The figure shook its head.
“Shall I fall to-morrow?” pursued Catesby.
The figure again made a gesture in the negative.
“The next day?”
Solemnly inclining its head, the figure once more muffled its ghastly visage in its cloak, and melted from his view.
For some time Catesby remained in a state almost of stupefaction. He then summoned up all the resolution of his nature, and instead of returning to the house, continued to pace to and fro in the court, and at last walked forth into the garden. It was profoundly dark; and he had not advanced many steps when he suddenly encountered a man. Repressing the exclamation that rose to his lips, he drew a petronel from his belt, and waited till the person addressed him.
“Is it you, Sir John Foliot?” asked a voice, which he instantly recognised as that of Topcliffe.
“Ay,” replied Catesby, in a low tone.
“Did you manage to get into the house?” pursued Topcliffe.
“I did,” returned Catesby; “but speak lower. There is a sentinel within a few paces of us. Come this way.”