“Jest not on so serious a matter, Catesby,” observed Robert Winter. “For my own part, I dread the sight of powder, and shall walk forth till you have dried this, and put it away.”
“You are not going to leave us, like Stephen Littleton?” rejoined Catesby, suspiciously.
“I will go with him,” said Christopher Wright; “so you need be under no apprehension.”
Accordingly, he quitted the hall with Robert Winter, and they proceeded to the court-yard and were conversing together on the dismal prospects of the party, when a tremendous explosion took place. The roof of the building seemed rent in twain, and amidst a shower of tiles, plaster, bricks, and broken wood falling around, the bag of powder dropped untouched at their feet.
“Mother of mercy!” exclaimed Christopher Wright, picking it up. “Here is a providential occurrence. Had this exploded, we must all have been destroyed.”
“Let us see what has happened,” cried Robert Winter.
And, followed by Christopher Wright, he rushed towards the hall, and bursting open the door, beheld Catesby enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and pressing his hand to his face, which was scorched and blackened by the explosion. Rookwood was stretched on the floor in a state of insensibility, and it at first appeared that life was extinct. Percy was extinguishing the flames, which had caught his dress, and John Grant was similarly occupied.
“Those are the very faces I beheld in my dream,” cried Robert Winter, gazing at them with affright. “It was a true warning.”
Rushing up to Catesby, Christopher Wright clasped him in his arms, and extinguishing his flaming apparel, cried, “Wretch that I am! that I should live to see this day!”
“Be not alarmed!” gasped Catesby. “It is nothing—it was a mere accident.”