“Have you any news from Westminster?”
“What news?”
“The Catholics, my friends—the rest.”
John Gore laid one pistol down and took up the other.
“Coleman is dead,” he said, curtly.
“Coleman! How?”
“The scaffold.”
He heard his father mutter indistinctly, and the words sounded like the words of a Latin prayer.
“And the rest?”
“Some with Coleman, some in the Tower and the jails, some scattered. London has been calling for blood.”