“Shall I tell you what I think it portends?” hesitated Tresham.
“Do so,” replied Fawkes, “and speak boldly. I am no child to be frightened at shadows.”
“You have more than once declared your intention of perishing with our foes,” rejoined Tresham. “The design, though prosperous in itself, may be fatal to you.”
“You are right,” replied Fawkes. “I have little doubt I shall perish on that day. You are both aware of my superstitious nature, and are not ignorant that many mysterious occurrences have combined to strengthen the feeling,—such as the dying words of the prophetess, Elizabeth Orton,—her warning speech when she was raised from the dead by Doctor Dee,—and lastly, the vision at St. Winifred's Well. What if I tell you the saint has again appeared to me?”
“In a dream?” inquired Catesby, in a slightly sceptical tone.
“Ay, in a dream,” returned Fawkes. “But I saw her as plainly as if I had been awake. It was the same vapoury figure—the same transparent robes, the same benign countenance, only far more pitying than before—that I beheld at Holywell. I heard no sound issue from her lips, but I felt that she warned me to desist.”
“Do you accept the warning?” asked Tresham, eagerly.
“It is needless to answer,” replied Fawkes. “I have laid the train to-night.”
“You have infected me with your misgivings,” observed Tresham. “Would the enterprise had never been undertaken!”
“But being undertaken, it must be gone through with,” rejoined Catesby, sternly. “Hark'e, Tresham. You promised us two thousand pounds in aid of the project, but have constantly deferred payment of the sum on some plea or other.”