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Updated: June 17, 2025
Men, horses, and dogs were coming across from Arlingham, as the verderers of the forest had a great hunt fixed for that very day. Windybank, as a verderer, should have remembered this, but weightier matters had driven it from his mind. There was plenty of bustle at the ferry; men were shouting, horses were neighing, and hounds were baying.
Andrew Windybank was not a good man, but apt opportunity led him farther astray than, in the depths of his heart, he ever intended to go. His feet were treading the paths of his own domains. His ancestral home, Dean Tower, raised its dark red walls before him. Some of the bitterness was gone from his thoughts.
In no pleasant frame of mind, Andrew Windybank strode up the high street of the town. Few of the townsfolk gave him a good-day; he was not a popular personage. For one thing, he was a Littledean man and not of the river-side; his family was purse-proud and tyrannical; worst of all in the eyes of a Pope-hating people, the Windybank family still clung to the old faith.
"Hands off, father! I can stand." The Spaniard made no further attempt to coerce the maddened young gentleman, but he took a kerchief from his doublet and carefully bound up the wounded limb. "A drop of wine, son Basil, for our friend," he said. Basil went to a cabinet, but Windybank cried out, "Touch nothing of mine, thou devil's cub! Dost think I would drink ought from thy hands!
"Thy feet are swift in the good cause," said a voice; "thus do men step to victory!" Basil! Windybank felt uncomfortable at once. Had the fellow been dogging his steps from the Tower? He moved more stealthily than the night itself, and one never felt free of his presence. The two walked on side by side, never exchanging another word; indeed Windybank made no reply to Basil's remark.
By the time he had reached home, Windybank was persuaded that treason would bring no grist to his mill. Weak-kneed and inclined to evil, he was yet an Englishman, and in his heart he felt that all the kings that ever ruled in Spain were too feeble a power to hold valiant little England in a conqueror's grip.
The arch-plotter, who kept by the side of his untrustworthy recruit, was astonished at the reckless valour he displayed. Truth to tell, Jerome was half inclined to believe that Windybank had played a double part, and was responsible for the admiral's knowledge of the plot for unlading the Luath.
"Fall into the river as though badly wounded, and try to save thyself. I shall do the same. Leave Basil and John to fight this out." A moment later Windybank toppled backwards into the stream. He was a good swimmer, else had the Jesuit's advice availed him nothing, and he rose to the surface and turned over on to his breast like a porpoise.
Johnnie Morgan was not seriously wounded. A sword-cut on the head had stunned him for a while, and now laid him, sick, dizzy, and bleeding, on the bank; but he was able to tell the admiral that he felt nothing but a "plaguy bad headache." We will leave him cooling in the dewy morning, and see what has become of Master Windybank and some of those associated with him.
I was coming, good father," faltered the victim. "When thou art doing the work of a king of the Holy Father of God," whispered the priest, "thou shouldst put wings upon thy feet. Take heed, my son! Let not our dearest hopes be disappointed." Windybank glanced at Basil. There was death in the fanatic's eyes. "Forgive me," he murmured, and sank upon his knees.
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