Aubrey was silent, from sheer terror. A gulf seemed to yawn before his feet, and the Countess appeared to him in the light of the minister of wrath waiting to push him into it. With the rapidity of lightning, his whole life seemed to pass in sudden review before him--his happy childhood and guarded youth at Selwick Hall, the changed circumstances of his London experiences, his foolish ways and extravagant expenditure, his friendship with Winter, the quiet home at the White Bear into which his fall would bring such disgrace and sorrow, the possible prison and scaffold as the close of all. Was it to end thus? He had meant so little ill, had done so little wrong. Yet how was he to convince any one that he had not meant the one, or even that he had not done the other? In that moment, one circumstance of his early life stood out bright and vivid as if touched with a sunbeam:--an act of childish folly, done fifteen years before, for which his grandfather had made him learn the text, "Thou God seest me." It came flashing back upon him now. Had God seen him all this while? Then He knew all his foolishness--ay, and his innocence as well. Could He--would He--help him in this emergency? Aubrey Louvaine had never left off the outward habit of saying prayers; but it was years since he had really prayed before that unheard cry went up in the gallery of Oxford House--"Lord, save me, for my grandmother's sake!" He felt as if he dared not ask it for his own. All these thoughts followed each other in so short a time that Lady Oxford was conscious of little more than a momentary hesitation, before Aubrey said-- "I suppose I can, Madam." He had made up his mind to speak the plain, full truth. Even that slight touch of the hem of Christ's garment had given him strength. "Then do so. Have you visited this man?" "I have, Madam." "How many times?" "Several times, Madam. I could not say with certainty how many." "How long knew you this Thomas Winter?" "Almost as long as I have dwelt in your Ladyship's house--not fully that time." "Who made you acquaint with him?" "Mr Percy." "What, the arch-traitor?" Percy was then supposed to be what Catesby really was--the head and front of the offending. "He, Madam. I will not deceive your Ladyship." "And pray who made you acquaint with him?" demanded the Countess, grimly. In her heart, as she looked into the eyes honestly raised to hers, she was saying, "The lad is innocent of all ill meaning--a foolish daw that these kites have plucked:" but she showed no sign of the relenting she really felt. "Madam, that was Mr Thomas Rookwood." "He that dwells beside the Lady Lettice?" "His son, Madam." "Were you acquaint with any of their wicked designs?" "Not one of them, Madam, nor I never imagined no such a thing of any of those gentlemen." "Who of them all have you seen?"