“Do him no harm,” cried Knevet, as he returned to the soldiers, who were still struggling with Fawkes,—"do him no harm. It is not here he must die.”
“A moment more, and I had blown you all to perdition,” cried Fawkes. “But Heaven ordained it otherwise.”
“Heaven will never assist such damnable designs as yours,” rejoined Knevet. “Thrust him into that corner,” he added to his men, who instantly obeyed his injunctions, and held down the prisoner so firmly that he could not move a limb. “Keep him there. I will question him presently.”
“You may question me,” replied Fawkes, sternly; “but you will obtain no answer.”
“We shall see,” returned Knevet.
Pursuing the search with Topcliffe, he counted thirty-six hogsheads and casks of various sizes, all of which were afterwards found to be filled with powder. Though prepared for this discovery, Knevet could not repress his horror at it, and gave vent to execrations against the prisoner, to which the other replied by a disdainful laugh. They then looked about, in the hope of finding some document or fragment of a letter, which might serve as a clue to the other parties connected with the fell design, but without success. Nothing was found except a pile of arms; but though they examined them, no name or cipher could be traced on any of the weapons.
“We will now examine the prisoner more narrowly,” said Knevet.
This was accordingly done. On removing Guy Fawkes's doublet, a horse-hair shirt appeared, and underneath it, next his heart, suspended by a silken cord from his neck, was a small silver cross. When this was taken from him, Guy Fawkes could not repress a deep sigh.
“There is some secret attached to that cross,” whispered Topcliffe, plucking Knevet's sleeve.
Upon this, the other held it to the light, while Topcliffe kept his eye fixed upon the prisoner, and observed that, in spite of all his efforts to preserve an unmoved demeanour, he was slightly agitated.