Fawkes loosened his sword in its scabbard. "I have this," said he, "to back our presence in the forest, and are ye weaponless?"
The bluff words of the soldier of fortune put to shame the fears of the two noblemen, yet they hesitated. Should they be suspected, it would not be a light matter to evade certain questions which might be asked, and if taken to London captives, the disguise of the Jesuit would be penetrated.
Meanwhile the sound of the horn grew louder, and while wavering in their decision, a voice, faint and indistinct, was heard shouting afar off. Fawkes listened attentively.
"'Tis a cry for succor," said he suddenly, "someone hath lost his way and seeks the highroad."
"Then," said Garnet calmly, "we will remain, for he is approaching."
Perhaps five minutes had elapsed when the blast of the horn sounded as if in their very ears; and from the forest, only a dozen rods beyond them, dashed a man mounted on a bay horse. Having reached the open road he pulled up his beast and looked helplessly in an opposite direction from the four riders. Suddenly Winter started and changed color, his face turning from red to white, and back to red again.
"'Tis the King!" he whispered hoarsely, clutching the arm of Catesby, who sat beside him.
It was, in truth, James of England, unattended, his dress awry and torn by thorns and brambles, with bloodless lips and terror-stricken countenance, who sat helplessly in the saddle in the presence of his bitterest enemies.
As this realization dawned on Catesby's mind, he uttered an exclamation, and reached for the pistol which protruded from his holster.
"'Tis the judgment of God," he muttered; "to-night England will be without a king."