“He says we deserve the worst of deaths,” observed Thomas Winter, in conclusion, “and that we have irretrievably injured the Catholic cause.”
“And I begin to fear he speaks the truth,” rejoined Christopher Wright. “However, for us there is no retreat.”
“None whatever,” rejoined Catesby, in a sombre tone. “We must choose between death upon the battle-field or on the scaffold.”
“The former be my fate,” cried Percy.
“And mine,” added Catesby.
An anxious and perturbed night was passed by the conspirators, and many a plan was proposed and abandoned. It had been arranged among them that they should each in succession make the rounds of the place, to see that the sentinels were at their posts—strict orders having been given to the latter to fire upon whomsoever might attempt to fly—but, as Catesby, despite his great previous fatigue, was unable to rest, he took this duty chiefly upon himself.
Returning at midnight from an examination of the court-yard, he was about to enter the house, when he perceived before him a tall figure, with a cloak muffled about its face, standing in his path. It was perfectly motionless, and Catesby, who carried a lantern in his hand, threw the light upon it, but it neither moved forward, nor altered its position. Catesby would have challenged it, but an undefinable terror seized him, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. An idea rose to his mind that it was the spirit of Guy Fawkes, and, by a powerful effort, he compelled himself to address it.
“Are you come to warn me?” he demanded.
The figure moved in acquiescence, and withdrawing the cloak, revealed features of ghastly paleness, but resembling those of Fawkes.
“Have I long to live?” demanded Catesby.