"Nay, my lord," exclaimed Rookwood, as he thrust his glass aside; "I for one am done with pretensions; 'tis time some news did reach us." The man drew forth his watch, and glancing at it, said with a frown: "By Our Blessed Lady, 'tis past nine and we have had no tidings!" The anxiety in the speaker's tone seemed to find a silent response in the heart of each. Before them all the wine stood untasted. A barking cur upon the highway caused them to start to their feet and listen, thinking the sound might be the herald of an approaching horseman. "'Twas nothing," said the host wearily, when once more seated. "Patience, patience, gentlemen; I think this delay doth not bode ill to us, for as ye are aware, bad news is ever atop of the swiftest steed." "Ah, good Catesby," exclaimed Digsby, "it is to thee we look for consolation in this terrible hour. But I do most devoutly wish some intelligence, be it good or evil, would arrive; for naught can be worse than this awful waiting." "Talk not of evil tidings," broke in Grant, nervously; "our minds are full enough of fears without thy----" "Nay, good Robert," interrupted Sir Everard, "'twas but a figure of speech I used. Nothing is further from my mind than to play the croaking prophet." "Art sure, my lord," queried Rookwood, "that Sir Winter did comprehend in what manner the intelligence was to be brought?" "Quite certain of it," answered the host; "for 'twas the last topic upon which we spoke before I left the city. Have no fear; he understood full well that Master Keyes was to ride post haste the moment all was accomplished." "How long would it take a horseman, riding at his best speed, to travel the distance?" enquired Rookwood, again drawing forth his watch. "If nothing occurred to hinder on the way, and his mount was fresh at start, methinks the journey should be made in eight hours." "Then," exclaimed the other, thrusting back his time-piece, "if all be well we would have heard ere now. I fear me--nay--I know not what I fear." But hark! What sound is that which at last falls upon the listening group? Was it the wind sighing through the leafless trees? Nay, it cannot be; for now they hear it again, and more distinctly. There is no mistaking the flying hoofs of a horse striking the hard road. All spring from the table. The moment has arrived; they are to know. As each gazes into the white face of the other, he but beholds the reflection of his own pallid countenance, and speech for a moment is impossible. "God!" cried Rookwood, listening; "Catesby, thou didst say but one rider was to bear the message, and I hear the noise of several rushing steeds, if, indeed, I be not mad." Louder and louder grew the clatter of the hoofs, whiter and whiter the faces of the waiting men. At last five horsemen dash in at the gate and ride without drawing rein across the lawn and up to the very window of the banquet room.