“Do any of you know this man?” demanded Philip, after regarding him stedfastly for a short space. “By the body of Saint Alphonso, which reposes at Zamora! I should blush to avow myself acquainted with the felon hound,” rejoined Rodomont. “But luckily I have never seen him before; and everyone else appears to be in the same predicament. How art thou called, fellow? Speak out, or the thumb-screw shall force the truth from thee.” “Torture would not make me speak,” replied the man, firmly. “But I have no desire to conceal my name. It will profit you little to know it. I am called Derrick Carver, and I am of Brightelmstone, in Sussex.” “Derrick, thou art most appropriately named Carver,” rejoined Rodomont; “but instead of carving his Highness, as was thine atrocious design, thou shalt thyself be carved by the knife of the executioner.” “By whom wert thou instigated to this attempt?” demanded Philip. “Some greater hand than thine own is manifest in the design.” “A far greater hand,” rejoined Derrick Carver. “The hand of Heaven is manifest in it.” “Deceive not thyself, insensate villain,” rejoined Rodomont. “’Tis the Prince of Darkness who hath inspired the black design. He has deserted thee, as he deserts all his servants.” “I am no bond slave of Satan, but a faithful servant of the Most High,” said Carver. “It was Heaven’s wish that I should fail; but though my sword has been turned aside, there are others left that shall find the tyrant out.” “There is clearly some conspiracy on foot,” said Osbert, who by this time had joined the Prince. “I have my own suspicions at its author, which I will presently communicate to your Highness. But that these are hired assassins is certain. By their own showing, they were to have a hundred rose-nobles each for the deed.” “Said I not right that Beelzebub was at the bottom of it?” cried Rodomont. “A hundred rose-nobles! Is that the sum for which thou hast bartered thy soul, thou damnable Derrick? Wert thou to be paid in _French_ coin—ha! Carver?” “Your suspicions tend the same way as mine own, I perceive, Sir,” observed Osbert. “Mine tend towards the French Ambassador, M. de Noailles,” rejoined Rodomont. “I speak it openly. I’ll be sworn this attempt is his excellency’s contrivance.” “Like enough,” said Philip. “But the truth must be wrung from that villain’s lips.” “Nothing can be extorted from me, seeing I have nothing to confess,” rejoined Derrick Carver, boldly. “I cannot answer for the motives that actuated those engaged with me, but my own were righteous in intent. I meant to free the Protestant Church from its deadliest enemy, and my country from subjection to Spain. I have failed; but, I say again, others will not fail, for there are many to take my place. The blood of the saints will not be shed in vain, but will cry out incessantly for vengeance.” “Peace, blasphemer!” exclaimed Rodomont, “or we will have thy tongue plucked forth.”