"'_It now appeareth_,' went on Goodenough after a brief silence, '_by this night's work, that there has further been intended the compassing of the murder of the king, and of his brother, by these bloody-minded men_'--write on, child, quick, quick!" Ruth's hand trembled cruelly, and a huge drop of ink fell from her pen; but she wrote on: "'_by their waylaying of the coach in which the king shall return from Newmarket;_' where's the cup, child? give me another drink. Now, thy pen again--stay, my brain grows confused--ay, from Newmarket, '_upon the by-road which runs by the Rye House, over against Hoddesdon, and there stopping the coach by the overturning of a cart across the narrow way, to shoot the guards from the hedges, and so in cold blood to kill the king and his brother_.' Hast thou that all down in black and white?" "Yes," answered Ruth, though in sober truth the characters glared fiery red from the fair white paper in her fevered eyes. "'_And hereby_,' faltered on the dying man, '_I, with these my last perishing breaths do declare, that of the forty conspirers in this plot, I take not upon myself to single out the more guilty, and murderously disposed ones; save only that my own soul is innocent of all desire and intent to shed blood; and furthermore I do desire to state, that of those plotters who gathered this night to discuss the ways and means for His Majesty's death, the young man Lawrence--_'" "Lee; yes, yes, Lawrence Lee," rapidly wrote on Ruth. "I know, Master Goodenough." "Thou dost? so much the better, the brave lad who would--who would--" "Ay, who would have saved you from that fearful man if he could." Goodenough nodded. "_Lawrence Lee was not one_,' and--and--" Goodenough's voice sank to a whisper, and his dim eyes closed. "I can say no more. I would have--liked to--tell--the noble turn he did me--and--how--thou, whoever thou art--" [Sidenote: The light grows dim.] Slower and slower, fainter and fainter, rose and fell the dying man's voice upon the silence; until suddenly his eyes opened, and fixing wistfully for a little while upon Ruth's face, wandered from it to the paper under her hand. "Set thy name to it," he said, "for--a living witness." "'Tis well," he went on, when she had obeyed. "And now, give it me here again under my hand, and thy pen--and hold the light close, for it grows so dark--dark--nay, but I cannot see the place;" and his fast glazing eyes strayed helplessly over the paper. "Here, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, taking the cold hand and gently placing it aright, "here is where I have written my name." [Sidenote: The signatures.]