"As first he strove to do that," amended Ruth, watching the words, as one by one the labouring tremulous fingers produced them.
"Take you the pen, and alter it then if you can write, for my hand will not reach to't," said Goodenough, "and may it be as you say, little one," he went on, a gleam of something like content breaking upon his pallid lips as Ruth took the pen, and neatly wrote in her little amendment between the crooked-back up-hill-and-down-dale lines. "'As first he strove to ruin my soul, by—' Nay, but write on, and I will sign—quick—'by fair and reasonable seeming words; persuading me to enrol myself into the foul plot which hath been hatched for the making away of the persons of His Majesty, and of His Majesty's Brother, James, Duke of York; thereby.' Hast thou it all down? 'thereby,'" continued Goodenough, as Ruth nodded, "'to rid the country of the race of Stuarts; and to set up rulers of their own choosing.'"
"Choosing," said Ruth as she wrote the last word.
A tale of murder.
"'It now appeareth,' went on Goodenough after a brief silence, 'by this night's work, that there has further been intended the compassing of the murder of the king, and of his brother, by these bloody-minded men'—write on, child, quick, quick!" Ruth's hand trembled cruelly, and a huge drop of ink fell from her pen; but she wrote on: "'by their waylaying of the coach in which the king shall return from Newmarket;' where's the cup, child? give me another drink. Now, thy pen again—stay, my brain grows confused—ay, from Newmarket, 'upon the by-road which runs by the Rye House, over against Hoddesdon, and there stopping the coach by the overturning of a cart across the narrow way, to shoot the guards from the hedges, and so in cold blood to kill the king and his brother.' Hast thou that all down in black and white?"
"Yes," answered Ruth, though in sober truth the characters glared fiery red from the fair white paper in her fevered eyes.
"'And hereby,' faltered on the dying man, 'I, with these my last perishing breaths do declare, that of the forty conspirers in this plot, I take not upon myself to single out the more guilty, and murderously disposed ones; save only that my own soul is innocent of all desire and intent to shed blood; and furthermore I do desire to state, that of those plotters who gathered this night to discuss the ways and means for His Majesty's death, the young man Lawrence—'"
"Lee; yes, yes, Lawrence Lee," rapidly wrote on Ruth. "I know, Master Goodenough."
"Thou dost? so much the better, the brave lad who would—who would—"
"Ay, who would have saved you from that fearful man if he could."