Vain hope; there was another sharp rapping at the door.
“Answer,” said Scarlett, in a low, firm voice. “Hear what they have to say.”
“Who is there?”
“I, Fred Forrester, Lady Markham. Have the goodness to open.”
“The traitor!” muttered Scar, glancing once more at the window, but the sounds from without told him that attempt to escape there was vain, for, if he dropped from the sill, the chances were that he would hurt himself, and even if he succeeded in reaching the ground unharmed, the alarm would be given by the sentinels, who would fire at him, and if they missed, there was a detachment of horse waiting to ride him down, for the steeds were stamping impatiently, and uttering a loud snort from time to time.
“Why am I disturbed at this time of the night?” said Lady Markham, trying to speak firmly and haughtily.
“I am sorry to have you disturbed, Lady Markham; but there is good reason. My mother is here.”
“A ruse,” said Scarlett, softly. “Never mind, dear. It is not the first time I have been a prisoner. It is madness to try to escape. I surrender.”
“No, no,” whispered Lady Markham. “You shall not.” Then aloud. “I refuse to open my door at this time of night.”
“Lady Markham, will you admit me alone to speak with you?” came now from outside.