“First let me know if there is any enemy about?” replied Catesby.
“None that I am aware of,” rejoined Martin. “Having ransacked the premises, and done all the mischief they could, as you perceive, the miscreants departed the day before yesterday, and I have seen nothing of them since, though I have been constantly on the watch. The only alarm I have had was that occasioned by your worship just now.”
“Are you alone here?” demanded Catesby.
“No, your worship,” answered Martin. “There are several of the servants concealed in a secret passage under the house. But they are so terrified by what has lately happened, that they never dare show themselves, except during the night-time.”
“I do not wonder at it,” replied Catesby.
“And now may I inquire whether your worship brings any tidings of Sir William Radcliffe and Mistress Viviana?” rejoined Martin. “I hope no ill has befallen them. My father, old Jerome Heydocke, set out to Holywell a few days ago, to apprise them of their danger, and I have not heard of them since.”
“Sir William Radcliffe is dead,” replied Catesby. “The villains have murdered him. Your father is a prisoner.”
“Alas! alas!” cried the young man, bursting into tears; “these are fearful times to live in. What will become of us all?”
“We must rise against the oppressor,” replied Catesby, sternly. “Bite the heel that tramples upon us.”
“We must,” rejoined Martin. “And if my poor arm could avail, it should not be slow to strike.”