a man's deep tones; then came
steps ascending.

Lady Maxwell still stood perfectly rigid by the window, waiting, and
Isabel stared with white face and great open eyes at the door; outside,
the flame of a lamp on the wall was blowing about furiously in the
draught.

Then a stranger stepped into the room; evidently a gentleman; he bowed to
the two ladies, and stood, with the rime on his boots and a whip in his
hand, a little exhausted and disordered by hard riding.

"Lady Maxwell?" he said.

Lady Maxwell bowed a little.

"I come with news of your son, madam, the priest; he is alive and well;
but he is in trouble. He was taken this morning in his mass-vestments;
and is in the Marshalsea."

Lady Maxwell's lips moved a little; but no sound came.

"He was betrayed, madam, by a friend. He and thirty other Catholics were
taken all together at mass."

Then Lady Maxwell spoke; and her voice was dead and hard.

"The friend, sir! What was his name?"

"The traitor's name, madam, is Anthony Norris."

The room turned suddenly dark to Isabel's eyes; and she put up her hand
and tore at the collar round her throat.

"Oh no, no, no, no!" she cried, and tottered a step or two forward and
stood swaying.

Lady Maxwell looked from one to another with eyes that seemed to see
nothing; and her lips stirred again.

Mistress Margaret who had followed the stranger up, and who stood now
behind him at the door, came forward to Isabel with a little cry, with
her hands trembling before her. But before she could reach her, Lady
Maxwell herself came swiftly forward, her head thrown back, and her arms
stretched out towards the girl, who still stood dazed and swaying more
and more.

"My poor, poor child!" said Lady Maxwell; and caught her as she fell.

CHAPTER IX

FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH

Anthony in London, strangely enough, heard nothing of the arrest on the
Sunday, except a rumour at supper that some Papists had been taken. It
had sufficient effect on his mind to make him congratulate himself that
he had been able to warn his friend last week.

At dinner on Monday there were a few guests; and among them, one Sir
Richard Barkley, afterwards Lieutenant of the Tower. He sat at the
Archbishop's table, but Anthony's place, on the steward's left hand,
brought him very close to the end of the first table where Sir Richard
sat. Dinner was half way through, when Mr. Scot who was