Do not desert us, we beseech thee, but let thy light guide us through these gloomy paths.

Nerve our arms,--sharpen our weapons,--and crumble these hard and flinty stones, so that they may yield to our efforts.

Aid our enterprise, if thou approvest it, and it be really, as in our ignorance we believe it to be, for the welfare of thy holy Church, and the confusion of its enemies.

Bear witness, O Lord, that we devote ourselves wholly and entirely to this one end,--and that we implore success only for thy glory and honour." With this he arose, and the following strains were chanted by the whole assemblage:-- HYMN OF THE CONSPIRATORS.
The heretic and heathen, Lord, Consume with fire, cut down with sword; The spoilers from thy temples thrust, Their altars trample in the dust.
False princes and false priests lay low, Their habitations fill with woe.
Scatter them, Lord, with sword and flame, And bring them utterly to shame.
Thy vengeful arm no longer stay, Arise! exterminate, and slay.
So shall thy fallen worship be Restored to its prosperity.
This hymn raised the enthusiasm of the conspirators to the highest pitch, and such was the effect produced by it, as it rolled in sullen echoes along the arched roof of the vault, that several of them drew their swords, and crossed the blades, with looks of the most determined devotion to their cause.

When it was ended, Garnet recited other prayers, and sprinkled holy water upon the wall, and upon every implement about to be used, bestowing a separate benediction on each.
As he delivered the pick-axe to Guy Fawkes, he cried in a solemn voice-- "Strike, my son, in the name of the Most High, and in behalf of our holy religion,--strike!" Guy Fawkes raised the weapon, and stimulated by excitement, threw the whole strength of his arm into the blow.