There was a breathless silence in the room; Isabel's heart beat thick and heavy and her eyes grew large with expectancy; it was a windless frosty night again, and the ivy outside on the wall, and the laurels in the garden seemed to be silently listening too. "Mary, Mary," began her sister, "you----;" but the old lady lifted her hand a little higher; and silence fell again. Then far away in the direction of the London road came the clear beat of the hoofs of a galloping horse. Lady Maxwell bowed her head, and her hand slowly sank to her side. The other two stood up and remained still while the beat of the hoofs grew and grew in intensity on the frozen road. "The front door," said Lady Maxwell. Mistress Margaret slipped from the room and went downstairs; Isabel took a step or two forward, but was checked by the old lady's uplifted hand again. And again there was a breathless silence, save for the beat of the hoofs now close and imminent. A moment later the front door was opened, and a great flood of cold air swept up the passages; the portrait of Sir Nicholas in the hall downstairs, lifted and rattled against the wall. Then came the clatter on the paved court; and the sound of a horse suddenly checked with the slipping up of hoofs and the jingle and rattle of chains and stirrups. There were voices in the hall below, and 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.