The White Gauntlet

On the departure of his fellow conspirators – patriots we should rather call them – Holtspur, as we have already said, had passed the remainder of the night engaged at his writing table.

The time was spent in the performance of a duty, entrusted to him by his friends, Pym and Hampden; with whom, and a few others, he had held secret conference beyond the hours allotted to the more public business of the meeting. It was a duty no less important, than the drawing up of a charge of attainder against Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford.

It was one which Holtspur could perform with all the ardour of a zealous enthusiasm – springing from his natural indignation against this gigantic wrongdoer.

A true hater of kings, he felt triumphant. His republican sentiments, uttered in the assembly just separated – so loudly applauded by those who listened to them – could not fail to find echo in every honest English heart; and the patriot felt that the time was nigh, when such sentiments need be no longer spoken in the conclave of a secret conference, but boldly and openly in the tribune of a nation.

The king had been once more compelled to call his “Commons” together. In a few days the Parliament was to meet – that splendid Parliament afterwards known as the “Long” – and, from the election returns already received, Holtspur knew the character of most of the statesmen who were to compose it. With such men as Pym and Hampden at its head – with Hollis, Hazlerig, Vane, Martin, Cromwell, and a host of other popular patriots, taking part in its councils – it would be strange if something should not be effected, to stem the tide of tyranny, so long flowing over the land – submerging under its infamous waves every landmark of English liberty.

Swayed by thoughts like these, did Henry Holtspur enter upon the task assigned him.

For over an hour had he been occupied in its performance – with scarce a moment’s intermission; and then only, when the soft dream of love, stealing over his spirit, chased from it the sterner thoughts of statecraft and war, which had been the habitual themes of his later life.

He had well-nigh finished his work, when interrupted by the entrance of the Indian.

“Eh, Oriole?” demanded he, in some surprise, as, glancing up from his papers, he remarked the agitated mien of his attendant. “Anything the matter? You look as if something was amiss. I hope that you and Garth have not been quarrelling over your perquisites?”

The Indian made sign of a negative to this imputation – which he knew was only spoken in jest.

“Nothing about him, then? What is it, my brave?”

This question was answered by Oriole raising one of his feet – with the sole turned upwards, at the same time glancing to the ground with an angry ejaculation.

“Ha!” said Holtspur, who read those signs as easily as if they had been a written language – “An enemy upon the trail?”

Oriole held up three of his fingers – pointing perpendicularly towards the ceiling of the room.

“Three instead of one! and three men! Well, perhaps they will be easier to deal with than if it was a trio of women.”

The cavalier, as he made this half-jesting remark, seemed to give way for a moment to some reflection, altogether unconnected with the intelligence conveyed by his attendant.

“What is it, Oriole? What have you seen?” asked he, returning to the subject of the Indian’s communication.

Oriole’s answer to this was a sign for his master to follow him. At the same time, turning on his heel, he led the way out of the apartment, out of the front door, and round by the left wing of the house. Thither he was followed by Holtspur and Gregory Garth, when all three commenced re-examining the tracks.

These were again traced in a backward direction to the side doorway.

It could not be doubted that two of the men who made them had issued thence. The third – he who wore the hobnailed shoes – had met these on their coming out; and afterwards walked along with them to the front – where the footmarks were lost among the hoof-prints of the horses.

There were no tracks leading towards the side entrance; but, as there was no other way by which the room could have been entered – except by the glass door, and that had certainly not been unclosed – it was evident that the two men who had come out by the side passage must have gone in by it.

The absence of any footmarks leading inward had a signification of another kind. It proved that they, who had so intruded, must have passed inside before the coming on of the rain-storm, and gone out, after it had ceased. In other words, two men must have tenanted that chamber during most, if not all, of the time that the conference continued.

Other signs pointed out by the Indian – the disturbance of the dust upon the floor, and the removal of the cerements from the glass – left no doubt as to the object of their presence in the unused apartment. Spies, to a certainty!

Holtspur’s countenance became clouded, as this conviction forced itself upon him.

The hobnails told who was the traitor that had guided them thither. There were plenty of like tracks on the other side of the house, leading to the stable yard. Oriole easily identified the footmarks as made by Will Walford.

“It but crowns my suspicions of the knave,” said Holtspur, as with gloom upon his brow he walked back into the house.

“Dang seize the white-livered loon!” cried the ex-footpad. “He shall answer for this night’s dirty doin’s. That shall be sureish sartin, or my name arn’t Gregory Garth.”

On re-entering the library, Holtspur did not resume his seat; but commenced pacing the floor with quick, excited steps.

What had arisen was matter to make him serious. Spies had been present – he could not doubt it – and the fact was full of significance. It concerned not only his own safety, but that of many others – gentlemen of rank and position in the county, with several Members of Parliament from other counties: among them Pym, Hollis, Hazlerig, Henry Martin, and the younger Sir Harry Vane.

Sir Marmaduke Wade, too, must have been seen by the spies!

In regard to the latter, Holtspur felt a special apprehension. It was by invitation – his own – that Sir Marmaduke had been present at the meeting; and Holtspur knew that the knight would now be compromised beyond redemption – even to the danger of losing his life.

Whoever had occupied that antechamber must have overheard not only all that had been spoken, but have seen each speaker in turn – in short, every individual present, and under a light clear enough to have rendered sure their identification.

It needed very little reflection to point out who had been the chief spy. The despatch, taken by Garth from the king’s messenger, rendered it easy to tell that Richard Scarthe had been in that chamber – either in person, or by deputy.

All this knowledge flashed upon the mind of the patriot conspirator, with a distinctness painfully vivid.

Unfortunately, the course, proper for him to pursue, was far from being so clear; and for some minutes he remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.

With such evidence as Scarthe possessed against him, he felt keenly conscious of danger – a danger threatening not only his liberty, but his life.

If taken before the Star Chamber – after what he had that night said and done – he could not expect any other verdict than a conviction; and his would not be the first head, during that weak tyrant’s reign, that had tumbled untimely from the block.

It was of no use upbraiding himself, with the negligence that had led to the unfortunate situation. Nor was there any time to indulge in self-reproach: for the longer he reflected, the more proximate would be the danger he had to dread.

Henry Holtspur was a man of ready determination. A life partly spent amidst dangers of flood and field – under the shadows of primeval American forests – on the war-path of the hostile Mohawk – had habituated him to the forming of quick resolves, and as quickly carrying them into execution.

But no man is gifted with omniscience; and there are occasions when the wisest in thought, and quickest in action, may be overtaken.

It was so in Holtspur’s case at this particular crisis. He felt that he had been outwitted. In the fair field of fight he had defeated an adversary, who, in the dark diplomacy of intrigue, was likely to triumph over him.

There was not much time to be lost. Was there any? They, who had made that stealthy visit to Stone Dean, would be sure to repeat it; and soon – not secretly as before, but openly, and in force.

Why had they not returned already? This was the only question that appeared difficult to answer.

Why the arrest had not been made at once – a wholesale capture of the conspirators – could be more easily answered. The spies might not have been prepared for a coup so sudden, or extensive.

But since there had been time —

“By Heaven!” exclaimed the cavalier, suddenly interrupting the train of his conjectures; “there’s no time to be lost! I must from here, and at once. Garth!”

“Master Henry?”

“Saddle my horse, on the instant! Oriole!”

The Indian stood before him.

“Are my pistols loaded?”