That was the last abyss of the inferno that our sight-seers looked into. The women, at least, could bear no more.
“Come,” said Anna, shuddering. “It is not evening, so we have not ‘supped,’ but we have dined ‘full of horrors.’ Let us leave the Tower with its gloomy dungeons and ghastly memories, and the Yeomen of the Guard in their devil’s mourning of black and red, for Bloody Henry Tudor, I suppose; let us get out into the pure open air, and back to the wholesome nineteenth century.”
General Lyon and Dick liberally remunerated the civil and attentive warders, and the whole party passed out of the Tower walls, entered their carriage, and returned to their hotel, where awaited them—a very great surprise.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WAITING AND HOPING.
Silence, silence, still, unstirred—
Long, unbroken, unexplained;
Not one word, one little word
Even to show him touched or pained.
Silence, silence, all unbroken—
Not a sound, a word, or token—Owen Meredith.