelter.”
“If this is the case,” rejoined Viviana, “why remain here a single moment? Let us fly at once.”
“That would avail nothing,—or rather, it would expose us to fresh risk, dear daughter,” replied Oldcorne. “Every approach to the town is guarded, and soldiers are posted at the corners of the streets, who stop and examine each suspected person.”
“Heaven protect us!” exclaimed Viviana.
“But this is not all,” continued the priest. “By some inexplicable and mysterious means, the designs of certain of the most assured friends of the catholic cause have come to the knowledge of our enemies, and the lives and safeties of many worthy men will be endangered: amongst others, that of your father.”
“You terrify me!” cried Viviana.
“The rack shall force nothing from me, father,” said Fawkes, sternly.
“Nor from me, my son,” rejoined Oldcorne. “I have that within me which will enable me to sustain the bitterest agonies that the persecutors of our Church can inflict.”
“Nor shall it force aught from me,” added Viviana. “For, though you have trusted me with nothing that can implicate others, I plainly perceive some plot is in agitation for the restoration of our religion, and I more than suspect Mr. Catesby is its chief contriver.”
“Daughter!” exclaimed Oldcorne, uneasily.
“Fear nothing, father,” she rejoined. “As I have said, the rack shall not force me to betray you. Neither should it keep me silent when I feel that my counsel—such as it is—may avail you. The course you are pursuing is a dangerous and fatal one; dangerous to yourselves, and fatal to the cause you would serve. Do not deceive yourselves. You are struggling hopelessly and unrighteously, and Heaven will never assist an undertaking which has its aim in the terrible waste of life you meditate.”
Father Oldcorne made no reply, but walked apart with Guy Fawkes; and Viviana abandoned herself to sorrowful reflection.
Shortly after this, the door was suddenly thrown open, and Humphrey Chetham rushed into the room. His looks were full of apprehension, and Viviana was at no loss to perceive that some calamity was at hand.
“What is the matter?” she cried, rising.
“The pursuivant and his men are below,” he replied. “They are interrogating the hostess, and are about to search the house. I managed to pass them unperceived.”
“We will resist them to the last,” said Guy Fawkes, drawing a petronel.
“Resistance will be in vain,” rejoined Humphrey Chetham. “They more than treble our number.”
“Is there no means of escape?” asked Viviana.
“None whatever,” replied Chetham. “I hear them on the stairs. The terrified hostess has not dared to deny you, and is conducting them hither.”
“Stand back!” cried Guy Fawkes, striding towards the door, “and let me alone confront them. That accursed pursuivant has escaped me once. But he shall not do so a second time.”
“My son,” said Oldcorne, advancing towards him; “preserve yourself, if possible. Your life is of consequence to the great cause. Think not of us—think not of revenging yourself upon this caitiff. But think of the high destiny for which you are reserved. That window offers a means of retreat. Avail yourself of it. Fly!—Fly!”
“Ay, fly!” repeated Viviana. “And you, Humphrey Chetham,—your presence here can do no good. Quick!—they come!”
“Nothing should induce me to quit you at such a moment, Viviana,” replied Chetham, “but the conviction that I may be able to liberate you, should these miscreants convey you to prison.”
“Fly!—fly, my son,” cried Oldcorne. “They are at the door.”
Thus urged, Guy Fawkes reluctantly yielded to Oldcorne’s entreaties and sprang through the window. He was followed by Chetham. Viviana darted to the casement, and saw that they had alighted in safety on the ground, and were flying swiftly up Shude Hill. Meanwhile, the pursuivant had reached the door, which Chetham had taken the precaution to fasten, and was trying to burst it open. The bolts offered but a feeble resistance to his fury, and the next moment he dashed into the room, at the head of a band of soldiers.
“Seize them!” he cried. “Ha!” he added, glancing round the room with a look of disappointment, “where are the others? Where is the soldier in the Spanish garb? Where is Humphrey Chetham? Confess at once, dog!” he continued, seizing the priest by the throat, “or I will pluck the secret from your breast.”
“Do not harm him,” interposed Viviana. “I will answer the question. They are fled.”
“Fled!” echoed the pursuivant in consternation. “How?”
“Through that window,” replied Viviana.
“After them!” cried the pursuivant to some of his attendants. “Take the soldier, dead or alive! And now,” he continued, as his orders were obeyed, “you, Father Oldcorne, Jesuit and traitor; and you, Viviana Radcliffe, his shelterer and abettor, I shall convey you both to the prison on Salford Bridge. Seize them, and bring them along.”
“Touch me not,” rejoined Viviana, pushing the men aside, who rudely advanced to obey their leader’s command. “You have no warrant for this brutality. I am ready to attend you. Take my arm, father.”
Abashed at this reproof, the pursuivant stalked out of the room. Surrounded by the soldiers, Viviana and the priest followed. The sad procession was attended by crowds to the very door of the prison, where, by the pursuivant’s commands, they were locked in separate cells.
The cell in which Viviana was confined was a small chamber at the back of the prison, and on the upper story. It had a small grated window overlooking the river. It has already been mentioned that this prison was originally a chapel built in the reign of Edward the Third, and had only recently been converted into a place of security for recusants. The chamber allotted to Viviana was contrived in the roof, and was so low that she could scarcely stand upright in it. It was furnished with a chair, a small table, and a straw pallet.
The hours passed wearily with Viviana as they were marked by the deep-toned clock of the Collegiate Church, the tall tower of which fronted her window. Oppressed by the most melancholy reflections, she was for some time a prey almost to despair. On whatever side she looked, the prospect was equally cheerless, and her sole desire was that she might find a refuge from her cares in the seclusion of a convent. For this she prayed,—and she prayed also that Heaven would soften the hearts of her oppressors, and enable those who suffered to endure their yoke with patience. In the evening provisions were brought her, and placed upon the table, together with a lamp, by a surly looking gaoler. But Viviana had no inclination to eat, and left them untouched. Neither could she prevail upon herself to lie down on the wretched pallet, and she therefore determined to pass the night in the chair.
After