"And thou, friend Guido," said Garnet, blandly, "thou art of ready wit, and a good sword may be needful. Shall brave Winter go alone?"
Fawkes knitted his brows—"I little thought to again leave England so soon," he replied, gruffly; "yet ere another sunset will I be ready if thus I may serve the cause."
A look of kindliness came into the Jesuit's eyes; the blind zeal of the man, a zeal that thrust all other thoughts aside, touched him, and with quick perception he saw in the rough cavalier one who, did all others fail, would with his single hand hurl the thunderbolt. Taking from his bosom a small silver crucifix, he laid it in Fawkes' hand. "Give this," said he, quietly, "unto thy daughter; 'twill guard her during thine absence. Aye! and dost thou fear to leave her? I swear to thee, I will see to it that she lacketh nothing."
Fawkes turned upon him a look of deep devotion. Bred in superstition, the fact that the priest understood that which troubled him—fear for the safety of his daughter—seemed a sign from heaven. He kissed the crucifix reverently, and put it in his bosom between the hard steel of his cuirass and his heart.
Garnet turned to the group. "One thing remains," said he solemnly; "'tis the oath which, registered before heaven, shall hold each to his purpose. Sir Digsby, let us to thy chapel, that beneath the shadow of the cross we may seek that blessing without which all our deeds are sinful, and our purposes as sand."
Solemnly the little company, headed by the priest and Sir Everard, wended their way toward the chapel. No words were exchanged between them, for all were deep in thought. As they passed into the chamber set aside for worship, each reverently knelt and crossed himself, then took up a position in front of the altar. As it was late and the brief winter twilight faded from the sky, the chapel lay shrouded in deep gloom, relieved only by the red light burning in a hanging lamp suspended before the tabernacle, holding the consecrated elements. To the men there was something fearfully solemn in their surroundings. Before them stood that altar for the preservation of which they were about to pledge their lives.
As their eyes became more accustomed to the subdued light, they beheld shadow-like forms slowly appear upon the walls, and while intently gazing, these apparitions gradually materialized and assumed definite shape, resolving themselves into paintings portraying the last scenes in the life of Christ. Penetrating everything was the clinging odor of incense, which, in some subtle way, brings to mind the awful majesty of God.
Presently Garnet emerged from the sacristy, bearing in his hand a flaming taper with which he lighted the candles on the altar. The Jesuit had placed over the costume which he wore a cope of deep red, richly embroidered with gold, and evidently the priest had not even laid aside his rapier, for its dull clank could be heard as he walked about. The rattle of the steel broke discordantly upon the deep silence, but was it not symbolic? A deed of violence was about to be committed, cloaked in the garb of religion!
Finishing his task, he knelt before the altar in silent prayer. Then arising, he passed to the gate of the rood screen, where his commanding figure was thrown into bold relief by the altar lights. Presently seating himself, he said in low and solemn tones to the men kneeling in the darkness: "Consider well, my brethren, the step ye are about to take; for he who turns back will be likened unto the woman who glanced over her shoulder at a city burning;—to pillars of craven cowardice would ye be changed—monuments to mark how men, even when their duty shone clear as though emblazoned on the azure vault of heaven, lacked heart to carry it out. Consider it well, then, all of you!"
The deep voice of the priest rose as he uttered the last words, and its resonant tone returned in echoes from the vaulted ceiling as if each statued saint from out his niche cried: "Consider it well."