Guy Fawkes: or, The Gunpowder Treason: An Historical Romance. Ainsworth William Harrison
torture. Be warned by me – ah! it is too late. He is approaching.”
“Let him come,” replied Elizabeth Orton, “I am ready for him.”
“Can none of you force her away?” cried Humphrey Chetham, appealing to the crowd; “I will reward you.”
“I will not stir from this spot,” rejoined the prophetess, obstinately; “I will testify to the truth.”
The kind-hearted young merchant, finding any further attempt to preserve her fruitless, drew aside.
By this time, the pursuivant and his attendants had come up. “Seize her!” cried the former, “and let her be placed within this prison till I have reported her to the commissioners. If you will confess to me, woman,” he added in a whisper to her, “that you have harboured a priest, and will guide us to his hiding-place, you shall be set free.”
“I know of no priests but those you have murdered,” returned the prophetess, in a loud voice, “but I will tell you something that you wot not of. The avenger of blood is at hand. I have seen him. All here have seen him. And you shall see him – but not now – not now.”
“What is the meaning of this raving?” demanded the pursuivant.
“Pay no heed to her talk,” interposed Humphrey Chetham; “she is a poor crazed being, who knows not what she says. I will be surety for her inoffensive conduct.”
“You must give me surety for yourself, sir,” replied the pursuivant. “I have just learnt that you were last night at Ordsall Hall, the seat of that 'dangerous temporiser,' – for so he is designated in my warrant, – Sir William Radcliffe. And if report speaks truly, you are not altogether insensible to the charms of his fair daughter, Viviana.”
“What is this to thee, thou malapert knave?” cried Humphrey Chetham, reddening, partly from anger, partly, it might be, from another emotion.
“Much, as you shall presently find, good Master Wolf-in-sheep's-clothing,” retorted the pursuivant; “if you prove not a rank Papist at heart, then do I not know a true man from a false.”
This angry conference was cut short by a piercing scream from the prophetess. Breaking from the grasp of her captors, who were about to force her into the prison, she sprang with a single bound upon the parapet of the bridge; and utterly regardless of her dangerous position, turned, and faced the soldiers, who were struck mute with astonishment.
“Tremble!” she cried, in a loud voice, – "tremble, ye evil-doers! Ye who have despoiled the house of God, – have broken his altars, – scattered his incense, – slain his priests. Tremble, I say. The avenger is arrived. The bolt is in his hand. It shall strike king, lords, commons, – all! These are my last words, – take them to heart.”
“Drag her off!” roared the pursuivant, furiously.
“Use care – use gentleness, if ye are men!” cried Humphrey Chetham.
“Think not you can detain me!” cried the prophetess. “Avaunt, and tremble!”
So saying she flung herself from the parapet.
The height from which she fell was about fifty feet. Dashed into the air like jets from a fountain by the weight and force of the descending body, the water instantly closed over her. But she rose to the surface of the stream, about twenty yards below the bridge.
“She may yet be saved,” cried Humphrey Chetham, who with the by-standers had hurried to the side of the bridge.
“You will only preserve her for the gallows,” observed the pursuivant.
“Your malice shall not prevent my making the attempt,” replied the young merchant. “Ha! assistance is at hand.”
The exclamation was occasioned by the sudden appearance of the soldier in the Spanish dress, who rushed towards the left bank of the river, which was here, as elsewhere, formed of red sandstone rock, and following the course of the current, awaited the next appearance of the drowning woman. It did not occur till she had been carried a considerable distance down the stream, when the soldier, swiftly divesting himself of his cloak, plunged into the water, and dragged her ashore.
“Follow me,” cried the pursuivant to his attendants. “I will not lose my prey.”
But before he gained the bank of the river, the soldier and his charge had disappeared, nor could he detect any traces of them.
CHAPTER II.
ORDSALL CAVE
After rescuing the unfortunate prophetess from a watery grave in the manner just related, the soldier snatched up his cloak, and, taking his dripping burthen in his arms, hurried swiftly along the bank of the river, until he came to a large cleft in the rock, into which he crept, taking the prophetess with him, and thus eluded observation. In this retreat he continued upwards of two hours, during which time the poor creature, to whom he paid every attention that circumstances would admit, had so far recovered as to be able to speak. But it was evident that the shock had been too much for her, and that she was sinking fast. She was so faint that she could scarcely move; but she expressed a strong desire to reach her cell before she breathed her last. Having described its situation as accurately as she could to the soldier – who before he ventured forth peeped out to reconnoitre – he again raised her in his arms, and by her direction struck into a narrow lane skirting the bank of the river.
Pursuing this road for about half a mile, he arrived at the foot of a small knoll, covered by a clump of magnificent beech-trees, and still acting under the guidance of the dying woman, whose voice grew more feeble each instant, he mounted it, and from its summit took a rapid survey of the surrounding country. On the opposite bank of the river stood an old hall, while further on, at some distance, he could perceive through the trees the gables and chimneys of another ancient mansion.
“Raise me up,” said Elizabeth Orton, as he lingered on this spot for a moment. “In that old house, which you see yonder, Hulme Hall, I was born. I would willingly take one look at it before I die.”
“And the other hall, which I discern through the trees, is Ordsall, is it not?” inquired the soldier.
“It is,” replied the prophetess. “And now let us make what haste we can. We have not far to go; and I feel I shall not last long.”
Descending the eminence, and again entering the lane, which here made a turn, the soldier approached a grassy space, walled in on either side by steep sandstone rocks. At the further extremity of the enclosure, after a moment's search, by the direction of his companion, he found, artfully concealed by overhanging brushwood, the mouth of a small cave. He crept into the excavation, and found it about six feet high, and of considerable depth. The roof was ornamented with Runic characters and other grotesque and half-effaced inscriptions, while the sides were embellished with Gothic tracery, amid which the letters I.H.S., carved in ancient church text, could be easily distinguished. Tradition assigned the cell to the priests of Odin, but it was evident that worshippers at other and holier altars had more recently made it their retreat. Its present occupant had furnished it with a straw pallet, and a small wooden crucifix fixed in a recess in the wall. Gently depositing her upon the pallet, the soldier took a seat beside her on a stone slab at the foot of the bed. He next, at her request, as the cave was rendered almost wholly dark by the overhanging trees, struck a light, and set fire to a candle placed within a lantern.
After a few moments passed in prayer, the recluse begged him to give her the crucifix that she might clasp it to her breast. This done, she became more composed, and prepared to meet her end. Suddenly, as if something had again disturbed her, she opened wide her glazing eyes, and starting up with a dying effort, stretched out her hands.
“I see him before them!” she cried. “They examine him – they adjudge him! Ah! he is now in a dungeon! See, the torturers advance! He is placed on the rack – once – twice – thrice – they turn the levers! His joints snap in their sockets – his sinews crack! Mercy! he confesses! He is led to execution. I see him ascend the scaffold!”
“Whom do you behold?” inquired the soldier, listening to her in astonishment.
“His