“What was its object!” cried the host. “You will scarcely credit me when I tell you. I tremble to speak of it. Its object was to blow up the Parliament House, and the King and all the nobles and prelates of the land along with it.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed the guests.
“But how do you know it is a scheme of the Papists?” asked Catesby.
“Because I have been told so,” rejoined the host. “But who else could devise such a monstrous plan? It would never enter into the head or heart of a Protestant to conceive so detestable an action. We love our King too well for that, and would shed the last drop of our blood rather than a hair of his head should be injured. But these priest-ridden Papists think otherwise. They regard him as a usurper; and having received a dispensation from the Pope to that effect, fancy it would be a pious act to remove him. There will be no tranquillity in the kingdom while one of them is left alive; and I hope his Majesty will take advantage of the present ferment to order a general massacre of them, like that of the poor Protestants on Saint Bartholomew's day in Paris.”
“Ay,—massacre them,” cried the guests; “that's the way. Burn their houses and cut their throats. Will it be lawful to do so without further authority, mine host? If so, we will set about it immediately.”
“I cannot resolve you on that point,” replied the landlord. “You had better wait a short time. I dare say their slaughter will be publicly commanded.”
“Heaven grant it may be so!” cried one of the guests. “I will bear my part in the business.”
Catesby arose, paid his reckoning, and strode out of the tavern.
“Do you know, mine host,” said the guest who had last spoken, “I half suspect that tall fellow, who has just left us, is a Papist.”
“Perhaps a conspirator,” said another.