“They are approaching.  In all likelihood ’tis a posse from the sheriff.”  Again he listened.  “They are armed.  Nay, then, Tyrone thou must to cover:  thou canst not flee.  Point not to the hiding-place I have left.  If, as I suspect, they bring a warrant of search, thy father’s life may be in jeopardy.”

“Where,—­oh, where?” said Constance, forgetful of all consequences, in her anxiety for her father’s fate and that of the illustrious stranger.

“In thy chamber, lady.”

She drew back in dismay.

“Nay,” continued he, guessing at the cause of her alarm.  “They will not care to scrutinise for me there with much exactness; and, by the faith of my fathers, I will not wrong thee!”

There was a frankness, an open and undisguised freedom of manner, in this address, which assured her.  Her confidence returned, and she committed herself promptly to the issue.  She felt her soul expand with the desire of contributing to his ultimate escape.  All the ardour of her nature was concentrated in this generous and self-devoted feeling.  Too innocent for suspicion she seemed to rise above its influence.

Silently, and with due caution, she led the unfortunate Earl to her own chamber, where, in a recess opening through the bed’s head into the arras, he seemed secure from discovery.

Scarcely was this arrangement completed, ere a thundering knock announced the visitor.  It was an officer of justice, attended by some half-dozen followers, who watched every avenue to the house whilst his message was delivered within.

This official delivered into the hands of Holt a warrant for the apprehension of O’Neale, Earl of Tyrone, a traitor, then suspected of being harboured in the mansion of Grislehurst, whom the occupier was commanded, on pain of being treated as an accomplice, to deliver into the hands of justice, for the due administering of those pains and penalties which were attached to his crime.

The loyal owner, fired with indignation at this foul charge, rebutting the accusation with contempt.

“However loth,” said the messenger, “I must execute mine office; and, seeing this first mission hath failed in its purpose, I have here a warrant of search.  Mine orders are imperative.”

“I tell thee I have no plotters lurking here.  Search and welcome;—­but if thou findest aught in this house that smells of treason, the Queen may blot out my escutcheon.  I’ll dismount the pheon.  The arrow-head shall return to its quiver.  ’Twas honestly won, and, by our lady’s grace, it shall be honestly worn!”

“We must obey,” said the officer; “it shall be done with all courtesy and despatch.”