"How may that be done?—tell me quickly!" she exclaimed, playfully, "that I may the sooner begin."
"It is, sweet Elinor," said Fawkes, gazing down into her eyes, "that thou wilt always love this man before thee—nay, even," he continued with a depth of feeling in his tone which she had never heard before, "even shouldst thou hear him branded as—as—no matter what manner of things might be uttered against him, thou art always to remember that he at least loved thee with all his heart, and that thou wert his life." He stopped abruptly; the tears which coursed down his stern face seemed strangely out of place.
"Ah!" exclaimed the girl, "I cannot bear to have thee doubt me; thou knowest I shall be ever thy loving daughter, even unto the end of this life and in the next."
The man was silent for a space; then mastering his emotion, and passing a hand quickly across his face, he said: "Think naught of my words, little one; they were but idle, born of fatigue. Now, once more good night to thee, and a long, sweet sleep."
So she left him; but at the door she turned, and Fawkes remembered afterward the bright and happy smile which lay upon her face.
With a light heart she went to rest, for her father's words had banished from her mind the hideous doubt with which it had so long been oppressed. The dreadful gulf between them had, at last, been bridged, and once more they stood together hand in hand as in days gone by. She was almost unwilling to yield herself to sleep, fearing lest, on awaking, she might find her happiness but a vision of the night. Slumber claimed her at last, and she fell into dreams of her new-found joy. Many hours elapsed and the morning sun shone brightly into her room, when there fell upon the girl's ear the sound of voices in the apartment below. Remaining a moment in a dreamy state, wondering who the early visitors might be, she suddenly caught a sentence which stiffened the blood within her veins and brought back to her heart in deadly force the awful fears she had thought forever gone. Those in the chamber beneath had evidently been in conversation for some time, for she heard them advancing toward the door as though to depart. Then a voice, which the girl recognized as Sir Thomas Winter's, said in a low tone: "Now, the last arrangements are made; all doth await thy hand. Ah," he continued, "would that I might see the outcome of this. 'Tis a ghastly thing, even though it be——"
"What?" interrupted another voice, which Elinor knew to be her father's. "Doth thy heart begin to turn at this late hour? Marry, my one wish is that even now the clock stood on the stroke of eleven, for in five minutes thereafter England will be without its King and Parliament."
"Hast all that thou wilt need?" inquired Winter.
"Yea, verily," the other answered. "Here are flint and steel, quite new. The touchwood and the lantern are hidden beneath the faggots in the cellar. But stay, thou hadst better lend me thy time-piece; mine is not over trustworthy, and I would keep accurate track of the moments."
"Here is the watch," said the other voice; "it was true to the second yesterday. And now, for the last time, dost fully understand the signal? It is to be the first stroke of eleven. The King is expected at half after the hour of ten; that will leave thirty minutes' margin, and the lords will have assembled before James doth take his place."