directing
them with no uncertain significance to his hiding place.

In the semi-darkness of the cellar, amid his coals and faggots, with
the six and thirty barrels of gunpowder ready for the spark, the
daring soldier of fortune stood with trembling limbs, and a nameless
terror at his heart. Unflinching in the face of danger, the first in
all deeds of hardihood, famed for his valor in the Lowcountry, the
overturning of the lantern so near the powder train, and the low cry
of agony which followed the driving home of his dagger, had unnerved
him. For one brief instant he thought he recognized the cry--that from
the gasping lips so near his own had fallen the word "father!" but in
the excitement of the moment he dismissed the dreadful thought. Some
idle, curious knave had chanced to see the cellar door, and entered.
Was it his fault that he had resorted to the knife to prevent the
discovery of his presence?

Occupied with the overturned lantern he had noted little what befell
the other. Stabbed to death, the intruder probably lay in some dark
corner where the soldier's frantic push had sent him. The lantern
burned dimly, and time was speeding, so 'twould be an ill thing to
waste it upon a dead man. Steadying his nerves by an effort, Fawkes
took out the watch which Winter had given him, and bending toward the
flickering light studied the dial. The hour was at hand; in five
minutes the great clock in the tower of St. Paul would mark the stroke
of eleven, and he would fire the fuse.

Searching in his doublet he drew forth a tinder box and touchwood.
Five minutes more and he would strike the spark; in five more the red,
spitting serpent would reach the hidden powder; by then he would be
safe, and, mingling with the crowd, would hear the roar of thunder
heralding the passing of James Stuart and his Parliament into
eternity.

As he waited, the flint held ready to strike the steel, there flashed
through his mind the thought of his daughter, but she was safe at
home, and----The sound of hasty footsteps and the passing of dark
forms before the dim light struggling through the half closed entrance
to the cellar, broke his revery. Was it another come to meet his
knife point?

As he drew back, shading the lantern with his cloak, the door was
burst violently open, and a dozen men, the first holding aloft a
torch, pushed into the cellar. Fawkes thrust the flint and touchwood
into the bosom of his doublet, and, ever cool when dang