The room was one of the oldest in the house, and at the further end stood a small closet, approached by an arched doorway, and fitted up with a hassock and crucifix, which, strange to say, had escaped the ravages of the searchers.
Placed within the couch, Guy Fawkes began to ramble as before about the conspiracy; and fearing his ravings might awaken the suspicion of the servants, Catesby would not suffer any of them to come near him, but arranged with Garnet to keep watch over him by turns.

By degrees, he became more composed; and, after dozing a little, opened his eyes, and, looking round, inquired anxiously for his sword.

At first, Catesby, who was alone with him at the time, hesitated in his answer, but seeing he appeared greatly disturbed, he showed him that his hat, gauntlets, and rapier were lying by the bedside.
"I am content," replied the wounded man, smiling faintly; "that sword has never left my side, waking or sleeping, for twenty years.

Let me grasp it once more--perhaps for the last time." Catesby handed him the weapon.

He looked at it for a few moments, and pressed the blade to his lips.
"Farewell, old friend!" he said, a tear gathering in his eye, "farewell! Catesby," he added, as he resigned the weapon to him, "I have one request to make.