“My parents,” said Julian, after a moment’s hesitation; “how fare they?—What will be their fate?”
“They fare as the fort under which the enemy has dug a deadly mine. The work may have cost the labour of years, such were the impediments to the engineers; but Time brings opportunity upon its wings.”
“And what will be the event?” said Peveril.
“Can I read the future,” answered the voice, “save by comparison with past?—Who has been hunted on these stern and unmitigable accusations, but has been at last brought to bay? Did high and noble birth, honoured age, and approved benevolence, save the unfortunate Lord Stafford? Did learning, capacity of intrigue, or high Court favour, redeem Coleman, although the confidential servant of the heir presumptive of the Crown of England?—Did subtilty and genius, and exertions of a numerous sect, save Fenwicke, or Whitbread, or any other of the accused priests?—Were Groves, Pickering, or the other humble wretches who have suffered, safe in their obscurity? There is no condition in life, no degree of talent, no form of principle, which affords protection against an accusation, which levels conditions, confounds characters, renders men’s virtues their sins, and rates them as dangerous in proportion as they have influence, though attained in the noblest manner, and used for the best purposes. Call such a one but an accessory to the Plot—let him be mouthed in the evidence of Oates or Dugdale—and the blindest shall foresee the issue of their trial.”
“Prophet of Evil!” said Julian, “my father has a shield invulnerable to protect him. He is innocent.”
“Let him plead his innocence at the bar of Heaven,” said the voice; “it will serve him little where Scroggs presides.”
“Still I fear not,” said Julian, counterfeiting more confidence than he really possessed; “my father’s cause will be pleaded before twelve Englishmen.”
“Better before twelve wild beasts,” answered the Invisible, “than before Englishmen, influenced with party prejudice, passion, and epidemic terror of an imaginary danger. They are bold in guilt in proportion to the number amongst whom the crime is divided.”
“Ill-omened speaker,” said Julian, “thine is indeed a voice fitted only to sound with the midnight bell, and the screeching owl. Yet speak again. Tell me, if thou canst”—(He would have said of Alice Bridgenorth, but the word would not leave his tongue)—“Tell me,” he said, “if the noble house of Derby——”
“Let them keep their rock like the sea-fowl in the tempest; and it may so fall out,” answered the voice, “that their rock may be a safe refuge. But there is blood on their ermine; and revenge has dogged them for many a year, like a bloodhound that hath been distanced in the morning chase, but may yet grapple the quarry ere the sun shall set. At present, however, they are safe.—Am I now to speak farther on your own affairs, which involve little short of your life and honour?”