It is all a dark mystery. Magdalen was to have been removed to Exeter to-day, but now Father Fabian must go instead, and give the best account he may of the matter. I cannot say that I believe very much in the demon, any more than Father Fabian. My notion is that some friend from outside hath found a way of helping the poor woman, or that there is some way of escape from the tower which we know not of.
Anyhow, I am glad she is gone, and so I can't but think there are some others, if they would say so. The tower being open, some of us young ones ventured to explore it, and even into the vaults below. The tower is simply what it looks to be—a structure of great unhewn stone, with projections here and there like shelves, and the remains of a stone staircase, though where it should lead to I cannot guess. Another stone stairs leads down to the vault, which is perfectly dark, save for one narrow slit at the very top, going into the garden. Here was once a shrine, whereof the altar and crucifix still remain. A row of niches runs all round, of which two have been built up, doubtless for burial purposes, and there are the dusty remains of several coffins, such as are used for nuns, beside two or three of lead and stone. 'Tis a dismal and dreadful place, and it seems horrible to think any living being should be confined there. Yet, the story goes that it has sometimes been used as a prison for nuns guilty of grave offences.
I drew a long breath, when I got into the free air of heaven once more, and I must say, I was glad to think poor Magdalen had escaped.
I could be as light-hearted as a bird, only that my dear Amice is so much worse. She is very low indeed, too exhausted to speak; but she lies quietly in her bed, with a look of most heavenly peace on her face. She seems most of the time engaged in inward prayer and thanksgiving, for her eyes are closed and her lips move, and now and then she opens her eyes with such a wondrous smile, as if she saw the glories of heaven open before her. What shall I do when she is gone? I dare not think. I have been sitting by her a great part of the day, and now Mother Gertrude tells me, she has asked that I may watch beside her this night, and dear Mother hath given permission. I am most thankful for the privilege, for I would not lose one moment of her dear society.
[CHAPTER XX.]
Nov. 8th.
AMICE CROCKER, my dearest friend, is dead and buried—buried in a dishonored grave, by the poor lady who was prisoner in the Queen's room so long. She died a heretic, they say, without the sacraments, and they tell me it is sinful in me to love her longer. But I will love her, to the latest day of my life. I don't believe she is lost either, and nothing shall ever make me think so. Oh, that last night when I sat by her side, and she told me all!
Well, she is gone, and naught can hurt her more. I think Mother Gertrude will soon follow, for she seems utterly broken down. She might well say that no good would come of the Queen's visit. And if Amice should be right, after all, and we wrong! I must not, I dare not think of it! Alack and woe is me! I would I had died in the sickness, or ever I had lived to see this sorrowful day!