“What, the arch-traitor?” Percy was then supposed to be what Catesby really was—the head and front of the offending.
“He, Madam. I will not deceive your Ladyship.”
“And pray who made you acquaint with him?” demanded the Countess, grimly. In her heart, as she looked into the eyes honestly raised to hers, she was saying, “The lad is innocent of all ill meaning—a foolish daw that these kites have plucked:” but she showed no sign of the relenting she really felt.
“Madam, that was Mr Thomas Rookwood.”
“He that dwells beside the Lady Lettice?”
“His son, Madam.”
“Were you acquaint with any of their wicked designs?”
“Not one of them, Madam, nor I never imagined no such a thing of any of those gentlemen.”
“Who of them all have you seen?”
“Madam, I have seen divers of whom I knew no more than to see them, whose names—but no more—I can specify if your Ladyship desire it. But those that I did really know and at all consort with were three only beside Mr Tom Rookwood—to wit, Mr Percy, Mr Catesby, and Mr Thomas Winter: and I saw but little save of the last.”