"To the great square tower," she replied, "by a staircase in the little turret that you might see at the side of the keep. It is very narrow, but quite good and perfect still."
"If the door be still there and sound," replied Chartley, "it will be as good a place of refuge as any; for the mouth of a narrow staircase is no bad spot for defence."
"I think the door is there," replied Iola; "but we can soon see."
"Thanks to the fire without, we can, sweet Iola," replied Chartley, walking forward by her side; but, as he did so, his foot struck against something lying on the pavement, which he sent rattling to the other side of the hall. "Why, what is here?" he exclaimed, stooping down. "Some one has been lighting a fire here, not very long ago. And on my life here is a lamp too, seemingly not very long extinguished; at all events, there is oil in it."
"Oh yes, it is long ago," answered Iola, "as long ago as Christmas. I remember all about it now. The nuns come up here every year, on the morrow of Christmas, for there is still a mass kept up once a-year in the chapel; and, the last time, sister Bridget left her lamp behind her, which she brought to light the tapers on the altar. It may now serve us in good stead; and I do not see why we should not light a fire here too; for they do so every Christmas day, and heat a flagon of Malvoisie, for the priest who says the mass."
"Would to Heaven we had a flagon of Malvoisie to heat," replied Lord Chartley, laughing. "I know few things better, on a cold night or in a doubtful hour. Strange, sweet Iola, that so spiritual a thing as hope should go up and down, burn more faintly or more brightly, for the want or the possession of a few drops of grape juice."
"It may be so with men," answered Iola; "but I do not think it is so with women. Hope with me never burns brighter than in a fine clear summer morning, when I hear the birds sing. There seems, in the sweet sounds and in the sweet sights, a world of promises from a voice that never lies."
"Oh yes, but Malvoisie is good too," answered Chartley gaily, "especially when summer mornings are not here, when no sweet bird gives music, unless it be the hooting owl; and even Iola's eyes do not afford light enough to show one this great thick door, the hinges of which seem somewhat rusty."
As he thus spoke, with his foot upon the second step, he swung the heavy door backwards and forwards, with a grating sound, which seemed, to make the old hall shake.
"Come," he continued, "I will go light sister Bridget's lamp at the fire, and see what good Ibn Ayoub is about. His watch has been undisturbed, or we should have had his Arabic gutturals finding their way into the hall, and echoing round and round as harshly as this rusty hinge. You shall stay near the other door, till I return; but mind, if there should be anything like a fray, you run up here and shut yourself in. I am bound by knightly courtesy to take you back to the abbey safe and sound; and so if I am killed you must take the task upon yourself, in justice to my reputation."