“Where is Mr Westray?” Lord Blandamer said. “Ask him to speak to me for a minute.”
He looked round about for the architect; he wondered now that he had not seen him among the crowd. The people standing near had listened to Lord Blandamer’s words. They of Cullerne looked on the master of Fording as being almost omnipotent. If he could not command the tower, like Joshua’s sun in Ajalon, to stand still forthwith and not fall down, yet he had no doubt some sage scheme to suggest to the architect whereby the great disaster might be averted. Where was the architect? they questioned impatiently. Why was he not at hand when Lord Blandamer wanted him? Where was he? And in a moment Westray’s name was on all lips.
And just then was heard a voice from the tower, calling out through the louvres of the belfry windows, very clear and distinct for all it was so high up, and for all the chatter of the jackdaws. It was Westray’s voice:
“I am shut up in the belfry,” it called; “the door is jammed. For God’s sake! someone bring a crowbar, and break in the door!”
There was despair in the words, that sent a thrill of horror through those that heard them. The crowd stared at one another. The foreman-mason wiped the sweat off his brow; he was thinking of his wife and children. Then the Catholic priest stepped out.
“I will go,” he said; “I have no one depending on me.”
Lord Blandamer’s thoughts had been elsewhere; he woke from his reverie at the priest’s words.
“Nonsense!” said he; “I am younger than you, and know the staircase. Give me a lever.” One of the builder’s men handed him a lever with a sheepish air. Lord Blandamer took it, and ran quickly towards the minster.
The foreman-mason called after him:
“There is only one door open, my lord—a little door by the organ.”