"Hold!" he exclaimed, grasping Radcliffe's right arm, and fixing his dark glance upon him; "you shall not take that oath." "What mean you? " cried Garnet, who, as well as the knight, was paralysed with astonishment at this intrusion. "Sir William Radcliffe is about to join us."

"I know it," replied Fawkes; "but it may not be. He has no heart in the business, and will lend it no efficient assistance. We are better without him, than with him."

As he spoke, he took the primer from the knight's hand, and laid it upon the altar.

"This conduct is inexplicable," cried Garnet, angrily. “You will answer for it to others, as well as to me."

"I will answer for it to all," replied Guy Fawkes. "Let Sir William Radcliffe declare before me, and before Heaven, that he approves the measure, and I am content he should take the oath."

"I cannot belie my conscience by saying so," replied the knight, who appeared agitated by conflicting emotions.

"Yet you have promised to join us," cried Garnet, reproachfully.

"Better break that promise than a solemn oath," rejoined Guy Fawkes, sternly. "Sir William Radcliffe, there are reasons why you should not join this conspiracy. Examine your inmost heart, and it will tell you what they are."

"I understand you," replied the knight.

"Get hence," cried Garnet, unable to control his indignation, or I will pronounce our Church's most terrible malediction against you.'

"I shall not shrink from it, father," rejoined Fawkes, humbly, but firmly, "seeing that I am acting rightly."

"Undeceive yourself, then, at once," returned Garnet, "and learn that you are thwarting our great and holy purpose."

"On the contrary," replied Fawkes, "I am promoting it, by preventing one from joining it who will endanger its success.' "You are a traitor!" cried Garnet, furiously.

"A traitor!" exclaimed Guy Fawkes, his eye blazing with fierce lustre, though his voice and demeanour were unaltered,"I, who have been warned thrice, twice by the dead, and lastly by a vision from heaven, yet still remain firm to my purpose,-I, who have voluntarily embraced the most dangerous and difficult part of the enterprise,-I, who would suffer the utmost extremity of torture, rather than utter a word that should reveal it,-a traitor! No, father, I am none. If you think so, take this sword and at once put an end to your doubts." There was something so irresistible in the manner of Guy Fawkes, that Garnet remained silent.

"Do with me what you please," continued Fawkes, "but do not compel Sir William Radcliffe to join the conspiracy. He will be fatal to it."

"No one shall compel me to join it," replied the knight.

Perhaps it is better thus," said Garnet, after a pause, during which he was buried in reflection. "I will urge you no further, my son. But before you depart you must swear not to divulge what you have just learnt."

"Willingly," replied the knight.

"There is another person who must also take that oath,” said Guy Fawkes, "having accidentally become acquainted with as much as yourself.”

And stepping out of the chapel, he immediately afterwards returned with Viviana.

"You will now understand why I would not allow Sir William to join the conspiracy," he observed to Garnet.

"I do," replied the latter, gloomily.

The oath administered, the knight and his daughter quitted the chapel, accompanied by Guy Fawkes. Viviana was profuse in her expressions of gratitude, nor was her father less earnest in his acknowledgments.

A few hours after this, Sir William Radcliffe informed Sir Everard Digby that it was his intention to depart immediately, and, though the latter attempted to dissuade him from his purpose by representing the danger to which he would be exposed, he continued inflexible. The announcement surprised both Catesby and Garnet, who were present when it was made, and added their dissuasions to those of Digby - but without effect. To Catesby's proposal to serve as an escort, Radcliffe likewise gave a peremptory refusal, stating that he had no fears; and when questioned as to his destination, he returned an evasive answer. This sudden resolution of the knight, coupled with his refusal to join the plot, alarmed the conspirators, and more than one expressed fears of treachery. Sir Everard Digby, however, was not of the number, but asserted, "Radcliffe is a man of the highest honour. I will answer for his secrecy with my life."

"Will you answer for that of his daughter?" said Tresham. “I will,” replied Fawkes.

"To put the matter beyond a doubt," said Catesby, "I will set out shortly after him, and follow him unobserved till he halts for the night, and ascertain whether he stops at any suspicious quarter."

"Do so, my son," said Garnet.

"It is needless," observed Sir Everard Digby; "but do as you please."

By this time, Radcliffe's horses being brought round by Heydocke, he and his daughter took a hasty leave of their friends. When they had been gone a few minutes, Catesby called for his steed; and, after exchanging a word or two with Garnet, rode after them. He had scarcely proceeded more than a couple of miles along a cross-road leading to Nantwich, which he learnt

from some cottagers was the route taken by the party before him, when he heard the tramp of a horse in the rear, and, turning at the sound, beheld Guy Fawkes. Drawing in the bridle, he halted till the latter came up, and angrily demanded on what errand he was bent.

"My errand is the same as your own," replied Fawkes. "I intend to follow Sir William Radcliffe, and, if need be, defend him."

Whatever Castesby's objections might be to this companionship, he did not think fit to declare them, and, though evidently much displeased, suffered Guy Fawkes to ride by his side without opposition.

Having gained the summit of the mountainous range extending from Malpas to Tottenhall, whence they beheld the party whose course they were tracking enter a narrow lane at the foot of the hill, Catesby, fearful of losing sight of them, set spurs to his steed. Guy Fawkes kept close beside him, and they did not slacken their pace until they reached the lane.

They had not proceeded along it more than a quarter of a mile, when they were alarmed by the sudden report of firearms, followed by a loud shriek, which neither of them doubted was uttered by Viviana. Again dashing forward, on turning a corner of the road, they beheld the party surrounded by half a dozen troopers. Sir William Radcliffe had shot one of his assailants, and, assisted by Heydocke, was defending himself bravely against the others. With loud shouts, Catesby and Guy Fawkes galloped towards the scene of strife. But they were too late. A bullet pierced the knight's brain; and, no sooner did he fall, than, regardless of himself, the old steward flung away his sword, and threw himself, with the most piteous lamentations, on the body.

Viviana, meanwhile, had been compelled to dismount, and was in the hands of the troopers. On seeing her father's fate, her shrieks were so heart-piercing, that even her captors were moved to compassion. Fighting his way towards her, Catesby cut down one of the troopers, and snatching her from the grasp of the other, who was terrified by the furious assault, placed her on the saddle beside him, and striking spurs into his charger at the same moment, leapt the hedge, and made good his retreat.

This daring action, however, could not have been accomplished without the assistance of Guy Fawkes, who warded off with his rapier all the blows aimed at him and his lovely charge. While thus engaged, he received a severe cut on the head, which stretched him senseless and bleeding beneath his horse's feet.

THE EVENING STAR.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE night is come, but not too soon;

And sinking silently,—

All silently, the little Moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven
But the pale light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?

Oh no! from that blue tent above
A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise
When I behold afar,

Suspended in the evening skies,

The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my soul there shines no light
But the pale light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars!

The star of the unconquer'd will,
He rises in my breast,-
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possess'd.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

O! fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong!

THE PORTFOLIO OF MR. PETER POPKIN (DECEASED).

WHERE SHALL WE DINE?-A LUCKY DISCOVERY.

SAMUEL RUSSELL, when a young man, and Cresswell (afterwards of Covent-Garden Theatre), belonged to a small strolling company in Kent. This concern breaking up, they applied to the manager of the Deal Theatre for employment, and succeeded in obtaining an engagement. The theatre, it was stated, would open in a few days. In the mean time their finances were in a woeful plight, Cresswell not having a farthing, and Russell possessing only three shillings and sixpence in the world. To render the matter worse, the latter, fancying that he had friends at Deal, laid out his three and sixpence on a pair of second-hand white kerseymere breeches, in which he intended to enact the part of Belcour. After making this purchase, Russell to his mortification discovered that the friends from whom he had expected assistance had quitted Deal.

Cresswell was a stout, melancholy person, and paraded the sands with an awfully craving appetite, and no credit. Russell, pour passer le temps, went to his lodging to try on his kerseymeres. Whilst admiring them, he imagined that he felt something like buttons inside the lining at the knee. He proceeded immediately to cut open the seam, and, to his great delight, miraculously discovered three half guineas, which had probably made their way from the pocket of some former fortunate possessor of the smallclothes. Highly elated with this piece of luck, Russell hit on an expedient to have some fun, in consequence, with poor Cresswell. Accordingly he went to a tavern -the Hoop and Griffin, and ordered a roasted fowl and sausages, and a bottle of sherry, telling the waiter to lay the cloth, and he should return. He then sought Cresswell, whose appetite and despondency had increased in an eminent degree.

This

"What, in the name of Heaven, is to be done, Cresswell? is Thursday, and the theatre will not open until Monday next. If you can last so long as that, I cannot."

"I last?" replied Cresswell. "I am now perfectly empty. Look at my waistcoat."

"Come along," says Russell; "let us put a bold face on it. It is of no use being poor, and seeming poor, too. Let us go to the Hoop and Griffin, and try and get a dinner. We cannot be worse off than we are at present."

Cresswell was a modest reserved man; but he followed Russell into the coffee-room of the tavern, which was vacant. As they stood before the fire the waiter was busily employed in laying the cloth. When he had left the room, "Cresswell," said Russell, "I have made up my mind to one point. You and I will dine with the gentleman for whom that cloth is laid."

"Heavens! Russell, what is your intention?"

"No matter," replied Russell; "leave it all to me."

He then looked out at the window, as if to observe whether any

person was coming.

VOL. VII.

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