Whoever had occupied that antechamber must have overheard not only all that had been spoken, but have seen each speaker in turn—in short, every individual present, and under a light clear enough to have rendered sure their identification.
It needed very little reflection to point out who had been the chief spy. The despatch, taken by Garth from the king’s messenger, rendered it easy to tell that Richard Scarthe had been in that chamber—either in person, or by deputy.
All this knowledge flashed upon the mind of the patriot conspirator, with a distinctness painfully vivid.
Unfortunately, the course, proper for him to pursue, was far from being so clear; and for some minutes he remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.
With such evidence as Scarthe possessed against him, he felt keenly conscious of danger—a danger threatening not only his liberty, but his life.
If taken before the Star Chamber—after what he had that night said and done—he could not expect any other verdict than a conviction; and his would not be the first head, during that weak tyrant’s reign, that had tumbled untimely from the block.
It was of no use upbraiding himself, with the negligence that had led to the unfortunate situation. Nor was there any time to indulge in self-reproach: for the longer he reflected, the more proximate would be the danger he had to dread.
Henry Holtspur was a man of ready determination. A life partly spent amidst dangers of flood and field—under the shadows of primeval American forests—on the war-path of the hostile Mohawk—had habituated him to the forming of quick resolves, and as quickly carrying them into execution.
But no man is gifted with omniscience; and there are occasions when the wisest in thought, and quickest in action, may be overtaken.
It was so in Holtspur’s case at this particular crisis. He felt that he had been outwitted. In the fair field of fight he had defeated an adversary, who, in the dark diplomacy of intrigue, was likely to triumph over him.