These were wild words—even within that secret assemblage. The question of king or no king, had begun to shape itself in the minds of a few men; but this was the first time it had risen to the lips of any one. It was the first spoken summons invoking the dark shadow that hovered over the head of Charles Stuart, until his neck lay bleeding on the block!
“Enough!” gasped out Scarthe, in an almost inaudible whisper, as he recovered his long suspended breath, “enough for my purpose. You heard it, Stubbs?”
“I did, by Ged!” replied the subordinate spy, taking care to imitate his superior in the low tone in which he made answer.
“We may go now,” said Scarthe. “There’s nothing more to be seen or done—at least nothing I need care for. Ha! who’s speaking now? That voice? Surely I’ve heard it before?”
As he said this, he placed his eye once more to the disc of cleared glass.
Suddenly drawing himself back, and clutching his associate by the arm, he muttered:
“Who do you think is there?”
“Can’t guess, captain.”
“Listen, then!” and, placing his lips close to the ear of his companion, he whispered in slow syllables, “Sir Mar-ma-duke Wade.”
“Do you say so?”