Now clearly, this was a certain place wherein to be caught. “But,” thought I, “behind one of the two doors, to left or to right, must lie the governor’s room of business; and in that room—as likely as not—his keys.” Which door, then, should I choose? For to stay here was madness. While I stood pondering, the doubt was answer’d for me. From behind the right-hand door came a burst of laughter and clinking of glasses, on top of which a man’s voice—the voice of Colonel Essex—call’d out for more wine. I took a step to the door on the left, paus’d for a second or two with my hand on the latch, and then cautiously push’d it open. The chamber was empty. ’Twas a long room, with a light burning on a square centre table, and around it a mass of books, loose papers and documents strewn, seemingly without order. The floor too was litter’d with them. Clearly this was the Colonel’s office. I gave a rapid glance around. The lamp’s rays scarce illumin’d the far corners; but in one of these stood a great leathern screen, and over the fireplace near it a rack was hanging, full of swords, pistols, and walking canes. Stepping toward it I caught sight of Anthony’s sword, suspended there amongst the rest (they had taken it from me on the day of my examination); which now I took down and strapp’d at my side. I then chose out a pistol or two, slipped them into my sash, and advanced to the centre table. Under the lamplight lay His Majesty’s letter, open. My hand was stretch’d out to catch it up, when I heard across the hall a door open’d, and the sound of men’s voices. They were coming toward the office. There was scarce time to slip back, and hide behind the screen, before the door latch was lifted, and two men enter’d, laughing yet. “Business, my lord—business,” said the first (’twas Colonel Essex): “I have much to do to-night.” “Sure,” the other answer’d, “I thought we had settled it. You are to lend me a thousand out of your garrison—” “Which, on my own part, I would willingly do. Only I beg you to consider, my lord, that my position here hangs on a thread. The extreme men are already against me: they talk of replacing me by Fiennes—” “Nat Fiennes is no soldier.” “No: but he’s a bigot—a stronger recommendation. Should this plan miscarry, and I lose a thousand men—” “Heavens alive, man! It _cannot_ miscarry. Hark ye: there’s Ruthen of Plymouth will take the south road with all his forces. A day’s march behind I shall follow—along roads to northward—parallel for a way, but afterward converging. The Cornishmen are all in Bodmin. We shall come on them with double their number, aye, almost treble. Can you doubt the issue?” “Scarcely, with the Earl of Stamford for General.” The Earl was too far occupied to notice this compliment. “’Twill be swift and secret,” he said, “as Death himself—and as sure. Let be the fact that Hopton is all at sixes and sevens since the Marquis shipp’d for Wales: and at daggers drawn with Mohun.”