"I know that very well," he answered; "but if the government fell, remember there are some who would fall with it beyond the hope of ever climbing again. One is my Lord Jefferies, another my Lord Sunderland." She looked at him calmly. "They are both well hated by the people," she said. "I do admit it." She leant forward in her chair. "Do you think it would be worth while for my lord to stake the great post he holdeth for the chance of safety if..." She hesitated, and he supplied the words. —"if there was a revolution," he said. "Do you talk of revolutions!" she exclaimed. His fair face flushed. "Listen," he answered briefly. My lady turned her delicate head towards the window. Beyond her brocade curtains lay the dark shape of London, overhung with a glow of red that stained the summer sky. She sat silent. Mr. Sidney stood close to her, and she could hear his quick breathing; he, as she, was listening to the bells, the shouting, the crack of fireworks, now louder, now fainter, but a continuous volume of sound. "The people——" said Mr. Sidney. "Do they make revolutions?" she asked. "If there is a man to guide them they do——" "Well?" "Before, there was Cromwell." "And now——" "Now there is William of Orange." My lady rose. "His Highness," she said quietly but firmly, "may be assured that he hath a friend, a secret friend in my lord." Mr. Sidney looked anxiously into her eyes. "May I rely on that?" She smiled rather sadly. "You, at least, can trust me." Mr. Sidney bowed over her slender hand. "You are a sweet friend and a clever woman, but——" Lady Sunderland interrupted him. "I am sincere to-night. We see our dangers. You shall hear from me at The Hague." CHAPTER III THE NIGHT OF JUNE 30th, 1688 Some hours after his parting with Lady Sunderland, Mr. Sidney left a modest house in Greg Street, Soho Fields, in company with a common tarpaulin, whose rough clothes were in strong contrast to the rich appointments of the notable beau he accompanied. It was a fine night, but cloudy. The two men proceeded in silence towards Gerrard Street, the sailor with his hands in his pockets and Mr. Sidney swinging his cane. Every house they passed had the seven candles in the windows, and the sound of bells and shouting was as persistent as it had been in the drawing-room of Sunderland House; the street was empty save for a few wandering link-boys and beggars. As they, walking rapidly and steadily, approached St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the feeble rays of the oil-lamps over every tenth door, that only served to illuminate the signs and cast great shadows from the passers-by, were absorbed in a red glare that touched the brick fronts of the precise houses with a deep glow. "A bonfire," remarked Mr. Sidney. The tarpaulin answered in the accents of a gentleman. "A pope-burning—had we not best take another way?" As Mr. Sidney hesitated the other added, with a laugh—