The morrow after the storm was windless and genial; the morning stepped out from the east bearing the promise of a fine day; the tide was running strongly to the sea. At Newnham the ferryman stood knee-deep in the water washing his boat and hoping for a fare. The man in black came down and was carried across to Arlingham. He asked many questions concerning the tides and the sands. The water ran like a mill-race round the Nab, and the stranger crossed himself when he entered the boat, and again when the ferryman took him on his back to carry him through the shallow water and the mud. He paid the penny for the passage, and then vanished quickly into the trees that shut in the village of Arlingham from the river. The boatman watched him curiously and fearfully; and when he was no longer visible he shivered, for a cold chill was running down his spine. “Seems as though I’d carried the Evil One,” he muttered; “he may halloo till he’s as hoarse as his black children the crows ere I trust myself on the waters with him again.” He waded to his boat and rowed rapidly across stream once more.

The man in black gave neither thought nor look to the ferryman, but strode along the woodland paths like one who had not a moment to spare. The broad Roman way stretched in a bee-line from the eastern shore to the village, but the wayfarer never once set foot upon it. Swiftness and secrecy marked every movement. The sun had been above the horizon scarce an hour when the mysterious stranger knocked at the door of a farmhouse that lay about a mile from the village and northwards towards the river. It was opened on the instant by the farmer himself, and barred and chained again.

In the kitchen were four men, two of whom wore black doublet and hosen, black caps with a black feather, and were sallow-looking counterparts of the last arrival. They stood up, bowed gravely, and sat down again without speaking.

“You have kept good tryst, my sons; did any man see you?”

“Not even the eye of the sun lighted upon us; we walked by the stars,” was the reply.

“Good! Now, your tidings. Thine first, Basil.”

The younger of the two men clad in black looked up. Hitherto he had maintained a strict silence, his eyes fixed on the floor. The face that was lifted to the morning light was not a pleasant one. It was pasty, colourless, and shrunken as though from long fasting, but the eyes glittered in their dull sockets like a pair of black diamonds. “Fanatic” was written large all over him. He was a monk released from his vows for the performance of special duties. His tidings were given slowly in short, terse sentences.

“Admiral Drake is at Gatcombe.”

The leader nodded. “I know it; I saw him yesterday,” he said.

“He hath wind of our plot and a description of your person. Sir Walter Raleigh comes up from Bristol on this morning’s tide. ’Tis given out that he is visiting the Throckmortons, from which family he took his wife. The truth is, that he comes to assist the admiral against us.”

“Doth he bring troops?”

“No, but the admiral hath a royal warrant empowering him to call the free foresters and miners to arms if need should arise.”

“That is nothing.”

“I have a list of those families that still profess the true faith. Almost to a man they place their country before their Church, and prefer to fight for their heretic Queen rather than the Holy Mother of Heaven.”

“The fiery pit yawns for them, my son!”

“But there are true sheep amongst these herds of goats. Two have I brought with me. Their eyes are opened. Wisdom and far-seeing dwells with them. They value not the things of this world and the comforts of the body. They are sworn to serve the Holy Church to the death.” The speaker turned to two rather hang-dog fellows who were squatted beside the hearth. “Kneel, my brothers,” he cried, “and receive a blessing from Father Jerome, a saint amongst men!”

“Tush! my son,” said Father Jerome; “thou dost rate my poor worth a thousand times too highly. The blessing I bestow is greater far than he is who bestows it; the gift is greater than the giver.”

The whole company fell upon their knees, and Father Jerome towered above them. There was cunning in his sallow face, cruelty in the corners of his mouth. He held his hands aloft and spoke low and mysteriously.

“When the Holy Father called me and entrusted me with my present mission he gave me his blessing thrice repeated, and bestowed upon me the power of passing on that blessing to others. The blessing then that ye receive at my hands is the blessing of the Head of the Church. Kings have begged for it and have not obtained it; but ye are greater than kings.” The disguised priest for such was Father Jerome placed his hands on them one by one and murmured a long Latin invocation. At the end of this he addressed the farmer and the two foresters, who had been beguiled into the plot, speaking in plain, forcible English.

“Your country,” he exclaimed, “wallows in heresy and other deadly sins. For years hath it openly flouted and resisted the Church. The hour of retribution is near. By sword and by fire must her sins be purged. The instruments of vengeance and punishment are appointed, and the least of these am I. Before the sun hath run another yearly circle through the heavens a faithful prince shall hold power in this land. Many who are now in high estate shall be flung down, and there are some humble ones that shall be mightily exalted. Think of that, my sons, and be true to the trust reposed in you!”

Father Jerome raised up his kneeling audience with a well-chosen word of praise, promise, or encouragement for each one. Then he bade the farmer set meat and ale before the two foresters, and took his two clerical spies to the window-seat, where he conversed with them in low tones.

“Thy two recruits, son Basil, are not overburdened with brains.”

“The better shall they serve our purpose, my father. We want blind tools rather than thinking men. I have them in the hollow of my hand. Thews and sinews are theirs, and an intimate knowledge of the woods. If they will but carry out my bidding without question, I shall be well content.”

“Thou art right. And now, son John, how hast thou sped upon thine errands?”

“Well, father, the bracken will be fit to cut in a month. I have ordered loads to be prepared for me in all parts of the forest. The soil of the woodlands is everywhere green with the curling fronds; and where I do not cut, the foresters and miners will be preparing heaps to carry away for litter and bedding. By the end of July the forest beneath the oaks will be covered with a carpet of stuff as combustible as tinder. Let us but fire it at Newnham, Littledean, Blakeney, Coleford, and at Speech by the courthouse, and we shall lay tens of thousands of oaks in blackened ruin. Philip of Spain has but to scatter the present small navy of England, for no more ships can be built, and there will be nothing to oppose his landing.”

“Thou hast done well. Our plans are fully ripe, but apparently the time is not quite come. We will separate for a month and remain in strict hiding. The admiral’s suspicions are aroused. If we suddenly disappear at the moment when he becomes active in searching for us, his fears will be allayed. But at the appointed moment we must come forth without a sign of warning, do our work, and begone again. Our tools must be frightened into secrecy. I will do that. Let us now join them at breakfast.”

It was not the fault of Father Jerome that the breakfast party was not a happy affair. Perfectly at ease himself, and satisfied with his morning’s work, he was in the mood for decorous jollity; but although his two immediate satellites responded to his lead, and indulged in a few feeble jests, the farmer and foresters hardly vouchsafed a word or a smile. In part, maybe, this was due to the poverty of the wit of their sable companions, but the three were obviously ill at ease. Greed and a sort of religious fanaticism had brought them into the ranks of the conspirators, but their national instincts were rebuking them each moment. They felt traitors, and not all the sophistries of the priests which put the Church first, and country a long way after could ease their minds of a burden of shame. The chief conspirator watched them narrowly, and some dark thoughts concerning them ran through his mind.

The morning was advancing, and it behoved the plotters to separate. The leader gave them a few words of caution and command, and then bade the farmer go to his work as though nothing unusual was afoot; the rest would vanish one by one into the surrounding woods or across the river. One of the foresters betook himself off immediately, journeying on to Frampton, where he had some relatives, his visit to them being an ostensible reason for his presence on the wrong side of the Severn. He was a hard-faced fellow, with a pair of small, greedy-looking blue eyes. Father Jerome pressed his hand very affectionately at parting, and the man found three silver shillings sticking to his palm when his hand was free again. He strode away with a buoyant step, his misgivings gone for the while.

The other woodlander arose the moment the door was closed behind his companion.

“Wait a while, my son,” said Jerome.

“I have something to say before I go.”

“Ah! say on.” The priest’s face set somewhat sternly, for he did not like the forester’s manner.

The fellow began without hesitation, and spoke as a man whose mind was full of the matter whereon he talked. The three in black listened.

“Good father, I have sworn an oath to be thy servant in a certain business.”

“And thou canst not break that oath without hurling thy soul to eternal damnation,” was the stern rejoinder.

“It is not in my mind to break my oath.”

“What then?”

“If thou wilt listen, I will show thee that perhaps it would be better to release me from my vow.”

“Impossible!”

“Listen. I am pledged to do a deed that the law will hold to be treason. I place myself in secret enmity to nearly every one of my countrymen. Did they but suspect me, they would hang me without mercy. A dog in their eyes, I should meet a dog’s death.”

“Tut!” broke in the priest sharply, “thy reasoning is all wrong. Thou, for the sake of truth and right, art placing thyself like a second David against a host of evil men. Dost hope for their good opinion?”

“But, good father,” pleaded the fellow, “it doth not appear to me that I am doing right. Queen Bess God bless her! lives in the hearts of us all. Why should I work her a mischief in order to advance the King of Spain, whom we cannot but hate? Now, I bethink me, I have sworn to serve my Queen, but I have given no oath of fealty to the Pope. And as for your religion, well, I am in most ways of one mind with you, and I think these Protestants to be no better than heretics. Master Basil, whose learning is wonderful, did persuade me for the nonce that my duty lay along the path you are treading; but my mind misgives me woefully, and I cannot see that it is an honest thing to work in secret against the whole body of my fellow-countrymen.”

Jerome’s face had darkened, and Basil’s lips were working evilly.

“But the whole body of thy fellow-countrymen are wrong!” he hissed. “God hath delivered them and their country into the hands of his faithful servant Philip.”

“Then why doth Admiral Drake thrash the sailors of Philip whenever he meets them? God surely only fights for the right!” replied the forester.

This was a facer for the ex-priest, and ere he could frame a retort Jerome took up the matter again. “Thou hast said that thou art willing to keep thine oath.”

“Not willing, but I will not willingly break it. My heart is no longer in the enterprise. I shall be ashamed to look my neighbours in the face. I shall fear their glances and despise myself. When the pinch comes, I may turn coward and do nothing. The whisper of conscience is more terrible than the roar of a lion. What will it avail you to look for help to such a one as I?”

“If I release thee?”

“My lips are sealed. I have learned your plans, but I am honest with you. Be honest with me, and men shall tear out my tongue before I will speak a word of you or your plot.”

Jerome sat silent for a few moments. Suddenly he started up.

“Thou art an honest fellow,” he exclaimed, “and I believe thee. Half-hearted men are useless to me. Thou art released from thine oath. Go!”

Basil started to protest, but his leader placed his hand on his lips. The forester went out, feeling as though a mountain had been lifted from his shoulders. He disappeared at a turn in the lane. Then Jerome spoke. “Thou art our lay-brother, Basil. That man must not cross the river.”

Basil nodded and went out. Whilst Jerome yet watched him, slipping from cover to cover, the farmer re-entered, a look of mingled fear and hesitation on his face. The priest turned instantly and noticed it. He laid his hand on his shoulder. “I am not yet gone, as thou seest. There is something I would show thee before I go.”

For the space of about ten minutes the two stood in silence. Then the priest said “Come,” and led the farmer from the house. He followed in Basil’s footsteps, and came at length to the foot of a dwarf oak. A man lay there, his eyes glazing in death. Basil was wiping a dagger in the bracken.

Jerome pointed to the dying woodsman. “That man doubted and hesitated,” he said.

The farmer shuddered, and went white-faced homewards.